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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://archive.org/details/firesideencyclop00coat_0 


M'RONC 


THE 


Fireside  Encyclopaedia 


OF 

POETET. 


COMPRISING 

THE  BEST  POEMS  OF  THE  MOST  FAMOUS  WRITERS, 

ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN. 


COMPILED  AND  EDITED 


HENRY  T.  COATES. 


PORTER  &  COATES, 
PHILADELPHIA. 


Copyright,  i878,  by  Porter  &  Coates. 


Copyright,  1879,  by  Henry  T.  Coates. 


Copyright,  i88i,  by  Henry  T.  Coates. 


TO  MY 


ALMA  MATER, 

Haverford  College, 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF 

THE  WARM  FRIENDSHIPS  FORMED  THERE, 

THE  MANY  JOYOUS  DAYS  SPENT  THERE, 


AND, 

ABOVE  ALL, 

THE  LITERARY  ASPIRATIONS  WHICH  SHE  KINDLED  AND  FOSTERED; 
WHICH  HAVE  SHED  A  GLADDENED  LIGHT  OYER  THE  YEARS 
SINCE  I  LEFT  HER  HALLOWED  PRECINCTS, 

THIS  VOLUME  IS 

AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED. 

N 

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PREFACE. 


Nine  years  ago  this  month  this  work  was  commenced,  principally  to  while 
away  the  long  winter  evenings,  which  threatened  to  hang  heavy  on  the 
Editor’s  hands,  and,  though  often  laid  aside  for  months  at  a  time,  it  has  been 
a  labor  of  love  ever  since ;  and  now  it  is  with  feelings  akin  to  those  felt  at 
parting  with  an  old  and  valued  friend  that  he  pens  these  prefatory  lines, 
which  mark  the  completion  of  his  task. 

It  has  been  his  aim  to  present  a  comprehensive  collection — an  Encyclo¬ 
paedia,  in  fact — of  the  poetry  of  the  English  language,  one  that  will  be  a 
welcome  companion  at  every  Fireside  ;  and  which,  while  representing  all 
that  is  best  and  brightest  in  our  poetic  literature,  should  contain  nothing  that 
would  tend  to  undermine  any  one’s  faith  or  destroy  a  single  virtuous  impulse. 

Fully  aware  of  the  danger  of  trusting  to  the  caprices  or  fancies  of  any 
individual  judgment,  the  Editor  has  diligently  consulted  the  works  of  the 
best  critics  and  reviewers,  and  has  not  hesitated  to  accept  such  pieces  as  have 
received  their  united  commendation,  or  such  as,  through  some  peculiar  power, 
have  touched  the  popular  heart.  Each  poem  has  been  given  complete,  and 
great  care  has  been  taken  to  follow  the  most  authentic  and  approved  editions 
of  the  respective  authors ;  and  though  the  quantity  of  space  assigned  to  each 
and  the  selections  made  may  not,  and  probably  will  not,  satisfy  every  judg¬ 
ment,  it  is  believed  that  none  of  the  most  famous  minor  poems  of  the  English 
language  will  be  found  missing  from  these  pages. 

At  the  very  outset  it  was  deemed  best  to  discard  the  chronological  arrange¬ 
ment  followed  by  most  compilers,  and  to  adopt  the  plan  of  classifying  each 
poem  according  to  its  subject-matter,  originated  by  Mr.  Charles  A.  Dana  in 
his  excellent  Household  Book  of  Poetry.  In  many  cases  this  has  been  found 
exceedingly  difficult;  as  often,  under-currents  so  run  in  opposite  directions  as 
to  threaten  the  entire  foundation  upon  which  the  title  of  a  poem  is  based ;  and 
in  many  poems  the  “  moral”  is  dwelt  on  at  greater  length  than  the  tale  itself, 
so  that  the  Editor  has  often  been  sorely  tempted  to  end  his  perplexity  by  throw¬ 
ing  them  into  those  convenient  “  olla  podridas,”  “  Poems  of  Sentiment  ”  and 
“  Moral  and  Didactic  Poetry .”  But  with  all  these  drawbacks  the  advantages 
of  the  system  are  so  great  that  there  has  been  no  hesitation  in  adopting  it. 
By  it,  every  taste  may  be  gratified,  all  moods  and  humors  the  better  served. 
Here  are  “  Psalms  and  Hymns  and  Spiritual  Songs”  for  Sunday  reading, 
Poems  of  Home  Life  and  Domestic  Bliss  for  the  cold  winter  nights  when  the 
logs  are  blazing  brightly  on  the  cozy  hearth,  Poems  on  Nature  for  the  bloom- 


VI 


PREFACE. 


ing  Spring-time  and  melancholy  Autumn,  Poems  for  the  lover,  and  Historical 
Poems,  Old  Legends,  and  Ballads  for  all. 

From  the  days  when 

“  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span  ” 

to  the  present,  human  nature  has  been  ever  the  same.  Kingdoms  have  risen 
and  been  forgotten,  languages  been  formed  and  fallen  into  disuse,  but  love,  pa¬ 
triotism,  sorrow  and  death,  are  the  same  in  all  ages  and  climes.  The  language 
may  be  different  and  the  allusions  seem  strange  to  our  ears,  but  the  same  old, 
old  story  was  told  by  gallant  knight  to  high-bred  dame  in  the  good  old  days  of 
Queen  Bess  as  is  now  whispered  into  the  ear  of  rustic  beauty  or  ball-room  belle. 

“  Each  heart  recall’d  a  different  name,  but  all  sang  1  Annie  Laurie.’  ” 

The  same  impulses  animated  Horatius  as  he  faced  Lars  Porsena’s  army 
on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber  centuries  ago,  as  actuated  the  brave  boys  who 
flocked  to  their  country’s  standard  during  the  late  civil  war ;  while  the  parent 
even  now  mourns  for  his  erring  child  in  the  same  language  of  the  heart  as 
did  the  sweet  Singer  of  Israel  for  his  erring  Absalom.  For,  though  long 
cycles  have  intervened  between  Shakespeare  and  Tennyson,  Sir  Walter 
Baleigh  and  Longfellow,  Herrick  and  Burns,  Herbert  and  Whittier,  rare  Ben 
Jonson  and  Mrs.  Browning,  one  animating  purpose  breathes  alike  through 
the  voices  of  the  poets  of  the  past  and  the  present. 

As  many  poems  are  founded  upon  some  historical  fact  or  some  interesting 
incident  or  legend,  a  knowledge  of  which  greatly  aids  the  reader  in  his  appre¬ 
ciation  of  them,  Explanatory  and  Corroborative  Notes  have  been  appended  at 
the  end  of  the  volume.  This  plan  has  been  adopted  in  preference  to  placing 
the  notes  at  the  bottom  of  the  page ;  as  many  readers,  who  are  familiar  with 
their  substance,  naturally  object  to  such  an  arrangement  as  distracting  their 
attention  and  marring  the  continuity  of  the  poem. 

The  compiler  would  express  his  thanks  to  the  various  authors  and  pub¬ 
lishers  who  have  so  kindly  permitted  him  to  use  the  copyright  poems  con¬ 
tained  in  this  collection,  and  especially  to  Messrs.  Houghton,  Osgood  &  Co., 
who,  notwithstanding  that  they  publish  excellent  works  of  a  similar  character, 
generously  granted  the  use  of  the  various  poems  by  Longfellow,  Whittier, 
Emerson,  Lowell,  Holmes,  Bret  Harte,  Saxe,  Bayard  Taylor,  Stedman,  Stod¬ 
dard,  Trowbridge,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  Parsons,  Lucy  Larcom,  Julia 
Ward  Howe,  and  Phoebe  Carv,  the  brightest  galaxy  of  names  ever  collected 
together  by  any  American  publishing-house.  He  would  also  acknowledge  his 
obligation  to  Mr.  N.  Clemmons  Hunt  for  the  assistance  rendered  in  the  selec- 
tion  and  arrangement  of  many  of  the  poems  in  this  work. 

Originality  cannot  be  claimed  for  a  work  of  this  character,  notwithstanding 
the  labor  and  thought  bestowed  upon  it ;  all  the  glory,  all  the  praise,  belongs 
to  the  poets  themselves.  In  the  words  of  Montaigne :  “  Here  is  a  nosegay 
of  culled  flowers,  to  which  I  have  brought  nothing  of  my  own  but  the  thread 
that  ties  them” 

H.  T.  C. 

Philadelphia,  October  18th,  1878. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS . ix 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS .  .  xxv 

POEMS  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE  .......  1 

POEMS  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD  .......  29 

POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION . 73 

POEMS  OF  LOVE  .  * . 97 

PERSONAL  POEMS . 221 

HISTORICAL  POEMS . 283 

POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM . 353 

LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY  ........  367 

POEMS  OF  NATURE  ...........  423 

POEMS  OF  PLACES  . . 503 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS'’  ....  523 

9 

MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY  . . 613 

POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS . 691 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT . 723 

WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC  POETRY . 793 

HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL  POETRY . 891 

NOTES,  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE . 961 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES . 989 


Index  of  the  Names  of  the  Poems, 

ALPHABETICALLY  ARRANGED. 


Page 

Abbot  M'Kinnon,  The . James  Hogg.  878 

Abide  with  Me . Henry  F.  Lyte.  557 

* 

Abou  Ben  Adhem . Leigh  Hunt.  664 

Abraham  Lincoln . Tom  Taylor.  280 

Absence . Frances  Anne  Kemble.  101 

Absent  Wife,  To  an..., . George  D.  Prentice.  14 

Addison,  To  the  Earl  of  Warwick  on  the 

Death  of . Thomas  TicJcell.  242 

Address  to  Certain  Gold-Fishes. .H.  Coleridge.  469 
Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Belzoni’s  Exhibi¬ 
tion . Horace  Smith.  744 

Address  to  the  Soul . A.  M.  Toplady.  596 

Address  to  the  Toothache . Robert  Burns.  953 

Adelgitha . Thomas  Campbell.  145 

Adonais . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  253 

Afar  in  the  Desert . Thomas  Pringle.  490 

After  Death  in  Arabia . Edwin  Arnold.  681 

After  the  Ball . Nora  Perry.  786 

Age  and  Song . Algernon  C.  Swinburne.  741 

Aged  Man-at-Arms,  The . George  Peele.  751 

Aged  Oak  at  Oakley,  The .  H.  Alford.  458 

Age  of  Wisdom,  The . W.  M.  Thackeray.  87 

Agincourt,  The  Ballad  of  ....Michael  Drayton.  298 
Ah,  how  Sweet  it  is  to  Love  [....John  Dryden.  97 

A-Hunting  We  Will  Go . Author  Unknown.  493 

Airs  of  Spring,  The . Thomas  Carew.  431 

Alexander  Selkirk,  Verses  supposed  to  be 

Written  by .  Wm.  Cowper.  679 

Alexander’s  Feast . John  Dryden.  724 

Alice  Brand . Sir  Walter  Scott.  838 

Allen-a-Dale . Sir  Walter  Scott.  186 

All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac  ...Ethel  L.  Beers.  349 

Almond-Blossom . Edwin  Arnold.  457 

Alnwick  Castle . Fitz-Greene  Halleck.  513 

Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair  Iinogine, 

Matthew  G.  Lewis.  871 

Alpine  Sheep,  The . Maria  W.  Lowell.  638 

Althea,  To,  from  Prison . Richard  Lovelace.  124 

A  Man’s  a  Man  for  a’  That . Robert  Burns.  704 

America . Samuel  F.  Smith.  354 

American  Flag,  The . Joseph  R.  Drake.  353 

Amynta . Sir  Gilbert  Elliot.  200 

Ancient  Mariner,  Rime  of  the . Coleridge.  855 

Angel  in  the  House,  An . J^cigh  Hunt.  743 

Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  The....J.  G.  Whittier.  345 
Angels’  Whisper,  The . Samuel  Lover.  33 


Page 

Angler,  The . John  Chalkhill.  468 

Angler’s  Trysting-Tree,  The..  T.  T.  Stoddart.  469 

Angler’s  Wish,  The . Isaak  Walton.  467 

Annabel  Lee . Edgar  A.  Poe.  410 

Annie  Laurie . ...Author  Unknown.  199 

Antony  and  Cleopatra . William  H.  Lytle.  290 

Arab’s  Farewell  to  his  Horse,  The..  C.  Norton.  492 

Arethusa . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  460 

Ariel’s  Songs . William  Shakespeare.  794 

Armstrong’s  Good-Night . Author  Unknown.  656 

Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The..//.  W.  Longfellow.  521 

Art  of  Book-keeping,  The . Thomas  Hood.  951 

Art  thou  Weary  ? . John  M.  Neale.  577 

As  by  the  Shore  at  Break  of  Day.../7.  Moore.  363 

Ask  me  no  More . Alfred  Tennyson.  192 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows..  T.  Carew.  192 

At  Dieppe . W.  W.  Story.  518 

At  Sea  . J.  T.  Trowbridge.  465 

At  Setting  Day  and  Rising  Morn. .A.  Ramsay.  195 

At  the  Church-Gate . Wm.  M.  Thackeray.  211 

Auf  Wiedersehen . James  R.  Lowell.  217 

Auld  Lang  Syne . Robert  Burns.  81 

Auld  Robin  Gray . Lady  Anne  Barnard.  137 

Autumn,  A  Dirge . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  436 

Autumn,  To . John  Keats.  435 

Aux  Italiens . Robert  B.  Lytton.  180 

Awakening  of  Endymion....Z.  E.  L.  Maclean.  172 

Babe,  The . Sir  William  Jones.  50 

Babie,  The . J.  E.  Rankin.  41 

Baby  Bell . T.  B.  Aldrich.  30 

Baby  Louise . Margaret  Eytinge.  29 

Baby  May . W.  C.  Bennett.  29 

Baby’s  Debut,  The . James  Smith.  940 

Bachelor’s  Dream,  The . Thomas  Hood.  902 

Bachelor’s  Hall . John  Finley.  960 

Ballad  of  Agincourt,  The . Michael  Drayton.  298 

Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse,  The..  W.M.  Thackeray.  89 
Ballad  of  Chevy-Chace,  Tn e.. Author  Unknown.  299 

Ballad  of  the  Tempest . James  T.  Fields.  38 

Banks  o’  Doon,  The . Robert  Burns.  170 

Bannockburn... . Robert  Burns.  295 

Baptismal  Hymn . Henry  Alford.  563 

Barbara  Allen’s  Cruelty . Author  Unknown.  417 

Barbara  Frietchie . John  G.  Whittier.  350 

Bard,  The . Thomas  Gray.  293 

ix 


X 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


Page 

Baron’s  Last  Banquet,  The . A.  G.  Greene.  621 

Battle-Field,  The . William  C.  Bryant.  676 

Battle-Ilymn  of  the  Republic. .Julia  W.  Howe.  354 

Battle  of  Blenheim,  The . ...Robert  Southey.  677 

Battle  of  Fontenoy,  The .  B.  Dowling.  322 

Battle  of  the  Baltic,  The....  Thomas  Campbell.  341 

Baucis  and  Philemon . Jonathan  Swift.  899 

Beaumont,  On  my  Dear  Son,  Gervase, 

Sir  John  Beaumont.  226 

Beautiful  Snow . John  TF.  Watson.  720 

Beauty  Fades .  William  Drummond.  741 

Bedford,  On  Lucy,  Countess  of . Ben  Jonson.  233 

Bedouin  Song . Bayard  Taylor.  177 

Beggar’s  Petition,  The . Thomas  Moss.  717 

Behold,  I  Stand  at  the  Door  and  Knock, 

William  W.  How.  550 

Believe  me,  if  All  those  Endearing  Young 

Charms . Thomas  Moore.  162 

Bells,  The . Edgar  Allan  Poe.  765 

Bells  of  Shandon../1.  Mahony  ( Father  Prout).  516 

Beth  Gelert . William  Robert  Spencer.  392 

Better  Land,  The . Felicia  Hemans.  598 

Between  the  Lights . Author  Unknown.  683 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine . Caroline  Norton.  83 

Bird,  To  a,  that  Haunted  the  Waters  of 

Laaken . Lord  Thurloio.  472 

Birth  of  St.  Patrick,  The . Samuel  Lover.  943 

Black  Cock,  The . Joanna  Baillie.  481 

Blame  not  my  Lute . Sir  Thomas  Wyatt.  190 

Blessed  Damozel,  The. .Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  839 

Blest  be  Thy  Love,  dear  Lord . John  Austin.  548 

Blind  Boy,  The . Colley  Cibber.  67 

Blood  Horse,  The . Bryan  Waller  Procter.  488 

Blossoms,  To . Robert  Herrick.  457 

Blow,  Blow,  thou  Winter  Wind. ..Shakesp>eare.  438 

Blue-Bird,  The . Alexander  Wilson.  475 

Boatie  Rows,  The . John  Ewen.  701 

Boat  Song . . . Sir  Walter  Scott.  364 

Bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee,  The..N«V  W.  Scott.  316 

Bonnie  George  Campbell . Author  Unknown.  419 

Bonnie  Lesley . Robert  Burns.  145 

Bonnie  Prince  Charlie . James  Hogg.  326 

Border  Ballad . Sir  Walter  Scott.  358 

Bound  upon  th’  Accursed  Tree..//.  H.  Milman.  535 

Boyhood . Washington  Allston.  53 

Boys,  The . Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  80 

Braes  o’  Balquhither . Robert  Tannahill.  498 

Braes  of  Yarrow,  The, 

William  Hamilton  of  Bangour.  382 

Braes  of  Yarrow,  The . John  Logan.  384 

Break,  Break,  Break . Alfred  Tennyson.  88 

Bridal  of  Andalla,  The . John  G.  Lockhart.  209 

Bridal  Song . Henry  Hart  Milman.  220 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  The . Thomas  Hood.  719 

Briefless  Barrister,  The . John  G.  Saxe.  920 

Broadswords  of  Scotland,  The.../.  G.  Lockhart.  357 

Brookside,  The . .Richard  M.  Milnes.  169 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie . John  G.  Whittier.  279 


Page 

Bugle  Song . Alfred  Tennyson.  502 

Bull-Fight  of  Gazul,  The...t/oAn  G.  Lockhart..  408 

Bumboat-Woman’s  Story . Win.  S.  Gilbert.  894 

Burd  Helen . Author  Unknown.  412 

Burial  Hymn . Henry  Hart  Milman.  595 

Burial  March  of  Dundee . Wm.  E.  Aytoun.  317 

Burial  of  Moses,  The . Cecil  F.  Alexander.  580 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore . Charles  Wolfe.  252 

Burns . Fitz-Greene  Halleck.  249 

Burns,  Ode  on  the  Centenary  of.. /sa  C.  Knox.  250 

Butterfly,  To  the . Samuel  Rogers.  482 

By  the  Autumn  Sea . Paul  Hamilton  Hayne.  466 


Call,  The . George  Darley.  178 

Canadian  Boat-Song,  A . Thomas  Moore.  735 

Captain  Reece . William  S.  Gilbert.  954 

Captive  Bee,  The . Robert  Herrick.  209 

Cargamon . Henry  Augustin  Beers.  404 

Careless  Content . John  Byrom.  660 

Carmen  Bellicosum . Guy  H.  McMaster.  331 

Casabianca . Felicia  Hemans.  345 

Casa  Wappy . David  Macbeth  Moir.  39 

Castara . William  Habington.  179 

Castles  in  the  Air . James  Ballantyne.  37 

Cataract  of  Lodore,  The . Robert  Southey.  508 

Cavalier’s  Song,  The . William  Motherwell.  311 

Cavalry  Song . Edmund  Clarence  Stedman.  366 

Celestial  Country,  The,  Bernard  of  Cluny 

( Translation  of  John  Mason  Neale).  604 

Celia,  To  . Ben  Jonson.  195 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The... Oliver  IF.  Holmes.  470 

Chameleon,  The . James  Merrick.  686 

Changed  Cross,  The . Mrs.  Charles  Hobart.  590 

Character  of  a  Happy  Life . Sir  H.  Wotton.  661 

Charade — Camp-Bell . Winthrop  M.  Praed.  264 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade, . A.  Tennyson.  348 

Charlie  is  my  Darling . James  Hogg.  325 

Charlotte  Pulteney,  To . Ambrose  Philijis.  35 

Chaucer,  Inscription  for  a  Statue  of, 


Mark  Akenside.  225 

Cherry-Ripe . Robert  Herrick.  214 

Chess-Board,  The . Robert  Bulwer  Lytton.  85 

Chevy-Chace,  The  Ballad  oi.. Author  Unknown.  299 

Child  and  the  Mourners,  The . C.  Mackay.  55 

Child  and  the  Watcher,  The..!?.  B.  Browning.  33 

Child  embracing  his  Mother,  To  a . T.  Hood.  35 

Child  of  Elle,  The .  Author  Unknown.  385 

Children,  The . Charles  M.  Dickinson.  62 

Children . Walter  Savage  Landor.  36 

Children  in  the  Wood,  Th e... Author  Unknown.  53 
Children  of  the  Heavenly  King..../.  Cennick.  574 

Children’s  Hour,  The . H.  IF.  Longfellow.  45 

Child’s  Thought  of  God,  A,  E.  B.  Browning.  44 

Chimes  of  England,  The . Arthur  C.  Coxe.  503 

Chorus — “  Before  the  beginning  of  years,” 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  744 
Chorus — “  When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on 

winter's  traces  "...Algernon  C.  Swinburne.  426 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


xi 


Page 

Chorus  of  the  Flowers . Leigh  Hunt.  449 

Christabel . Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  841 

Christ  Crucified . Henry  Hart  Milman.  534 

Christmas . Nahum  Tate.  529 

Christmas  Carol . Author  Unknown.  531 

Christmas  Carol . John  Byrom.  531 

Christmas  Carol . Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe.  530 

Christmas  Carol . Dinah  M.  Craik.  533 

Christmas  Hymn,  A . Alfred  Domett.  529 

Christ  Risen . Anna  Leetitia  Barbauld.  536 

Christ  will  Gather  in  His  Own. Author  Unknown.  609 
Chronicle  of  the  Drum, The..  W.  M.  Thackeray.  334 

Closing  Scene,  The . Thomas  B.  Read.  640 

Closing  Year,  The . George  D.  Prentice.  95 

Cloud,  The . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  444 

Colin  and  Lucy . Thomas  Tickell.  197 

Cologne . Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  928 

Come  away,  Come  away,  Death. ..Shakespeare.  197 
Come,  Holy  Spirit,  Heavenly  Dove.../.  Watts.  542 

Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud . A.  Tennyson.  177 

Come,  Rest  in  this  Bosom . Thomas  Moore.  147 

Come,  Thou  Fount  of  Every  Blessing, 

Robert  Robinson.  585 

Come,  Ye  Lofty . Archer  Gurney.  530 

Cornin’  Through  the  Rye . Author  Unknown.  214 

Common  Lot,  The.... . James  Montgomery.  618 

Complaining . George  Herbert.  585 

Complaints  of  the  Poor,  The. .Robert  Southey.  714 

Comus  :  A  Mask . John  Milton.  818 

Content . Robert  Greene.  660 

Contented  Mind,  A . Joshua  Sylvester.  660 

Contrast,  The . Horace  Smith.  342 

Coral  Grove,  The . James  Gates  Percival.  464 

Corinna’s  going  a-Maying . Robert  Herrick.  428 

Coronach . Sir  Walter  Scott.  625 

Coronation . Helen  Hunt.  702 

Coronation . Edward  Perronet.  536 

Cotter’s  Saturday  Night,  Th e... Robert  Burns.  3 

Courtin’,  The . James  Russell  Lowell.  891 

Court  Lady,  A . Elizabeth  B.  Browning.  361 

Covenanters’  Battle-Chant . Motherwell.  310 

Cowper’s  Grave . Elizabeth  B.  Browning.  246 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth . Wm.  Shakespeare.  756 

Cradle  Hymn . Isaac  Watts.  34 

Cradle  Song . Elizabeth  Prentiss.  32 

Crescentius . L.  E.  L.  Maclean.  292 

Cromwell,  Sonnet  to  the  Lord  General... Milton.  234 

Crowded  Street,  The . William  C.  Bryant.  647 

Cruel  Sister,  The . Author  Unknown.  418 

Cry  of  the  Children,  The  . E.  B.  Browning.  63 

Cuckoo,  To  the . John  Logan.  481 

Cuckoo,  To  the . William  Wordsworth .  480 

Culprit  Fay,  The . Joseph  Rodman  Drake.  810 

Cumberland,  The . Author  Unknown.  350 

Cumnor  Hall . William  Julius  Mickle.  379 

Cupid  and  Campaspe . John  Ly/y.  99 

Cupid  Carrying  Provisions . George  Croly.  156 

Cupid  Swallowed . Leigh  Hunt.  103 


Page 

Curfew  must  not  ring  To-night.  Rosa  H.  Thorpe.  404 

Cynthia,  To . Ben  Jons  on  446 

Cyriac  Skinner,  Sonnet  to . John  Milton.  234 

Daffodils . William  Wordsworth.  452 

Daffodils,  To . Robert  Herrick.  453 

Daisy,  To  the . William  Wordsworth.  454 

Daisy,  To  the . William  Wordsworth.  453 

Dante,  On  a  Bust  of..  Thomas  William  Parsons.  221 

Day  is  Done,  The . Henry  W.  Longfellow.  774 

Days  that  are  No  More,  The . A.  Tennyson.  91 

Deacon’s  Masterpiece . Oliver  W.  Holmes.  932 

Dead  Politician,  The . F.  Bret  Harte.  704 

Death-bed,  A  . James  Aldrich.  625 

Death-bed,  The . Thomas  Hood.  625 

Death  of  the  Flowers,  The....  Wm.  C.  Bryant.  456 
Death  of  the  Old  Year,  TJhe.. Alfred  Tennyson.  438 
Death  of  the  Virtuous, 

Anna  Lsetitia  Barbauld.  618 

Death’s  Final  Conquest . James  Shirley.  623 

Dedication  to  Idylls  of  the  King. A. Tennyson.  280 

Delight  in  Disorder . Robert  Herrick.  740 

Delight  in  God  Only . Francis  Quarles.  576 

Departure  of  the  Nightingale,  The...  C.  Smith.  480 

Description  of  Spring . Henry  Howard.  425 

Defserted  Village . Oliver  Goldsmith.  756 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  Th e...Lord  Byron.  283 
Devil’s  Thoughts,  The.... Samuel  T.  Coleridge.  917 

Dianeme,  To . Robert  Herrick.  210 

Dickens  in  Camp . F.  Bret  Harte.  282 

Dies  Irae . Thomas  de  Celano.  609 

Dies  Iras . Translation  of  John  A.  Dix.  611 

Dies  Irm . Translation  of  Wm.  J.  Irons.  610 

Dies  Irae . Paraphrase  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  610 

Differences . Charles  Mackay.  705 

Different  Minds . Richard  C.  Trench.  658 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier . George  II.  Boker.  279 

Dirge  from  “The  White  Devil ”...J.  Webster.  638 
Dirge  from  “  Cymbeline  ”...  Wm.  Shakespeare.  637 

Dirge,  in  Cymbeline . William  Collins.  637 

Dirge,  “Softly  !” . Charles  G.  Eastman.  638 

Disdain  Returned . Thomas  Carew.  180 

Ditty,  A — “  My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and 

I  have  his” . Sir  Philip  Sidney.  127 

Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin,  The, 

William  Cowper.  929 

Dolcino  to  Margaret . Charles  Kingsley.  780 

Doubting  Heart,  A . Adelaide  Anne  Procter.  684 

Dowie  Dens  of  Yarrow,  The..  Author  Unknown.  381 
Drake,  Epigram  on  Sir  Francis... Ben  Jonson.  225 
Drake,  On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman, 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck.  253 

Dream,  A . Adelaide  Anne  Procter.  774 

Dream,  The . Lord  Byron.  790 

Dream  of  Eugene  Aram,  The...  Thomas  Hood.  375 

Drifting . Thomas  Buchanan  Read.  465 

Drinking . Abraham  Cowley.  446 

Dryburgh  Abbey . Charles  Swain.  264 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


•  • 
Xll 


Page 

Dumb  Child,  The . Author  Unknown.  41 

Dum  Vivimus  Vivamus . P.  Doddridge.  574 

Duncan  Gray  . Robert  Burns.  144 

Duty,  Ode  to . William  Wordsworth .  664 

Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul,  The . A.  Pope.  596 

Dying  Man  in  his  Garden,  The . G.  Sewell.  637 

Each  and  All . Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  707 

Early  Blue-Bird,  The . L.  H.  Sigourney.  475 

Early  Piety . Reginald  Heber.  575 

Echo  and  Silence . Sir  S.  Egerton  Brydges.  502 

Edinburgh  after  Flodden..  William  E.  Aytoun.  302 

Edward,  Edward . Author  Unknown  380 

Elegiac  Stanzas . William  Wordsworth.  505 

Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson. .Burns.  247 
Elegy  on  that  Glory  of  her  Sex,  Mrs.  Mary 

Blaize,  An . Oliver  Goldsmith.  912 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog, 

Oliver  Goldsmith.  928 

Elegy  to  the  Memory  of  an  Unfortunate 

Lady . Alexander  Pope.  635 

Elegy,  Written  in  a  Country  Church¬ 
yard  . Thomas  Gray.  630 

Elixir,  The . George  Herbert.  544 

Emigrants  in  the  Bermudas,  The. .A.  Marvell.  549 

End  of  the  Play,  The . Wm.  M.  Thackeray.  673 

Endurance . Elizabeth  Akers  Allen.  617 

Epicurean  Reminiscences  of  a  Sentimentalist, 

Thomas  Hood.  952 

Epigram . Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  959 

Epigram  on  Sir  Francis  Drake.... Sea  Jonson.  225 

Epiphany . Reginald.  Heber.  534 

Epitaph  Extempore . Mo.tthew  Prior.  241 

Epitaphon  a  Living  Author..  Abraham  Cowley.  226 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H . Ben  Jonson.  233 

Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy . Be n  Jonson.  232 

Epitaph  on  the  Admirable  Dramatic  Poet, 

W.  Shakespeare . John  Milton.  230 

Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke, 

Ben  Jonson.  233 

Epitaph  on  the  Tombstone  Erected  over  the 

Marquis  of  Anglesea’s  Leg.... G.  Canning.  948 
Epitaph  upon  Husband  and  Wife. R.  Crashaw.  635 
Epitaph  upon  the  Right  Honourable  Sir 

Philip  Sidney . Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  227 

Epithalamium . John  G.  C.  Brainard.  220 

Etiquette . William  S.  Gilbert.  925 

Eton  College,  On  a  Distant  Prospect  of, 

Thomas  Gray.  504 

Euphrosyne . Matthew  Arnold.  213 

Eva,  To . Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  217 

Evelyn  Hope . Robert  Browning.  196 

Evening,  Ode  to . William  Collins.  440 

Evening  Cloud,  The . John  Wilson.  442 

Evening  Contemplation . George  W.  Doane.  552 

Evening  Hymn . 'Thomas  Ken.  555 

Evening  Hymn . . George  Wither.  556 

Evening  Hymn . John  Keble.  bob 


Page 

Evening  Hymn . Frederick  W.  Faber ,  556 

Evening  Hymn . Sir  Thomas  Browne.  556 

Evening  Hymn  of  the  Alpine  Shepherds, 

William  Beattie.  552 

Evening  Star,  To  the . John  Leyden.  447 

Evening  Star,  Song  to  the . Thos.  Campbell.  447 

Evening  Wind,  The . William  C.  Bryant.  442 

Eve  of  Election,  The . John  G.  Whittier.  675 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The . John  Keats.  127 

Excelsior . . . Henry  W.  Longfellow.  785 

Execution,  The . Richard  Harris  Barham.  941 

Execution  of  Montrose,  The ...  W.  E.  Aytoun.  313 

Exile  of  Erin,  The . Thomas  Campbell.  359 

Exile’s  Song,  The . Robert  Gilfillan.  362 

Exile  to  his  Wife,  The . Joseph  Brenan.  11 

Fair  Annie  of  Lochroyan... Author  Unknown.  394 

Fair  Helen . Author  Unknown.  402 

Fairies  of  the  Caldon  Low,  The.. Mary  Howitt.  809 

Fairies,  The . Wm.  Allingham.  794 

Fair  Ines . Thomas  Hood.  102 

Fairy  Queen . Author  Unknoivn.  793 

Fairy  Song . John  Keats.  793 

Faith . Frances  Anne  Kemble.  679 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray . Thomas  Hood.  896 

Faithless  Sally  Brown . Thomas  Hood.  897 

Family  Meeting,  The . Charles  Sprague.  17 

Fancy . John  Keats.  500 

Fancy  in  Nubibus...»S'am?fe?  Taylor  Coleridge.  446 

Fare  Thee  Well . Lord  Byron.  15 

Farewell,  A . Charles  Kingsley.  72 

Farewell!  but  whenever  you  Welcome  the 

Hour . Thomas  Moore.  85 

Farewell  to  Nancy . Robert  Burns.  154 

Farewell  to  Thee,  Araby’s  Daughter.... Moore.  781 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies . Richard  Corbet.  833 

Farewell  to  Tobacco,  A . Charles  Lamb.  919 

Fate . F.  Bret  Harte.  785 

Father,  Thy  Will  be  Done. ..Sarah  F.  Adams.  544 

Fear,  Ode  to . William  Collins.  776 

Fireside,  The . Nathaniel  Cotton.  2 

First  Snow-Fall,  Th e.... James  Russell  Lowell.  437 

Fisherman's  Song,  The . Francis  Davis.  696 

Florence  Vane . Philip  Pendleton  Cooke.  171 

Flower,  The . George  Herbert.  579 

Flowers . H.  W.  Longfellow.  448 

Flowers . John  Keble.  448 

Flowers  of  The  Forest,  The . Jane  Elliot.  306 

Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton . Robert  Burns.  515 

Folding  the  Flocks . Beaumont  &  Fletcher.  495 

Fontenoy . Thomas  Osborne  Davis.  321 

Fontenoy,  Battle  of . R.  Dowling.  322 

Footsteps  of  Angels . H.  W.  Longfellow.  773 

Forced  Recruit  at  Solferino,  A, 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.  364 

For  ever  with  the  Lord . James  Montgomery .  597 

Forget  me  Not . Amelia  Opie.  94 

Fortin"  of  the  Anchor . Samuel  Ferguson.  693 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


xm 


Page 

For  New-Year’s  Day . Philip  Doddridge.  559 

Fountain  of  Mercy  !  God  of  Love  ! 

Anne  Flower  dew.  563 
Fragment  from  Sappho,  A... .Ambrose  Philips.  192 

France:  An  Ode . Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  333 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  The . Thomas  Percy.  117 

Friend  after  Friend  Departs  ...J.  Montgomery.  638 
Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-Grinder, 

The . George  Canning.  935 

Fringed  Gentian,  To  the . Wm.  C.  Bryant.  455 

Gaffer  Gray . Thomas  Holcroft.  715 

Gambols  of  Children,  The . George  Parley.  53 

Gane  were  but  the  Winter  Cauld, 

Allan  Cunningham.  638 

Genevieve . Samuel  T.  Coleridge.  155 

Gethsemane . James  Montgomery.  534 

Ginevra . . . ..Samuel  Rogers.  406 

Girl  of  Cadiz,  The...  . Lord  Byron.  146 

Give  me  the  Old . Robert  H.  Messinger.  749 

Glenlogie . Author  Unknown.  406 

Glorying  in  the  Cross . Isaac  Watts.  547 

Glove  and  the  Lions,  The . Leigh  Hunt.  411 

Glow-Worm,  Sonnet  to  the . John  Clare.  483 

God . John  Donne.  565 

God  is  Love . Sir  John  Bowring.  544 

God  Save  the  King . Henry  Carey.  355 

God’s  Judgment  on  a  Wicked  Bishop. Southey.  409 

Golden-tressed  Adelaide . B.  W.  Procter.  39 

Go,  Lovely  Rose . Edmund  Waller.  185 

Good-Bye . Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  657 

Good  Counseil  of  Chaucer...  Geoffrey  Chaucer.  688 

Good,  Great  Man,  The . S.  T.  Coleridge.  662 

Good  Lord  Clifford,  The....  Wm.  Wordsworth.  223 

Good-Morrow  Song . Thomas  Heywood.  215 

Good-Night . Author  Unknown.  688 

Good-Night . Robert  C.  Sands.  618 

Good  Time  Coming,  The . Charles  Mackay.  750 

Go,  Pretty  Birds . Thomas  Heywood.  162 

Go  where  Glory  waits  Thee ....  Thomas  Moore.  95 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  On  the . J.  Keats.  482 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  To  the. .Leigh  Hunt.  482 

Grave,  The . James  Montgomery.  641 

Grave  of  Macaura,  The . Mary  Downing.  221 

Graves  of  a  Household,  The . F.  Hemans.  28 

Grecian  Urn,  Ode  on  a . John  Keats.  746 

Grongar  Hill . John  Dyer.  506 

Groomsman  to  the  Bridesmaid..  T.  W.  Parsons.  183 

Groves  of  Blarney,  The . R.  A.  Millikin.  516 

Guide  me,  O  Thou  Great  Jehovah ! 

William  Williams.  573 
Gulf- Weed,  The . C.  G.  Fenner.  463 

Hag,  The  . Robert  Herrick.  875 

Hail,  Thou  Once-despised  Jesus..../.  Bakewell.  538 

Hallo,  my  Fancy . William  Cleland.  884 

Hallowed  Ground . Thomas  Campbell.  633 

Hamilton,  To  Lady  Anne . Wm.  R.  Spencer.  779 


Page 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes . . . Lucy  Larcom.  698 

Happy  Marriage,  The . Edward  Moore.  2 

Hark  !  how  All  the  Welkin  Rings, 

Charles  Wesley.  532 

Hark,  the  Glad  Sound . Philip  Doddridge.  533 

Harmosan . Richard  Chenevix  Trench.  291 

Hart-leap  Well . William  Wordsworth.  387 

Has  Sorrow  thy  Young  Days  Shaded? 

Thomas  Moore.  742 

Haunted  House,  The . Thomas  Hood.  866 

Haunted  Palace,  The . .Edgar  Allan  Poe.  871 

Health,  A . Edward  Coate  Pinkney.  178 

Hear  my  Prayer,  0  Heavenly  Father, 

Harriet  T.  Parr.  564 

Heart  of  the  War,  The . J.  G.  Holland.  365 

Heart’s  Song,  The . Arthur  C.  Coxe.  575 

Heavenly  Wisdom . John  Logan.  575 

He  Came  too  Late . Elizabeth  Bogart.  102 

Heir  of  Linne,  The . Author  Unknown.  368 

Helen  of  Kirkconnell . John  Mayne.  403 

Hellvellyn . Sir  Walter  Scott.  514 

Henderson,  Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew, 

Robert  Burns.  247 
Here’s  to  Thee,  my  Scottish  Lassie, 

John  Moultrie.  214 

Heritage,  The . James  Russell  Lowell.  705 

Her  Last  Verses . Alice  Cary.  629 

Her  Letter . F.  Bret  Harte.  207 

Hermione . Robert  Buchanan.  7 

Hermit,  The . James  Beattie.  648 

Hermit,  The . Oliver  Goldsmith.  159 

Hermit,  The . Thomas  Parnell.  666 

Herve  Riel . Robert  Browning.  319 

Hester . Charles  Lamb.  741 

Highland  Girl,  To  a . Wm.  Wordsworth.  65 

Highland  Mary . Robert  Burns.  120 

High-mettled  Racer,  The . Charles  Dibdin.  488 

High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire, 

Jean  Ingelow.  415 

His  Last  Verses . John  Clare.  618 

History . Robert  Southey.  352 

Hohenlinden . Thomas  Campbell.  340 

Holly  Tree,  The . Robert  Southey.  458 

Holy  Trinity,  The . Reginald  Heber.  546 

Homes  of  England,  The . Felicia  Hemans.  1 

Home,  Sweet  Home . John  LI.  Payne.  1 

Hope,  Sonnet  to . Helen  Maria  Williams.  663 

Horatian  Ode,  An . Andreiv  Marvell.  238 

Horatius . Thomas  B.  Macaulay.  283 

Horse,  To  my . Author  Unknown.  493 

Horseback  Ride,  The. ..Sara  Jane  IAppincott.  489 

Hour  of  Death,  The . Felicia  Hemans.  630 

Hour  of  Prayer,  The . Felicia  Hemans.  564 

Household  Woman,  The . Caroline  Gilman.  24 

How  Kindly  hast  Thou  Led  Mo!../.  Grinfield.  570 

How  many  Times . Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes.  i02 

How  Sleep  the  Brave . W.  Collins.  363 

How’s  my  Boy? . Sydney  Dobell.  o7 


XIV 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


Page 

How  Sweet  the  Name  of  Jesus  Sounds, 

John  Newton.  541 

How  they  Brought  the  Good  News  from 

Ghent  to  Aix . Robert.  Drowning.  372 

Humble-Bee,  The . Ralph  W.  Emerson.  482 

Hundred  Years  to  Come,  A....  Wm.  G.  Brown.  675 
Hunter  of  the  Prairies,  The...  Wm.  C.  Bryant.  494 
Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Yale  of  Cha- 

mouni . Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  518 

Hymn,  “  l)rop,  drop,  slow  tears,” 

Phineas  Fletcher.  544 

Hymn  for  Family  Worship . H.  K.  White.  568 

Hymn,  “How  are  Thy  servants  blest,  0 

Lord!” . .  . Joseph  Addison.  558 

Hymn,  “  Lord,  with  glowing  heart  I’d  praise 

Thee” . Francis  Scott  Key.  548 

Hymn  on  the  Seasons . James  Thomson.  423 

Hymn  to  Adversity . Thomas  Gray.  777 

Hymn  to  Contentment,  A . Thos.  Parnell.  659 

Hymn  to  Neptune . Albert  Pike.  887 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers . Horace  Smith.  451 


I  am  a  Friar  of  Orders  Gray . J.  O'Keefe.  916 

Ian  the,  To . . . Walter  Savage  Landor.  213 

Ichabod . John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  267 

I  Give  Immortal  Praise . Isaac  Watts.  546 

I  Hae  Naebody  Now . James  Hogg.  83 

I  Knew  by  the  Smoke  that  so  Gracefully 

Curled . Thomas  Moore.  763 

I  lay  in  Sorrow  deep  Distressed... C.  Maclcay.  687 
I  love  Thy  Kingdom,  Lord...  Timothy  Dwight.  574 

I  love  my  Love . Charles  Maclcay.  146 

II  Penseroso . John  Milton.  735 

I’m  Growing  Old . John  G.  Saxe.  751 

In  a  Year . Robert  Browning.  211 

Inchcape  Rock,  The . Robert  Southey.  378 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp.... 7?.  Browning.  341 

Indian  Gold  Coin,  Ode  to  an . John  Leyden.  87 

Indian  Names . Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney.  520 

Indian  Revelry . Bartholomew  Dowling.  787 

Influence  of  Music . W.  Shakespeare.  732 

Influence  of  Time  on  Grief.  Wm. Lisle  Bowles.  686 

“In  Memoriam,”  From . Alfred  Tennyson.  689 

Inner  Calm,  The . Horatius  Bonar.  565 

In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  Sturge, 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  277 
Inscription  for  a  Statue  of  Chaucer  at  Wood- 


stock . Mark  Akenside.  225 

In  Sorrow . Thomas  Hastings.  543 


In  the  Down-hill  of  Life . John  Collins.  674 

Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollec¬ 
tions  of  Early  Childhood..  W.  Wordsworth.  644 
Introduction  to  “  Songs  of  Innocence,” 

William  Blake.  68 

Invitation,  The . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  499 

Invitation  to  Izaak  Walton _ Charles  Cotton.  467 

I  Prithee  send  me  back  my  Heart, 

Sir  John  Suckling.  171 


Page 

I  Remember,  I  Remember . Thomas  Hood.  73 

Irishman,  The . William  Maginn.  896 

Isabella  Markham,  Lines  on. John  Harrington.  124 

Is  it  Come? . Frances  Brown.  748 

Italian  Song,  An . Samuel  Rogers.  498 

It  came  upon  the  Midnight  Clear.. E.  H.  Sears.  532 
It  is  Great  for  our  Country  to  Die, 

James  Gates  Percival.  365 
It’s  Hame,  and  it’s  IIame..4W«)i  Cunningham.  357 

Ivry . Thomas  Babington  Macaulay.  307 

Ivy  Green,  The . Charles  Dickens.  456 

I  would  not  Live  Alway...  W.  A.  Muhlenberg.  593 

Jacobite  Toast . John  Byrom.  310 

James  Melville’s  Child... Mrs.  A.  S.  Menteath.  43 
Jealousy,  the  Tyrant  of  the  Mind../.  Dry  den.  213 

Jean . Robert  Burns.  126 

Jeanie  Morrison . William  Motherwell.  118 

Jenny  Kissed  Me . Leigh  Hunt.  1S6 

Jessie,  the  Flower  o’  Dumblane.7?.  Tannahill.  163 

Jessy . Robert  Burns.  166 

Jester’s  Sermon,  The . G.  W.  Thornburg.  916 

Jesus,  I  my  Cross  have  Taken . II.  F.  Lyte.  539 

Jesu,  Lover  of  my  Soul . Charles  Wesley.  540 

Jesu,  my  Strength,  my  Hope.. Charles  Wesley.  579 

Jesus  Wept . Benjamin  Beddome.  5^5 

Jock  of  Hazeldean . Sir  Walter  Scott.  134 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo . Robert  Burns.  8 

John  Gilpin,  The  Diverting  History  of, 

William  Cowper.  929 

Jolly  Good  Ale  and  Old . John  Still.  917 

Jolly  Old  Pedagogue,  The . George  Arnold.  927 

Jovial  Beggar,  The . Author  Unknown.  918 

Joy  and  Peace  in  Believing . Wm.  Cowper.  573 

July . John  Clare.  432 

Just  as  I  am . Charlotte  Elliott.  568 


Kane . Fitz- James  O'Brien.  276 

Katharine  Janfarie . Author  Unknown.  393 

Kilmeny . James  Hogg.  833 

Kingdom  of  God,  The . Richard  C.  Trench.  662 

King  of  Brentford’s  Testament,  The, 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray.  906 

King  of  Denmark’s  Ride,  The . C.  Norton.  420 

Kisses . William  Strode.  156 

Kitten,  The.  . Joanna  Baillie.  484 

Kitten  and  the  Falling  Leaves,  The, 

William  Wordsworth.  485 

Knight’s  Tomb,  The . Samuel  T.  Coleridge.  626 

Kubla  Khan . Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  848 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci . John  Keats.  865 

Laborare  est  Orare... ./Vance#  Sargent  Osgood.  691 

Laborer,  The . John  Clare.  702 

Lachrymatory,  The . Charles  Turner.  740 

Ladder  of  St.  Augustine,  The . Longfellow.  679 

Lady  Anne  Bothwell’s  Lament, 

Author  Unknown.  32 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


xv 


Page 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Ver q....  Alfred  Tennyson.  210 

Lady  Clare . Alfred  Tennyson.  138 

Lady  Geraldine’s  Courtship...,#.  B.  Browning.  104 

Lady  Margaret  Ley,  To  the . John  Milton.  235 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The . Alfred  Tennyson.  888 

Lady’s  Dream,  The . Thomas  Hood.  714 

Lady’s  Yes,  The . Elizabeth  B.  Browning.  138 

Laird  o’  Cockpen,  The . Lady  C.  Nairne.  892 

Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp,  The _ T.  Moore.  422 

L’Allegro . .  John  Milton.  733 

Lament,  A . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  766 

Lamentation  for  Celin,  The _ J.  G.  Lockhart.  373 

Lamentation  of  Don  Roderick.  J.  G.  Lockhart.  290 
Lament  of  the  Border  Widow.  Author  Unknown.  417 
Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant.  Lady  Dufferin.  86 

Lancashire  Doxology,  A . Dinah  M.  Craik.  583 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  in  New 

England,  The . Felicia  Hemans.  308 

Land  o’  the  Leal,  The . Lady  C.  Nairne.  636 

Langley  Lane . Robert  Buchanan.  203 

Lass  of  Patie’s  Mill,  The . Allan  Ramsay.  155 

Last  Buccaneer,  The . Charles  Kingsley.  419 

Last  Conqueror,  The . James  Shirley.  623 

Last  Leaf,  The . Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  755 

Last  Man,  The . Thomas  Campbell.  643 

L#  Tricoteuse . George  Walter  Thornbury.  332 

Lawyer’s  Farewell  to  his  Muse,  The, 

Sir  William  Blaclcstone.  738 
Lawyer’s  Invocation  to  Spring,  The, 

Henry  Howard  Brownell.  951 

Lead,  Kindly  Light . John  Henry  Newman.  569 

Lemuel’s  Song . George  Wither.  24 

Leven  Water,  Ode  to . Tobias  Smollett.  515 

Levett,  On  the  Death  of  Dr  ..Samuel  Johnson.  245 

Lie,  The . Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  655 

Life . , . Lord  Bacon.  613 

Life . Anna  Leetitia  Barbauld.  613 

Life . George  Herbert.  756 

Life . Francis  Scott  Key.  577 

Life . .....Bryan  Waller  Procter.  615 

Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave,  A . Epes  Sargent.  695 

Light . F.  W.  Bourdillon.  180 

Light  Shining  out  of  Darkness...  W.  Cowper.  543 

Lilian . Alfred  Tennyson.  203 

Lines  on  Isabella  Markham. John  Harrington.  124 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern . John  Keats.  504 

Lines  on  the  Portrait  of  Shakespeare.  Jonson.  230 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air . Percy  B.  Shelley.  103 

Lines  Written  in  Richmond  Churchyard, 

Yorkshire . Herbert  Knoivles.  633 

Lines  Written  in  the  Tower . C.  Tychborn.  688 

Lines  Written  on  the  Night  of  the  30th  of 

July,  1847 . Thomas  B.  Macaulay.  273 

Lines  Written  the  Night  before  his  Execu¬ 
tion  . Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  230 

Lines  Written  to  his  Wife . Reginald  Heber.  9 

Lines  Written  under  the  Picture  of  John 

Milton . John  Dryden.  240 


Page 

Litany . Sir  Robert  Grant.  539 

Little  Beach-Bird,  The . Richard  H.  Dana.  471 

Little  Bell . Thomas  Westwood.  38 

Little  Billee .  William  M.  Thackeray.  909 

Little  Black  Boy,  The . William  Blake.  37 

Little  While,  A . Horatius  Bonar.  595 

Living  Lost,  The . William  Cullen  Bryant.  682 

Lochaber  no  More . Allan  Ramsay.  195 

Lochiel’s  Warning .  Thomas  Campbell.  323 

Lochinvar .  Sir  Walter  Scott.  136 

Locksley  Hall . Alfred  Tennyson.  149 

Lo  !  He  comes,  with  Clouds  Descending, 

Thomas  Olivers.  611 

Long-Ago,  The . Richard'  Monckton  Milnes.  749 

Long  did  I  Toil . Henry  Francis  Lyte.  569 

Look  Out,  Bright  Eyes  ...Beaumont  &  Fletcher.  184 
Lord,  dismiss  us  with  Thy  Blessing, 

Walter  Shirley.  612 

Lord  is  Risen,  The . Charles  Wesley.  535 

Lord  Lovel . Author  Unknown.  198 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  The . Alfred  Tennyson.  201 

Lord  of  Butrago,  The . John  G.  Lockhart.  296 

Lord,  shall  Thy  Children  come  to  Thee, 

Samuel  Hinds.  582 

Lord  Ullin’s  Daughter . Thomas  Campbell.  381 

Lost  Heir,  The . Thomas  Hood.  904 

Lost  Leader,  The . Robert  Browning.  263 

Lot  of  Thousands,  The . Anne  Hunter.  685 

Louis  XV . John  Sterling.  328 

Love . Samuel  T.  Coleridge.  100 

Love  and  Death . John  Ford.  203 

Love  in  the  Valley . George  Meredith.  142 

Love  is  a  Sickness . Samuel  Daniel.  98 

Love-Knot,  The . Nora  Perry.  217 

Love  Lightens  Labor . Author  Unknown.  24 

Loveliness  of  Love,  The . Author  Unknown.  139 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly . Wm.  Allingham.  122 

Love  Not . Caroline  Norton.  187 

Love  not  me  for  Comely  Grace, 

Author  Unknown.  139 

Love’s  Omnipresence . Joshua  Sylvester.  99 

Love’s  Philosophy . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  97 

Love  still  hath  Something  of  the  Sea, 

Sir  Charles  Sedley.  99 

Lovest  thou  Me . William  Cowper.  541 

Love  will  Find  out  the  Way, 

Author  Unknown.  97 

Low-backed  Car,  The . Samuel  Lover.  165 

Loyalty  Confined . Sir  Roger  U Estrange.  241 

Lucasta,  To.  (On  Going  beyond  the  Seas.) 

Richard  Lovelace.  125 
Lucasta,  To.  (On  Going  to  the  Wars.) 

Richard  Lovelace.  124 

Lucy . William  Wordsworth.  49 

Lucy  Gray ;  or,  Solitude....  Wm.  Wordsworth.  56 

Lucy’s  Flittin’ . William  Laidlaw.  202 

Lullaby . .  Thomas  Dekker.  32 

Lycidas . . . . . . John  Milton.  285 


xvi 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


Page 

Maidenhood . Henry  W.  Longfellow.  66 

Maiden’s  Choice,  The . Henry  Carey.  210 

Maid  of  Athens . . . Lord  Byron.  145 

Maid’s  Lament,  The . Walter  S.  Landor.  141 

Make  Way  for  Liberty . James  Montgomery.  297 

Malbrouck.. .Francis  Mahony  ( Father  Prout ), 

( from  the  French).  948 

Man’s  Mortality . Simon  Wastell.  626 

Marching  Along . Robert  Browning.  310 

March  to  Moscow . Robert  Southey.  949 

Marco  Bozzaris . Fitz-Greene  Halleck.  347 

Mariner’s  Dream,  The . William  Dimond.  696 

Mariner’s  Wife,  The . Jean  Adam.  10 

Mary,  To . Samuel  Bisho p.  10 

Mary,  To .  William  Coioper.  245 

Mary  in  Heaven,  To . Robert  Burns.  137 

Mary  Morison . Robert  Burns.  147 

Mary  of  Castle  Cary . Hector  Macneill.  164 

Massacre  of  the  Macpherson...  W.  E.Aytoun.  934 

Matrimonial  Happiness*. . John  Lapraik.  7 

Maude  Clare . Christina  Georgina  Rossetti.  188 

Maud  Muller .  John  G.  Whittier.  167 

May,  Song  to . Erasmus  Darwin.  431 

May,  Song  to . . . Lord  Thurlow.  428 

May,  Sonnet  on . Thomas  Watson.  428 

May,  The  Beign  of . James  Gates  Percival.  432 

May  Morning,  Song  on . John  Milton.  427 

May  Queen,  The . Alfred  Tennyson.  69 

Means  to  Attain  Happy  Life.. Z/eury  Howard.  616 
Meeting  of  the  Waters,  The...  Thomas  Moore.  517 

Melancholia . John  Fletcher.  656 

Men  of  England . Thomas  Campbell.  356 

Men  of  Old,  The . Richard  M.  Millies.  747 

Merry  Pranks  of  Robin  Good-Fellow,  The, 

Author  Unknown.  808 

Messiah . Alexander  Pope.  527 

Midnight  Hymn . Thomas  Ken.  557 

Milk-Maid’s  Mother’s  Answer, 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  140 

Milk-Maid’s  Song . Christopher  Marlowe.  140 

Miller’s  Daughter,  The . Alfred  Tennyson.  155 

Milton,  Lines  Written  under  the  Picture  of, 

John  Dryden.  240 

Milton,  Sonnet  to . William  Wordsworth.  240 

Milton’s  Prayer  of  Patience . E.  L.  Howell.  235 

Minstrel’s  Song,  The . Thomas  Chatterton.  147 

Missionary  Hymn . Reginald  Heber.  580 

Mistress  Margaret  Hussey,  To  ...John  Skelton.  225 

Mitherless  Bairn,  The . William  Thom.  46 

Modern  Belle,  The . Stark.  922 

Monody  on  the  Death  of  an  Only  Client, 

London  Punch.  921 

Monsieur  Tonson . John  Taylor.  945 

Monterey . Charles  Fenno  Hoffman.  348 

Moon,  Sonnet  to  the . Sir  Philip  Sidney.  118 

Moon,  Sonnet  to  the . Lord  Thurlow.  446 

Moon,  To  the . P.  B.  Shelley.  446 

Morning . William  Shakespeare.  439 


Page 

Morning-Glory,  The . Maria  White  Lowell.  49 

Morning  Hymn . John  Keble.  553 

Morning  Hymn . Thomas  Ken.  553 

Morning  Hymn . George  Wither.  554 

Morning  Song . Joanna  Baillie.  499 

Morning  Street,  The . John  J.  Piatt.  782 

Morton,  Tears  Wept  at  the  Grave  of  Sir  Al- 

bertus . Sir  H.  Wotton.  228 

Mother  and  Poet .  Elizabeth  B.  Browning.  26 

Mother’s  Hope,  The . Laman  Blanchard.  52 

Mountain  Daisy,  To  a . Robert  Burns.  454 

Mouse,  To  a . Robert  Burns.  483 

Mr.  Barney  Maguire’s  Account  of  the  Corona¬ 
tion . Richard  Harris  Barham.  956 

Mr.  Molony’s  Account  of  the  Ball, 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray.  955 

Mrs.  Unwin,  To . William  Coioper.  245 

Musical  Instrument... Elizabeth  B.  Browning.  723 
Music,  when  Soft  Voices  Die....P.  B.  Shelley.  185 

My  Ain  Fireside . Elizabeth  Hamilton.  1 

My  Child . John  Pierpont.  48 

My  Days  among  the  Dead  are  Passed, 

Robert  Southey.  737 

My  Dear  and  Only  Love., . James  Graham.  193 

My  Faith  looks  up  to  Thee . Ray  Palmer.  538 

My  Heart’s  in  the  Highlands  ...Robert  Burns.  358 

My  Love . James  Russell  Lowell.  208 

My  Minde  to  me  a  Kingdom  is...  Wm.  Byrd.  737 

My  Only  Jo  and  Dearie,  0 . Richard  Gall.  202 

My  Playmate . John  G.  Whittier.  82 

My  Psalm . John  G.  Whittier.  613 

My  Ship . Elizabeth  Akers  Allen.  789 

Nabob,  The . Susanna  Blamire.  93 

Nantucket  Skipper,  The . James  T.  Fields.  927 

Napoleon . John  Gibson  Lockhart.  268 

Napoleon,  The  Return  of,  from  St.  Helena, 

Lydia  H.  Sigourney.  268 

Naseby . Thomas  Babington  Macaulay.  311 

Nearer  Home . Phoebe  Cary.  587 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee  ....Sarah  F.  Adams.  564 

Neckan,  The . Matthew  Arnold.  883 

Neglected  Call,  The . Hannah  Lloyd  Neale.  684 

Never  Again . Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  764 

New  Jerusalem . Author  Unknown.  602 

New  Year’s  Day,  For . Philip  Doddridge.  559 

Niagara . John  G.  C.  Brainard.  520 

Night . James  Montgomery.  687 

Night . Hartley  Coleridge.  775 

Night . William  Habington.  775 

Night  before  Christmas,  The . C.  C.  Moore.  67 

Nightingale,  Ode  to  a . John  Keats.  478 

Nightingale,  The . Richard  Barnefeld.  480 

Nightingale,  The  Departure  of  the  ..C.  Smith.  480 

Nightingale,  To  a . William  Drummond.  477 

Nightingale,  To  the . William  Drummond.  478 

Nightingale,  To  the . John  Milton.  478 

Night  Piece,  The . Robert  Herrick.  127 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


XVII 


Page 

Night,  To . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  442 

Night,  To . Joseph  Blanco  White.  441 

Ninety  and  Nine . Elizabeth  C.  Clepliane.  581 


No  Age  Content  with  his  Own  Estate, 

Henry  Howard.  657 

Nocturnal  Reverie,  A, 

Anne,  Countess  of  Winchelsea.  434 

Nocturnal  Sketch,  A . Thomas  Hood.  959 

Nongtongpaw . Charles  Dibdin.  948 

Nothing  but  Leaves . Lucy  E.  Akerman.  578 

Nothing  to  Wear . William  Allen  Butler.  708 

Not  on  the  Battle-Field .  John  Pierpont.  677 

Not  Ours  the  Vows . Bernard  Barton.  101 

Now  and  Afterward . Dinah  M.  Craik.  620 

Nun,  The . Leigh  Hunt.  171 

Nut-Brown  Maid,  The . Author  Unknown.  112 

Nymph  Complaining  for  the  Death  of  her 

Fawn . Andrew  Marvell.  501 

O’Connor’s  Child . Thomas  Campbell.  395 

Ode,  An,  in  Imitation  of  Alcaeus. Sir  W.  Jones.  363 
Ode, — “  Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth  ’’.Keats.  740 
Ode,  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recol¬ 
lections  of  Early  Childhood.  Wordsworth.  644 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn . John  Keats.  746 

Ode  on  Solitude . Alexander  Pope.  755 

Ode  on  St.  Cecilia’s  Day . Alexander  Pope.  727 

Ode  on  the  Centenary  of  Burns. .Isa  C.  Knox.  250 
Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 

Alfred  Tennyson.  270 
Ode  on  the  Death  of  Mr.  Thomson.  W.  Collins.  244 

Ode,  On  the  Spring . Thomas  Gray.  427 

Ode, — “The  spacious  firmament  on  high,” 

Joseph  Addison.  545 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale . John  Keats.  478 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin . John  Leyden.  87 

Ode  to  Duty  . William  Wordsworth.  664 

Ode  to  Evening . William  Collins.  440 

Ode  to  Fear . William  Collins.  776 

Ode  to  Himself. . Ben  Jonson.  225 

Ode  to  Leven  Water . Tobias  Smollett.  515 

Ode  to  my  Little  Son . Thomas  Hood.  903 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind... Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  436 
0  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids  !.  W.  C.  Bryant.  779 

Of  Myself . Abraham  Cowley.  233 

Oft,  in  the  Stilly  Night . Thomas  Moore.  77 

0  God  of  Bethel,  by  whose  Hand...  Variation 

by  John  Logan  ( from  Philip  Doddridge).  587 
0  Happy  Soul,  that  Lives  on  High!./.  Watts.  575 

Oh,  Breathe  not  his  Name . Thomas  Moore.  252 

Oh,  had  we  some  Bright  Little  Isle  of  our 

Own! . Thomas  Moore.  194 

Oh !  Snatched  away  in  Beauty’s  Bloom, 

Lord  Byron.  743 

Oh!  the  Pleasant  Days  of  Old . F.  Brown.  747 

Oh  why  should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be 

Proud  ? . William  Knox.  627 

Old  and  Young  Courtier . Author  Unknown.  672 

B 


Page 

Old  Arm-Chair,  The . Eliza  Cook.  73 

Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,  The . Longfellow.  76 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The . Charles  Lamb.  77 

Old  Folks  at  Home .  . Stephen  C.  Foster.  18 

Old  Grimes . Albert  G.  Greene.  912 

Old  Letters . Frederick  Locker.  88 

Old  Man  Dreams,  The . Oliver  W.  Holmes.  899 

Old  Man’s  Comforts,  The . Robert  Southey.  674 

Old  Man’s  Wish,  The . Walter  Pope.  754 

Old  Oaken  Bucket,  Th e. ..Samuel  Woodworth.  74 
Old  St.  David’s  at  Radnor... H.  W.  Longfellow.  522 

Omnipotent  Decree,  The . Charles  Wesley.  585 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante..  Thomas  William  Parsons.  221 

On  a  Contented  Mind . Thomas,  Lord  Vaux.  658 

On  a  Day,  Alack  the  Day!...  W.  Shakespeare.  141 
On  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College.  T.  Gray.  504 
On  a  Distant  View  of  England.  W.  L.  Bowles.  356 

On  a  Girdle .  . Edmund  Waller.  185 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Minerva.  T.  B.  Aldrich.  780 

0  Nanny,  wilt  Thou  go  with  Me . T.  Percy.  161 

On  Another’s  Sorrow . William  Blake.  589 

On  a  Prayer-Book,  sent  to  Mrs.  M.  R., 

Robert  Crasliaw.  586 

On  a  Sprig  of  Heath . Anne  Grant.  447 

Once  upon  a  Time . Caroline  B.  Southey.  93 

One  by  One . Adelaide  Anne  Procter.  683 

One  Gray  Hair,  The . Walter  S.  Landor.  751 

One  Word  is  too  often  Profaned. P.  B.  Shelley.  148 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman’s  Homer, 

John  Keats.  739 

On  his  Being  Arrived  at  the  Age  of  Twenty- 

Three  . John  Milton.  226 

On  his  Blindness . John  Milton.  234 

On  his  Divine  Poems . Edmund  Waller.  688 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl . O.  W.  Holmes.  90 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford . Ben  Jonson.  233 

Only  Waiting . Francis  Laughton  Mace.  639 

On  my  Dear  Son,  Gervase  Beaumont, 

Sir  John  Beaumont.  226 
On  Revisiting  the  River  Loddon.../7.  Warton.  508 
On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Levett ...Samuel  Johnson.  245 
On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake, 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck.  253 
On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic, 

William  Wordsworth.  348 
On  the  Funeral  of  Charles  the  First, 

William  Lisle  Bowles.  312 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket . J.  Keats.  482 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont../.  Milton.  313 
On  the  Morning  of  Christ’s  Nativity. ..Milton.  523 
On  the  Prospect  of  Planting  Arts  and  Learn¬ 
ing  in  America . George  Berkeley.  723 

On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother’s  Picture, 

William  Cowper.  15 
On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey, 

Francis  Beaumojit.  504 
On  this  Day  I  Complete  my  Thirty-Sixth 

Year . . Lord  Byron.  88 


XV111 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


Page 

Origin  of  the  Opal . Author  Unknown.  459 

Orphan  Boy’s  Tale,  The . Amelia  Opie.  46 

0  Thou  from  whom  all  Goodness  Flows, 

Thomas  Haweis.  584 
0  Thou,  the  Contrite  Sinner’s  Friend, 

Charlotte  Elliott.  589 

Outlaw,  The . Sir  Walter  Scott.  176 

Over  Hill,  Over  Dale _ William  Shakespeare.  794 

Over  the  River . Nancy  A.  W.  Wakefield.  629 

Pan,  To . Beaumont  &  Fletcher.  425 

Pan  in  Wall  Street. Edmund  Clarence  Stedman.  886 

Panglory’s  Wooing  Song . Giles  Fletcher.  98 

Paradise . Frederick  W.  Faber.  601 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIII . J.  Addison.  561 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIII . R.  Crashaw.  562 

Parody  on  Pope . Sydney  Smith.  923 

Passing  Away . John  Pierpont.  628 

Passing  Under  the  Rod . Mary  S.  B.  Dana.  589 

Passions,  The . W.  Collins.  730 

Past,  The . William  Cullen  Bryant.  91 

Pastoral,  A . John  Byrom.  173 

Pastoral,  A . Nicholas  Breton.  182 

Pastoral  Ballad,  A . William  Shenstone.  205 

Paul  Revere’s  Ride . Henry  IF.  Longfellow.  329 

Pauper’s  Death-bed,  The . C.  B.  Southey.  721 

Pauper’s  Drive,  The . . . Thomas  Noel.  722 

Pavy,  Epitaph  on  Salathiel . Ben  Jonson.  232 

Peal  of  Bells,  A . Christina  G.  Rossetti.  764 

Pearl- Wearer,  The . Bryan  Waller  Procter.  700 

Pembroke,  Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of, 

Ben  Jonson.  233 

Pericles  and  Aspasia . George  Croly.  289 

Per  Pacem  ad  Lucem  ....Adelaide  A.  Procter.  537 
Petition  to  Time,  A....  Bryan  Waller  Procter.  751 

Pet  Lamb,  The . IF.  Wordsworth.  487 

Philip,  my  King .  Dinah  M.  Craik.  30 

Phillida  and  Corydon . Nicholas  Breton.  145 

Philomela .  Mattheic  Arnold.  472 

Philosopher’s  Scales,  The . Jane  Taylor.  665 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Bhu .  Sir  Walter  Scott.  359 

Picture,  A . Charles  G.  Eastman.  6 

Picture  of  T.  C.,  The,  in  a  Prospect  of 

Flowers . . . Andrew  Marvell.  240 

Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  The . B.  Browning.  851 

Pilgrimage,  The . Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  578 

Pilgrims  of  the  Night,  The..  Fred.  IF.  Faber.  600 

Place  to  Die,  The . Michael  Joseph  Barry.  680 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James, 

Bret  Harte.  933 

Ploughman,  The . Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  692 

Poet’s  Bridal-Day  Song... Allan  Cunningham.  18 

Poet’s  Song  to  his  Wife . B.  IF.  Procter.  14 

Pompadour,  The . G.  IF.  Thornbury.  327 

Poor  Jack . Charles  Dibdin.  698 

Pope,  Parody  on . Sydney  Smith.  923 

Portrait,  The . Robert  Bulwer  Lytton.  199 

Power  of  Love,  The . Beaumont  &  Fletcher.  169 


Page 

Praise . Edward  Osier.  601 

Praise  of  a  Countryman’s  Life.  John  Clialkhill.  496 
Praise  of  a  Solitary  Life,  The..  IF.  Drummond.  658 

Praise  of  his  Love,  A . Henry  Howard.  154 

Praise  to  God . Anna  Lsetitia  Barbauld.  548 

Praxiteles  and  Phryne .  William  IF.  Story.  784 

Pre-Existence . Paul  H.  Hayne.  783 

Present  Crisis,  The . James  Russell  Lowell.  343 

Priest,  The . Nicholas  Breton.  552 

Primrose,  The . Robert  Herrick.  214 

Primrose,  To  an  Early . Henry  K.  White.  452 

Primroses  Filled  with  Morning  Dew,  To,  * 

Robert  Herrick.  452 

Prisoned  in  Windsor,  he  Recounteth  his 

Pleasure  there  Passed . Henry  Howard.  222 

Prisoner  of  Chillon . Lord  Byron.  398 

Problem,  The . Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  663 

Progress  of  Poesy,  The . Thomas  Gray.  728 

Prologue  to  Mr.  Addison’s  Tragedy  of  “  Cato,” 

Alexander  Pope.  242 
Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  Wood..N?V  Walter  Scott.  890 

Psalm  of  Life,  A . Henry  W.  Longfellow.  615 

Psalm  XXIII,  Paraphrase  of . •/.  Addison.  561 

Psalm  XXIII,  Paraphrase  of . R.  Crashaw.  562 

Psalm  LXXII — “  Hail  to  the  Lord’s  Anoint¬ 
ed” . James  Montgomery.  537 

Psalm  LXXXIV" — “  Pleasant  are  Thy  courts 

above” . . . Henry  Francis  Lyte.  600 

Psalm  LXXXYII — “  Glorious  things  of  Thee 

are  spoken” .  John  Newton.  598 

Psalm  XC — “  Our  God,  our  help  in  ages 

past” . Isaac  Watts.  549 

Psalm  XCVIII — “Joy  to  the  world!  the 

Lord  is  come” . Isaac  Watts.  549 

Psalm  C — “With  one  consent  let  all  the 

earth  ” . Tate  &  Brady.  545 

Psalm  C — “  Before  Jehovah’s  awful  throne,” 

Isaac  Watts  ( varied  by  Charles  Wesley).  546 
Psalm  CXVII — “From  all  that  dwell  below 

the  skies” . Isaac  Watts.  552 

Psalm  CXXI — “  Up  to  the  hills  I  lift  mine 

eyes” . Isaac  Watts.  583 

Psalm  CXLVIII — “Come,  oh  come!  in  pious 

lays”  . George  Wither.  551 

Pulley,  The . George  Herbert.  662 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus . Arthur  Hugh  Clough.  744 

Quaker  Widow,  The . Bayard  Taylor.  22 

Question,  The  . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  45£ 

Quince . Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed.  911 

Rainbow,  The . Henry  Vaughan.  443 

Rainbow,  The . William  Wordsworth.  444 

Rainbow,  To  the . Thomas  Campbell.  444 

Rainy  Day,  The . Henry  IF.  Longfellow.  775 

Randolph  of  Roanoke . John  G.  Whittier.  262 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  The . Alexander  Pope.  795 

Raven,  The . Edgar  Allan  Poe.  849 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


xix 


Page 

Rebecca’s  Hymn . Sir  Walter  Scott.  550 

Recipe  for  Salad,  A . Sydney  Smith.  959 

Reconciliation,  The . Alfred  Tennyson.  39 

Re-cured  Lover  Exulteth  in  his  Freedom, 

The . Sir  Thomas  Wyatt.  191 

Redbreast,  Sonnet  to  the . John  Bampfylde.  477 

Red,  Red  Rose,  A . Robert  Burns.  157 

Red  River  Voyageur,  The...  Joint  G.  Whittier.  680 

Reflective  Retrospect,  A . John  G.  Saxe.  79 

Reign  of  May,  The . James  Gates  Percival.  432 

Renunciation,  A...E.  Vere  ( Earl  of  Oxford).  190 

Resignation . Richard  Baxter.  566 

Resignation . Thomas  Chatterton.  565 

Resignation . Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.  646 

Retirement . William  Cowper.  582 

Retirement,  The . Charles  Cotton.  495 

Retreat,  The . Henry  Vaughan.  92 

Return  of  Napoleon  from  St.  Helena, 

Lydia  H.  Sigourney .  268 

Reve  du  Midi . Rose  Terry  Cooke.  433 

Rhine,  The . William  Lisle  Bowles.  518 

Rhodora,  The . Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  455 

Right  must  Win,  The... .Frederick  W.  Faber.  572 
Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  The, 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  855 
Rise,  my  Soul,  and  Stretch  thy  Wings, 

Robert  Seagrave.  570 
Robin  Hood  and  Allen-a-Dale, 

Author  Unknown.  390 

Robin  Redbreast . William  Allingham.  477 

Rock  me  to  Sleep . Elizabeth  Akers  Allen.  74 

Rock  of  Ages  ....Augustus  Montague  Toplady.  540 
Romance  of  the  Swan’s  Nest.-C.  B.  Browning.  47 

Rory  O’More . .Samuel  Lover.  165 

Rosabelle . . Sir  Walter  Scott.  403 

Rosader’s  Sonetto . Thomas  Lodge.  156 

Rosalind’s  Madrigal . Thomas  Lodge.  98 

Rosaline . Thomas  Ijodge.  123 

Rule,  Britannia . James  Thomson.  355 

Ruth . Thomas  Hood.  144 

Sabbath  Chimes . Charles  Swain.  561 

Sabbath  Evening . George  Denison  Prentice.  441 

Sabbath  Morning,  The . John  Leyden.  439 

Sailor’s  Wife,  The . Charles  Mach  :ay.  25 

Sally  in  our  Alley . Henry  Carey.  120 

Sands  of  Dee,  The .  Charles  Kingsley.  417 

Saturday  Afternoon . N.  P.  Willis.  77 

Saviour,  who  Thy  Flock  art  Feeding, 

William  Augustus  Muhlenberg.  540 

School  and  School-fellows . W.  M.  Praed.  79 

Schoolmistress,  The . William  Shenstone.  57 

Sea,  The . B.  W.  Procter.  462 

Sea-Limits,  The . Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  462 

Seasons,  Hymn  on  the . James  Thomson.  423 

Seneca  Lake,  To . James  Gates  Percival.  521 

September . . . George  Arnold.  434 

Serenade,  A . Thomas  Hood.  903 


Page 

Serenade,  A . Sir  Walter  Scott.  189 

Shakespeare,  Epitaph  on . Tohn  Milton.  230 

Shakespeare,  Lines  on  the  Portrait  oi... Jonson.  230 
Shakespeare,  To  the  memory  oi...Ben  Jonson.  228 
Shall  I  Tell  you  Whom  I  Love?.  Wm.  Browne .  123 

She  is  Far  from  the  Land . Thomas  Moore .  275 

She  is  not  Fair  to  Outward  View .H.  Coleridge.  172 

Shepherd’s  Resolution,  The _ George  Wither.  169 

Shepherd’s  Wife’s  Song,  The . R.  Greene.  142 

Sheridan’s  Ride . Thomas  Buchanan  Read.  351 

She’s  Gane  to  Dwell  in  Heaven. A. Cunningham.  218 

She  Walks  in  Beauty . Lord,  Byron.  741 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight....  Wordsworth.  10 

Ships  at  Sea . R.  B.  Coffin.  789 

Shortness  of  Life,  The . Francis  Quarles.  615 

Shout  the  Glad  Tidings..  Wot.  A.  Muhlenberg.  533 

Sic  Vita . Henry  King.  688 

Sidney,  Epitaph  upon  Sir  Philip.  W.  Raleigh.  227 

Siege  of  Belgrade,  The . Author  Unknown.  960 

Sigh  no  More,  Ladies . Wm.  Shakespeare.  187 

Silent  Lover,  The . Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  182 

Siller  Croun,  The . Susanna  Blamire.  147 

Sir  Marmaduke...GVo/7/e  Colman,  the  Younger.  784 

Sir  Patrick  Spens . Author  Unknown.  367 

Sister  Helen . Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  875 

Sixteen . Walter  Savage  Landor.  214 

Skeleton,  To  a .  Author  Unknown.  642 

Skeleton  in  Armor,  The . H.  IF.  Longfellow.  864 

Skipper  Ireson’s  Ptide . Tohn  G.  Whittier.  371 

Skylark,  The . James  Hogg.  473 

Skylark,  To  a . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  474 

Skylark,  To  a . William  Wordsworth.  473 

Skylark,  To  a . William  Wordsworth.  473 

Sleep,  Sonnet  on . Samuel  Daniel.  776 

Sleep,  Sonnet  on . Sir  Philip  Sidney.  776 

Sleep,  The . Elizabeth  B.  Browning.  622 

Sleeping  Babe,  The . Samuel  Hinds.  45 

Smack  in  School,  The...  William  Pitt  Palmer.  923 
Society  upon  the  Stanislow,  The.... Bret  Harte.  944 

Soldier,  Rest . Sir  Walter  Scott.  700 

Soldier’s  Dream,  The . Thomas  Campbell.  83 

Solitude,  Ode  on . Alexander  Pope.  755 

Somerset,  Upon  the  Sudden  Restraint  of  the 

Earl  of. . Sir  H.  Wotton.  230 

Son-Dayes . Henry  Vaughan.  560 

Song — “  Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly  ”..  W.  Oldys.  483 
Song — “  Day  in  melting  purple  dying,” 

Maria  Brooks.  170 

Song — “  Follow  a  Shadow,  it  still  Flies  you,” 

Ben  Jonson.  124 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia’s  Day,  A . John  Dryden.  726 

Song.  (From  the  “Merchant  of  Venice”), 

William  Shakespeare.  838 
Song — “  Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse,” 

Beaumont  A'  Fletcher.  212 

Song  of  Fairies . Leigh  Hunt.  791 

Song  of  Margaret . Jean  Ingelow.  195 

Song  of  Marion’s  Men . W.  C.  Bryant.  331 


XX 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


Page 

Song  of  the  Brook . Alfred  Tennyson.  460 

Song  of  the  Camp,  The . Bayard  Taylor.  216 

Song  of  the  Fairies . . John  Lyly.  793 

Song  of  the  Greek  Poet . Lord  Byron.  360 

Song  of  the  North,  A . Elizabeth  Doten.  421 

Song  of  the  River . Charles  Kin ysley.  461 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  The . Thomas  Hood.  716 

Song  of  the  Summer  Winds.... George  Darley.  433 

Song,  on  May  Morning . John  Milton.  427 

Song — “  Oh  welcome,  bat  and  owlet  gray,” 

Joanna  Baillie.  481 
Song — “  Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou,” 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  779 

Songs  of  Birds,  The .  John  Lyly.  480 

Song — “  Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest,” 

Ben  Jonson.  740 

Song,  sung  by  Rogero . George  Canning.  935 

Song — “  The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery 

nest” . Sir  William  Davenant.  472 

Song — “’Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  merry  lark,” 

Hartley  Coleridge.  472 

Song  to  May . Erasmus  Darwin.  431 

Song  to  May . Lord  Thurlow.  428 

Song,  To  the  Evening  Star . T.  Campbell.  447 

Song — “To  thy  lover” . Richard  Crashaw.  126 

Song — “  Under  the  greenwood  tree,” 

William  Shakespeare.  457 
Songs  of  Praise  the  Angels  S&ng.J.Montgomery.  588 

Songs  of  Seven . Jean  Ingelow.  19 

Sonnet — “  A  good  that  never  satisfies  the 

mind  ” . William  Drummond.  656 

Sonnet — “  Because  I  oft  in  dark  abstracted 

guise” . Sir  Philip  Sidney.  781 

Sonnet,  Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge, 

William  Wordswoi'th.  503 
Sonnet — “  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have 

I  seen” .  William  Shakespeare.  439 

Sonnet — “  Having  this  day  my  horse,  my 

hand,  my  lance” . Sir  Philip  Sidney.  192 

Sonnet — “  It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm 

and  free” .  William  Wordsworth.  441 

Sonnet — “  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true 

minds” . William  Shakespeare.  218 

Sonnet — “Like  as  the  culver,  on  the  bared 

bough” . Edmund  Spenser.  190 

Sonnet — “  Like  as  the  waves  make  toward  the 

pebbled  shore” . William  Shakespeare.  753 

Sonnet,  May . Thomas  Watson.  428 

Sonnet — “  No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I 

am  dead” . William  Shakespeare.  219 

Sonnet — “Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monu¬ 
ments” . William  Shakespeare.  752 

Sonnet — “  0  happy  Thames  that  didst  my 

Stella  bear!” . Sir  Philip  Sidney.  191 

Sonnet — “  Oh,  how  much  more  doth  beauty 

beauteous  seem”...  William  Shakespeare.  753 
Sonnet,  On  a  Distant  View  of  England, 

William  IJsle  Bowles.  356 


Page 

Sonnet,  On  his  being  Arrived  at  the  Age  of 

Twenty-three . John  Milton.  226 

Sonnet,  On  his  Blindness . John  Milton.  234 

Sonnet  on  Parting  with  his  Books.  W.  Roscoe.  784 

Sonnet  on  Sleep . Samuel  Daniel.  776 

Sonnet  on  Sleep .  Sir  Philip  Sidney.  776 

Sonnet,  On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont, 

John  Milton.  313 

Sonnet — “  Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful 

earth  ” . William  Shakespeare.  753 

Sonnet — “Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever 

going” . Aubrey  de  Vere.  614 

Sonnet — “  Scorn  not  the  sonnet ;  critic,  you 

have  frown’d” . William  Wordsworth.  781 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese.. E.  B.  Browning.  134 
Sonnet — “  Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer’s 

day?” . William  Shakespeare.  220 

Sonnet — “  Since  I  did  leave  the  presence  of 

my  love” . Edmund  Spenser.  190 

Sonnet — “  Since  there’s  no  help,  come,  let  us 

kiss  and  part” . Michael  Drayton.  170 

Sonnet,  Summer . Lord  Thurlow.  433 

Sonnet — “  Sweet  is  the  rose,  but  grows  upon  a 

brere” . Edmund  Spenser.  780 

Sonnet — “  That  time  of  year  thou  may’st  in 

me  behold” . .  William  Shakespeare.  219 

Sonnet — “’The  doubt  which  ye  misdeem,  fair 

love,  is  vain” . Edmund  Spenser.  101 

Sonnet — “  They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and 

will  do  none” . William  Shakespeare.  754 

Sonnet — “  Time  wasteth  years,  and  months, 

and  hours” . Thomas  Watson.  172 

Sonnet — “  Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful 

death  I  cry” . William  Shakespeare.  219 

Sonnet,  To  Cyriac  Skinner . John  Milton.  234 

Sonnet  to  his  Lute . William  Drummond.  734 

Sonnet  to  Hope . Helen  Maria  Williams.  663 

Sonnet — “  To  live  in  hell,  and  heaven  to  be¬ 
hold  ” . Henry  Constable.  212 

Sonnet — “  To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can 

be  old” . William  Shakesjjeare.  752 

Sonnet,  To  Milton . William  Wordsworth.  240 

Sonnet — “  To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city 

pent” . John  Keats.  499 

Sonnet  to  the  Glow-Worm . John  Clare.  483 

Sonnet,  To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell, 

John  Milton.  234 

Sonnet,  To  the  Moon . Sir  Philip  Sidney.  118 

Sonnet,  To  the  Moon . Lord  Thurlow.  446 

Sonnet,  To  the  Redbreast  ....John  Bampfylde.  477 
Sonnet — “  When  I  do  count  the  clock  that 

tells  the  time” .  William  Shakespeare.  752 

Sonnet — “  When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and 

men’s  eyes  ” . William  Shakespeare.  219 

Sonnet — “  When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted 

time” .  William  Shakespeare.  220 

Sonnet,  When  the  Assault  was  Intended  to 

the  City . Tohn  Milton.  313 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


xxi 


Page 

Sonnet — “  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent 

thought” . William  Shakespeare.  753 

Sonnet  written  after  seeing  Windsor  Castle, 

Thomas  Warton.  504 
Sorrows  of  Werther,  The...  W.  M.  Thackeray.  895 

Sound  the  Loud  Timbrel . Thomas  Moore.  550 

Spring .  ...  Thomas  Nash.  427 

Spring . Henry  Timrod.  431 

Spring,  Ode  on  the . Thomas  Gray.  427 

Spring,  To . William  Drummond.  425 

Squire’s  Pew,  The . Jane  Taylor.  671 

St.  Agnes’  Eve . Alfred  Tennyson.  546 

Stanzas — “And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and 

fair” . Lord  Byron.  742 

Stanzas — ‘‘Farewell,  life!  my  senses  swim,” 

Thomas  Hood.  637 

Stanzas — “  My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose,” 

Richard  Henry  Wilde.  616 
Stanzas — “  Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great 

in  story  ” . Lord  Byron.  157 

Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  a  Friend... R.  Heher.  594 
Stanzas — “  Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech,” 

C.  P.  Crunch.  782 

Stanzas — “  When  lovely  woman  stoops  to 

folly” . Oliver  Goldsmith.  687 

Stanzas — “When  midnight  o’er  the  moonless 

skies  ” . . . William  Robert  Spencer.  94 

Stanzas  for  Music — “  There  be  none  of 

Beauty’s  daughters” . Lord  Byron.  157 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples, 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  261 
St.  Anthony’s  Sermon  to  the  Fishes, 

Author  Unknoicn.  915 

Star  of  Bethlehem,  The  . Henry  K.  White.  577 

Star-Spangled  Banner,  The  ...Francis  S.  Key.  353 

St.  Cecilia’s  Day,  Ode  on . Alexander  Pope.  727 

St.  Cecilia’s  Day,  Song  for . John  Dryden.  726 

Steadfast  Shepherd,  The . George  Wither.  153 

Stolen  Kiss,  A . George  Wither.  156 

Stormy  Petrel,  The . Bryan  Waller  Procter.  470 

St.  Patrick  was  a  Gentleman... Henry  Bennett.  924 
Stranger  and  his  Friend,  The...J.  Montgomery.  541 
Stranger  on  the  Sill,  The...  T.  Buchanan  Read.  75 

Stream  of  Life,  The . Arthur  Hugh  Clough.  614 

Sturge,  In  Remembrance  of  Joseph.  Whittier.  277 

Summer  Longings . Denis  F.  McCarthy.  429 

Summer,  Sonnet  on . Lord  Thurlow.  433 

Sunday . George  Herbert.  560 

Superstition . John  Norris.  179 

Supplication,  A . Abraham  Cowley.  121 

Sweet  and  Low . Alfred  Tennyson.  31 

Sweet-and-Twenty . IF.  Shakespeare.  163 

Sweet  are  the  Charms . Barton  Booth.  154 

Sweet  Baby,  Sleep .  . George  Wither.  34 

Sweet  Content . Thomas  Delcker.  660 

Sweet  Innisfallen . Thomas  Moore.  517 

Sweet  William’s  Farewell  to  Black-Eyed 

Susan .  . John  Gay.  119 


Page 

Take,  oh  Take  those  Lips  away, 

Beaumont  &  Fletcher.  184 
Take  thy  Old  Cloak  about  Thee, 

Author  Unknoicn.  901 

Tale  of  Drury  Lane,  A . Horace  Smith.  936 

Tam  O’Shanter . . Robert  Burns.  873 

Tears  of  Scotland,  The . Tobias  Smollett.  327 

Tears  Wept  at  the  Grave  of  Sir  Albertus 

Morton . Sir  H.  Wotton.  228 

Tell  me  How  to  Woo  Thee, 

Robert  Graham  of  Gartmore.  16! 

Tempest,  The . Sir  Humjihry  Davy.  462 

Ternissa . Walter  Savage  Landor.  196 

Thanatopsis . William  Cullen  Bryant.  624 

Thanksgiving  Hymn .  Henry  Alford.  558 

Thanksgiving  to  God  for  His  House,  A, 

Robert  Herrick.  559 

Theatre,  The . James  Smith.  938 

The  Child  Leans  on  its  Parent’s  Breast. 

Isaac  Williams.  573 
The  Dule’s  i’  this  Bonnet  o’  Mine.. A1.  Waugh.  166 

The  God  of  Abraham  Praise . T.  Olivers.  583 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara’s  Halls, 

Thomas  Moore.  362 

The  Heath  this  Night  must  be  my  Bed, 

Sir  Walter  Scott.  1S6 
The  House  is  Dark  and  Dreary, 

R.  H.  Stoddard.  785 
The  Midges  Dance  aboon  the  Burn, 

Robert  Tunnahill.  440 

There  be  Those  . Bernard  Barton.  617 

There  is  a  Dwelling-Place  Above . R.  Mant.  599 

There  is  a  Garden  in  her  Face . R.  Alison.  185 

There  is  a  Happy  Land . Andrew  Young.  599 

There  is  a  Land  of  Pure  Delight. Isaac  Watts.  599 
There’s  not  a  Joy  the  World  can  Give, 

Lord  Byron.  656 

The  Sun  Rises  Bright  in  France, 

Allan  Cunningham.  358 
The  Wretch,  condemned  with  Life  to  Part, 

Oliver  Goldsmith.  785 

They  are  all  Gone .  Henry  Vaughan.  597 

They  come  !  the  Merry  Summer  Months, 

William  Motherwell .  430 
They’re  Dear  Fish  to  Me  ....Author  Unknown.  699 

Thomson,  Ode  on  the  Death  of . W.  Collins.  244 

Those  Evening  Bells . Thomas  Moore.  764 

Thou  art,  0  God .  Thomas  Moore.  551 

Thought  among  the  Roses,  A. ..Peter  Spencer.  456 

Thoughts  in  a  Garden . Andreio  Marvell.  497 

Thoughts  in  a  Library . Anne  C.  L.  Botta.  738 

Thou  hast  Sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie, 

A.  Cunningham.  157 

Three  Fishers,  The .  ....Charles  Kingsley.  699 

Three  Ravens,  The . Author  Unknown.  411 

Three  Sons,  The . John  Moultrie.  50 

Three  Troopers,  The. ..George  IF.  Thornburg.  309 
Three  Warnings,  Th e... Hester  Thrale  Piozzi.  619 


XXII 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


Page 

Three  Years  she  Grew  . Wm.  Wordsworth.  49 

Thrush’s  Nest,  The . John  Clare.  476 

Thy  Goodness,  Lord,  our  Souls  Confess, 

Thomas  Gibbons.  562 
Thy  Voice  is  Heard  thro’  Rolling  Drums, 

Alfred  Tennyson.  743 

Thy  Will  be  Done . Charlotte  Elliott.  566 

Thy  Will  be  Done . Anna  L.  Waring.  567 

Thy  Will  be  Done . John  G.  Whittier .  568 

Tiger,  The .  William  Blake.  494 

Times  Go  by  Turns . Robert  Southwell.  778 

'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer . T.  Moore •  456 

Tithonus .  Alfred  Tennyson.  787 

To  a  Bird  that  Haunted  the  Waters  of  Laaken 

in  the  Winter . Lord  Thurlow.  472 

To  a  Child  Embracing  his  Mother...  T.  Hood.  35 

To  a  Highland  Girl . Wm.  Wordsworth.  65 

To  Althea,  from  Prison . Richard  Lovelace.  124 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy . Robert  Burns.  454 

To  a  Mouse . Robert  Burns.  483 

To  an  Absent  Wife . George  D.  Prentice.  14 

To  an  Early  Primrose .  Henry  K.  White.  452 

To  a  Nightingale . William  Drummond.  477 

To  a  Skeleton . Author  Unknown.  642 

To  a  Skylark . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  474 

To  a  Skylark .  William  Wordsworth.  473 

To  a  Skylark .  William  Wordsworth.  473 

To  Autumn . John  Keats.  435 

To  a  very  Young  Lady . Sir  Charles  Sedley.  189 

To  a  Water-Fowl .  William  Cullen  Bryant.  471 

To  Blossoms . Robert  Herrick.  457 

To  Celia . Ben  Jonson.  195 

To  Charlotte  Pulteney . Ambrose  IJhilips.  35 

To  Cynthia . Ben  Jonson.  446 

To  Daffodils . Robert  Herrick.  453 

To  Dianeme . Robert  Herrick.  210 

To  Eva . Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  217 

To  his  Forsaken  Mistress . Sir  R.  Ayton.  148 

To  his  Lute . William  Drummond.  734 

To  his  Mistress,  the  Queen  of  Bohemia, 

Sir  Henry  Wotton.  185 

To  Ianthe . Walter  Savage  Landor.  213 

To  Keep  a  True  Lent . Robert  Herrick.  587 

To  Lady  Anne  Hamilton . IF.  R.  Spencer.  779 

To  Lucasta,  On  Going  beyond  the  Seas, 

Richard  Lovelace.  125 
To  Lucasta,  On  Going  to  the  Wars ..R.  Lovelace.  124 

To  Mary . Samuel  Bishop.  10 

To  Mary . William  Cowper.  245 

To  Mary  in  Heaven . Robert  Burns.  137 

Tom  Bowling . Charles  Dibdin.  639 

Tom  Dunstan . R.  Buchanan.  702 

To  Mistress  Margaret  Hussey . J.  Skelton.  225 

Tommy’s  Dead . Sydney  Dobell.  620 

To  Mrs.  Unwin . William  Cowper.  245 

To  my  Horse . Author  Unknown.  493 

To  my  Picture . Thomas  Randolph.  755 

To  my  Wife . Thomas  Haynes  Bayfy.  9 


Page 

To  Night . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  442 

TolSight . Joseph  Blanco  White.  441 

Too  Late . Dinah  M.  Craik.  17 

To  Pan . Beaumont  &  Fletcher.  425 

To  Primroses,  filled  with  Morning  Dew, 

Robert  Herrick.  452 

To  Q.  H.  F . Austin  Dobson.  921 

To  Seneca  Lake . James  Gates  Percival.  521 

To  Sigh,  yet  Feel  no  Pain . Thomas  Moore.  182 

To  Spring . William  Drummond.  425 

To  the  Butterfly . Samuel  Rogers.  482 

To  the  Cuckoo . John  Logan.  481 

To  the  Cuckoo .  William  Wordsworth.  489 

To  the  Daisy .  William  Wordsworth.  453 

To  the  Daisy . William  Wordsworth.  454 

To  the  Earl  of  Warwick  on  the  Death  of  Mr. 

Addison . Thomas  Tickell.  242 

To  the  Evening  Star . John  Leyden.  447 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian .  W  C.  Bryant.  455 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket .  L.  Hunt.  482 

To  the  Lady  Margaret . Samuel  Daniel.  230 

To  the  Lady  Margaret  Ley . John  Milton.  235 

To  the  Memory  of  my  Beloved,  the  Author, 

Mr.  William  Shakespeare,  and  what  he 

hath  left  us . Ben  Jonson.  228 

To  the  Moon . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  446 

To  the  Nightingale . William  Drummond.  478 

To  the  Nightingale . John  Milton.  478 

To  the  Rainbow . Thomas  Campbell.  444 

To  the  Sister  of  Elia .  Walter  S.  Landor.  273 

To  thy  Temple  I  Repair . J.  Montgomery.  561 

To  T.  L.  H . Leigh  Hunt.  36 

Touchstone,  The .  William  Allingham.  665 

Toujours  Amour  ...Edmund  Clarence  Stedman.  163 
To  Vincent  Corbet,  my  Son... Richard  Corbet.  233 
To  Virgins  to  make  Much  of  Time.../7ern'cA\  123 

Traveller,  The . Oliver  Goldsmith.  767 

Treasures  of  the  Deep,  The . F.  Hemans.  463 

Triumph  of  Charis,  The . Ben  Jonson.  160 

Trooper  to  his  Mare,  The . C.  G.  Halpine.  493 

Twa  Corbies,  The . Author  Unknown.  412 

’Twas  when  the  Seas  were  Roaring . J.  Gay.  125 

Twenty-One . Julia  C.  Dorr.  682 

Twenty  Years  Ago . Author  Unknown.  78 

Twins,  The . Henry  S.  Leigh.  906 

Two  Rivers . Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  764 

Under  my  Window . T.  Westwood.  53 

Unfortunate  Miss  Bailey _ Frederick  Locker.  954 

Universal  Prayer,  The . Alexander  Pope.  545 

Up-Hill . Christina  Georgina  Rossetti.  578 

Upon  the  Death  of  Sir  Albertus  Morton’s 

Wife . Sir  H.  Wotton.  228 

Upon  the  Sudden  Restraint  of  the  Earl  of 

Somerset . Sir  H.  Wotton.  230 

Urania . Matthew  Arnold.  216 

Useful  Plough,  The . Author  Unknown.  692 

Use  of  Flowers,  The . Mary  Howitt.  455 


INDEX  OF  THE  NAMES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


xxm 


Page 

Vagabonds,  The . J.  T.  Trowbridge.  717 

Valediction . Rickard  Baxter.  592 

Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  The. ...Ay.  Johnson.  649 
Vanity  of  the  World,  The.... Francis  Quarles.  654 
Vengeance  of  Mudara,  The. ...J.  G.  Lockhart.  292 

Veni  Creator . John  Dryden.  543 

Veni  Creator  Spiritus . Author  Unknown.  542 

Verses  in  Praise  of  Angling. ...Sir  II.  Wotton.  467 
Verses,  supposed  to  be  W ritten  by  Alexan¬ 
der  Selkirk . William  Cowper.  679 

Very  Mournful  Ballad,  A . Lord  Byron.  295 

Vicar,  The . Winthrop  Mackwortli  Praed.  913 

Vicar  of  Bray,  The . Author  Unknown.  914 

Village  Blacksmith,  The  ...  H.  W.  Longfellow.  693 

Vincent  Corbet,  my  Son,  To . R.  Corbet.  233 

Violet,  The . William  Wetmore  Story.  453 

Virtue . George  Herbert.  662 

Virtuoso,  A . Austin  Dobson.  958 

Vision  upon  this  Conceit  of  the  Faerie 

Queene,  A . Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  739 

Voiceless,  The . Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  626 

AVae’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie . Wm.  Glen.  326 

W alking  with  God .  William  Cowper.  564 

Waly,  Waly,  but  Love  be  Bonny, 

Author  Unknown.  103 

Wandering  Jew,  The . ..Author  Unknown.  374 

Warren’s  Address .  John  Pierpont.  329 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  Night, 

Sir  John  Bowring.  523 

Water-Fowl,  To  a . William  Cullen  Bryant.  471 

We  are  Brethren  a’ . Robert  Nicoll.  706 

We  are  Seven . William  Wordsworth.  51 

Weary . Christina  Georgina  Rossetti.  591 

Web  of  Life,  The . Clara  J.  Moore.  617 

Weep  no  More . John  Fletcher.  786 

Welcome,  The . William  Browne.  125 

Welcome,  The . Thomas  Osborne  Davis.  158 

Wellington,  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke 

of . Alfred  Tennyson.  270 

Well  of  St.  Keyne,  The . Robert  Southey.  898 

We  Parted  in  Silence . Julia  Crawford.  85 

We  Sing  the  Praise  of  Him  who  Died, 

Thomas  Kelly.  535 

West  AVind,  Ode  to  the . Percy  B.  Shelley.  436 

Wet  Sheet  *ind  a  Flowing  Sea.A.  Cunningham.  695 

What  Ails  this  Heart  o’  Mine . S.  Blamire.  199 

What  are  These  in  Bright  Array, 

James  Montgomery.  598 

AVhat  is  Prayer . James  Montgomery.  563 

AVhat  Mr.  Robinson  Thinks . J.  II.  Lowell.  922 

When  all  Thy  Mercies,  0  my  God.J.  Addison.  547 
When  Coldness  AVraps  this  Suffering  Clay, 

Lord  Byron.  625 

AArhen  Gathering  Clouds  around  I  View, 

Sir  Robert  Grant.  569 
AVhen  Icicles  Hang  by  the  Wall.. Shakespeare.  438 
When  Maggie  Gangs  Away . James  Hogg.  161 


Page 

AVhen  our  Heads  are  Bowed  with  Woe, 

Henry  Hart  Milman.  582 
AVhen  Stars  are  in  the  Quiet  Skies, 

Edward  Bulwer  Lytton.  218 
A\rhen  the  Assault  was  Intended  to  the  City. 

John  Milton.  313 

AVhen  the  Kye  comes  Hame . James  Hogg.  167 

AVhen  we  Two  Parted . Lord  Byron.  86 

Where  did  you  Come  from?  —  G.  Macdonald.  31 
AVhere  are  you  Going,  my  Pretty  Maid? 

Author  Unknown.  898 

Where  lies  the  Land . Arthur  Hugh  Clough.  466 

AArhere  shall  the  Lover  Rest . Sir  W.  Scott.  176 

Which  shall  it  Be  ? . Ethel  Lynn  Beers.  45 

Whilst  as  Fickle  Fortune  Smiled, 

Richard  Barnefield.  778 
Whilst  Thee  I  Seek  ...Helen  Maria  Williams.  572 

Whiskers,  The . Samuel  Woodworth.  892 

White  Rose,  The . Author  Unknown.  214 

AVho  is  Sylvia? . William  Shakespeare.  217 

AVhy  so  Pale? . Sir  John  Suckling.  104 

AVhy  thus  Longing? . Harriet  W.  Sewall.  766 

AA’idow  and  Child,  The . Alfred  Tennyson.  56 

AVife,  A .  William  Allingham.  12 

AVilliam  and  Margaret . David  Mallet.  175 

AVillie  AATnkie . William  Miller.  41 

AVill  of  God,  The . Frederick  W.  Faber.  566 

Windsor  Castle,  Sonnet  written  after  seeing, 

Thomas  Warton.  504 

AVinifreda . Author  Unknown.  7 

Winsome  AVee  Thing,  The . Robert  Burns.  9 

Wish,  A . Samuel  Rogers.  6 

AA'ishes  for  the  Supposed  Mistress, 

Richard  Crashaw.  121 

AVith  a  Guitar,  to  Jane . Percy  B.  Shelley.  732 

Without  and  AVithin . James  R.  Lowell.  707 

AVithout  and  Within  ....Richard  H.  Stoddard.  12 

AVoman’s  Answer,  A . Adelaide  A.  Procter.  188 

Woman’s  Inconstancy . Sir  Robert  Ayton.  141 

Woman’s  Question,  A  ....  Adelaide  A.  Procter.  187 

AA’onderfu’  AVean,  The . William  Miller.  42 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree! . G.  P.  Morris.  75 

Wrestling  Jacob . Charles  Wesley.  571 

Yarn  of  the  “  Nancy  Bell,”  The, 

William  S.  Gilbert.  910 

Yarrow  Revisited . William  Wordsworth.  511 

Yarrow  Unvisited . William  Wordsworth.  510 

Yarrow  Visited .  William  Wordsworth.  510 

Ye  Gentlemen  of  England . Martyn  Parker.  701 

Ye  Golden  Lamps  of  Heaven,  Farewell, 

Philip  Doddridge.  588 

Ye  Mariners  of  England . T.  Campbell.  356 

Young  Airlv . Author  Unknown.  325 

Young  May  Moon,  The  . Thomas  Moore.  162 

Youth  and  Age . Samuel  T.  Coleridge.  94 

Zara's  Ear-Rings  ....John  Gibson  Lockhart.  183 


- 


■ 


■» 


. 


. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Page 


ADAM,  JEAN  (b.  1710,  d.  1765). 

The  Mariner’s  Wife .  10 

ADAMS,  SARAH  FLOWER  (b.  1805,  d.  1849). 

Father,  Thy  Will  be  Done .  544 

“  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee  ” .  564 

ADDISON,  JOSEPH  (b.  1672,  d.  1719). 


An  Ode — “The  spacious  firmament  on  high  ”..  545 
Hymn — “  How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord !”  558 


Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIII .  561 

“When  all  Thy  mercies,  O  my  God!” .  547 

AKENSIDE,  MARK  (b.  1721,  d.  1770). 

Inscription  for  a  Statue  of  Chaucer .  225 

AKERMAN,  LUCY  EVELINA. 

Nothing  but  Leaves .  578 

ALDRICH,  JAMES  (b.  1810,  d.  1856). 

A  Death-bed .  625 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY  (b.  1836). 

Baby  Bell .  30 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Minerva .  780 

ALEXANDER,  CECIL  FRANCES  (b.  1823). 

The  Burial  o*f  Moses .  580 

ALFORD,  HENRY  (b.  1810,  d.  1871). 

Baptismal  Hymn .  563 

Thanksgiving  Hymn .  558 

The  Aged  Oak .  458 

ALISON,  RICHARD  (about  1606). 

“There  is  a  garden  in  her  face” .  185 

ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  AKERS  (1832). 

Endurance .  617 

My  Ship .  789 

“  Rock  me  to  sleep” .  74 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM  (b.  1828). 

A  Wife . 12 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly .  122 

Robin  Redbreast .  477 

The  Fairies .  794 

The  Touchstone .  665 

ALLSTON,  WASHINGTON  (b.  1779,  d.  1843). 

Boyhood .  53 

ARNOLD,  EDWIN  (b.  1832). 

After  Death  in  Arabia .  681 

Almond-Blossom .  457 

ARNOLD,  GEORGE  (b.  1834,  d.  1865). 

September .  434 

The  Jolly  Old  Pedagogue .  927 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW  (b.  1822). 

Euphrosyne .  213 

Philomela .  472 


Page 


The  Neckan .  883 

Urania .  216 

AUSTIN,  JOHN  (d.  1669). 

“Blest  be  Thy  love,  dear  Lord  ” .  548 

AYTON,  SIR  ROBERT  (b.  1570,  d.  1638). 

To  his  Forsaken  Mistress .  148 

Woman’s  Inconstancy .  141 

AYTOUN,  WILLIAM  EDMONDSTOUNE  (b.  1813, 
d.  1865). 

Burial-March  of  Dundee .  317 

Edinburgh  after  Flodden .  302 

Execution  of  Montrose .  313 

Massacre  of  the  Macplierson .  934 

BACON,  FRANCIS,  BARON  VERULAM  (b.  1561, 
d.  1626). 

Life .  613 

BAILLIE,  JOANNA  (b.  1762,  d.  1851). 

The  Black  Cock .  481 

The  Kitten .  484 

Morning  Song .  499 

Song — “Oh  welcome,  bat  and  owlet  gray” .  481 

BAKEWELL,  JOHN  (b.  1721,  d.  1819). 

“Hail!  Thou  once-despis&d  Jesus!” .  538 

BALLANTYNE,  JAMES  (b.  1808). 

Castles  in  the  Air .  37 

BAMPFYLDE,  JOHN  (b.  1754,  d.  1796). 

Sonnet  to  the  Redbreast .  477 

BARBAULD,  ANNA  LHCTITIA  (b.  1743,  d.  1825). 

Christ  Risen .  536 

Death  of  the  Virtuous .  618 

Life .  613 

Praise  to  God .  548 

BARHAM,  RICHARD  HARRIS  (b.  1788,  d.  1845). 

Mr.  Barney  Maguire’s  account  of  the  Corona¬ 
tion  .  956 

The  Execution .  941 

BARNARD,  LADY  ANNE  (b.  1750,  d.  1825). 

Auld  Robin  Gray .  137 

BARNEFIELD,  RICHARD  (b.  1574,  d.  1627). 

The  Nightingale .  480 

“  Whilst  as  fickle  Fortune  smiled  ” .  778 

BARRY,  MICHAEL  JOSEPH. 

The  Place  to  Die . 680 

BARTON,  BERNARD  (b.  1784,  d.  1849). 

Not  ours  the  Vows .  101 

“There  be  Those” .  617 

BAXTER,  RICHARD  (b.  1615,  d.  1691). 

Resignation .  566 

Valediction . 592 

BAYLY,  THOMAS  HAYNES  (b.  1797,  d.  1839). 

To  My  Wife .  9 

XXV 


XXVI 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 


BEATTIE,  JAMES  (b.  1735,  d.  1803). 

The  Hermit .  648 

BEATTIE,  WILLIAM  (b.  about  1797,  d.  1875). 

Evening  Hymn  of  the  Alpine  Shepherds .  552 

BEAUMONT,  FRANCIS  (b.  1586,  d.  1616). 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey .  504 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

Folding  the  Flocks .  495 

“  Look  out,  bright  eyes  ” .  184 

Song — “Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse” .  212 

“  Take,  oh  take,  those  lips  away  ” .  184 

The  Power  of  Love .  169 

To  Pan .  425 

BEAUMONT,  SIR  JOHN  fb.  1582,  d.  1628). 

On  my  Dear  Son,Gervase  Beaumont .  226 

BEDDOES,  THOMAS  LOVELL  (b.  1803,  d.  1849). 

How  Many  Times .  102 

BEDDOME,  BENJAMIN  (b.  1717,  d.  1795). 

Jesus  Wept .  535 

BEERS,  ETHEL  LYNN  (b.  1827,  d.  1879). 

All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac .  349 

Which  Shall  it  Be? .  45 

BEERS,  HENRY  AUGUSTIN  (b.  1847.) 

Cardamon .  404 

BENNETT,  HENRY. 

St.  Patrick  was  a  Gentleman .  924 

BENNETT,  WILLIAM  COX  (b.  1S20). 

Baby  May .  29 

BERKELEY,  GEORGE  (b.  1684,  d.  1753). 

On  the  Prospect  of  Planting  Arts  and  Learn¬ 
ing  in  America .  723 

BERNARD  DE  MORLAIX,  Monk  of  Cluny. 

The  Celestial  Country .  604 

BISHOP,  SAMUEL  (b.  1731,  d.  1795). 

To  Mary .  10 

BLACKSTONE,  SIR  WILLIAM  (b.  1723,  d.  1780). 

The  Lawyer’s  Farewell  to  his  Muse .  738 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM  (b.  1757,  d.  1827). 

Introduction  to  “Songs  of  Innocence” .  68 

On  Another’s  Sorrow .  589 

The  Little  Black  Boy .  37 

The  Tiger . . .  494 

BLAMIRE,  SUSANNA  (b.  1747,  d.  1794). 

The  Nabob .  93 

The  Siller  Croun .  147 

“What  ails  this  heart  o’  mine?” .  199 

BLANCHARD,  LAMAN  (b.  1803,  d.  1865). 

The  Mother’s  Hope .  52 

BOGART,  ELIZABETH. 

He  Came  too  Late .  102 

BOKER,  GEORGE  HENRY  (b.  1824). 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier .  279 

BONAR,  IIORATIUS  (b.  1808, <1.  1869). 

A  Little  While .  595 

The  Inner  Calm . 565 

BOOTH,  BARTON  (b.  1681,  d.  1733). 

“  Sweet  are  the  charms  ” .  154 

BOTTA,  ANNE  C.  LYNCH  (b.  about  1820). 

Thoughts  in  a  Library .  738 

BOURDILLON,  FRANCIS  W.  (b.  1852). 

Light .  180 


Page 


BOWLES,  WILLIAM  LISLE  (b.  1762,  d.  1850). 

Influence  of  Time  on  Grief. .  686 

On  the  Funeral  of  Charles  1 .  312 

Sonnet  on  a  Distant  View  of  England .  356 

The  Rhine .  518 

BOWRING,  SIR  JOHN  (b.  1792,  d.  1872). 

God  is  Love .  544 

“Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night” .  523 

BRADY,  NICHOLAS  (b.  1659,  d.  1726). 

Psalm  C .  545 

BRAINARD,  JOHN  GARDNER  CALKINS  (b. 
1796,  d.  1828). 

Epithalamium .  220 

Niagara .  520 

BREN  AN,  JOSEPH  (b.  1829,  d.  1857). 

The  Exile  to  his  Wife .  11 

BRETON,  NICHOLAS  (b.  1555,  d.  1624). 

A  Pastoral .  182 

Phillida  and  Corydon .  145 

The  Priest .  552 

BROOKS,  MARIA  (b.  1795,  d.  1845). 

Song — “Day  in  melting  purple  dying” .  170 

BROWN,  WILLIAM  GOLDSMITH. 

A  Hundred  Years  to  Come .  675 

BROWNE,  FRANCES  (b.  1816,  d.  1864). 

Is  it  Come? .  748 

“Oh,  the  pleasant  days  of  old  !” .  747 

BROWNE,  SIR  THOMAS  (b.  1605,  d.  1682). 

Evening  Hymn .  556 

BROWNE,  WILLIAM  (b.  1590,  d.  1645). 

“Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love?” .  123 

The  Welcome .  125 

BROWNELL,  HENRY  HOWARD*  (b.  1820,  d. 
1872). 

The  Lawyer’s  Invocation  to  Spring .  951 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  (b.  1809, 
d.  1861). 

A  Child’s  Thought  of  God .  44 

A  Court  Lady .  361 

A  Forced  Recruit  at  Solferino .  364 

A  Musical  Instrument .  723 

Cowper’s  Grave .  246 

Lady  Geraldine’s  Courtship .  104 

Mother  and  Poet .  26 

Romance  of  the  Swan’s  Nest .  47 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese — 

“  First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only 

kiss’d  ” .  135 

“How  do  I  love  thee?  let  me  count  the 

ways  ” .  135 

“If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  ex¬ 
change” .  135 

“If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for 

naught” .  134 

“  I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away  ” .  134 

“My  letters!  all  dead  paper, .  .  .  mute  and 

white  ” .  135 

“  Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again  ”  134 

The  Child  and  the  Watcher .  33 

The  Cry  of  the  Children .  63 

The  Lady’s  Yes .  138 

The  Sleep .  622 

BROWNING,  ROBERT  (b.  1812). 

Evelyn  Hope, 


196 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XXVll 


Page 


Herve  Riel .  319 

How  they  Brought  the  Good  News .  372 

lu  a  Year .  211 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp .  341 

Marching  Along .  310 

The  Lost  Leader . 263 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin .  851 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN  (b.  1794,  d.  1878). 

O  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids .  779 

Song  of  Marion’s  Men .  331 

Thanatopsis .  624 

The  Battle-Field .  676 

The  Crowded  Street .  647 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers .  456 

The  Evening  Wind .  442 

The  Hunter  of  the  Prairies .  494 

The  Living  Lost .  682 

The  Past .  91 

To  a  Water-Fowl .  471 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian .  455 

BRYDGES,  SIR  SAMUEL  EGERTON  (b.  1762,  d. 

1837). 

Sonnet — Echo  and  Silence .  502 

BUCHANAN,  ROBERT  (b.  1841). 

Hermione .  7 

Langley  Lane . 203 

Tom  Dunstan .  702 

BURNS,  ROBERT  (b.  1759,  d.  1796).  * 

Address  to  the  Toothache .  953 

A  Man’s  a  Man  for  a’  That .  704 

A  Red,  Red  Rose .  157 

Auld  Lang  Syne..t .  81 

Bannockburn .  295 

Bonnie  Lesley .  145 

Duncan  Gray .  144 

Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson .  247 

Farewell  to  Nancy .  154 

“Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton  ” .  515 

Highland  Mary .  120 

Jean — “Of  a’  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw” .  126 

Jessy— “  Here’s  a  health  to  ane  I  lo’e  dear”....  166 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo .  8 

Mary  Morison .  147 

“  My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  ” .  358 

Tam  O’Shanter .  873 

The  Banks  o’  Doon .  170 

The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night . .  3 

The  Winsome  Wee  Thing .  9 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy .  454 

To  a  Mouse .  483 

To  Mary  in  Heaven .  137 

BUTLER,  WILLIAM  ALLEN  (b.  1825). 

Nothing  to  Wear .  708 

BYRD,  WILLIAM  (b.  about  1540,  d.  1623). 

“ My  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is” .  737 

BYROM,  JOHN  (b.  1691,  d.  1763). 

A  Pastoral .  173 

Careless  Content .  660 

Christmas  Carol .  531 

Jacobite  Toast . 310 

BYRON,  GEORGE  GORDON  NOEL  BYRON, 
LORD  (b.  1788,  d.  1824). 

A  Very  Mournful  Ballad .  295 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib .  283 


Page 


Fare  thee  Wen .  15 

Girl  of  Cadiz .  146 

Maid  of  Atheus .  145 

“Oh,  snatched  away  in  beauty’s  bloom” .  743 

On  this  Day  I  Complete  my  Thirty-sixth  Year.  88 

Prisoner  of  Chillbn .  398 

“  She  walks  in  beauty  ” .  741 

Song  of  the  Greek  Poet .  360 

Stanzas — “And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and 

fair” .  742 

Stanzas — “Oh  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great 

in  story  ” .  157 

Stanzas  for  Music .  157 

The  Dream .  790 

“There’s  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give” .  656 

“  When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay” .  625 

“When  we  two  parted  ” . «6 

CAMPBELL,  THOMAS  (b.  1777,  d.  1844). 

Adelgitha .  145 

Battle  of  the  Baltic .  341 

Hallowed  Ground .  633 

Hohenlinden .  340 

Lochiel’s  Warning .  323 

Lord  Ullin’s  Daughter... .  381 

Men  of  England .  356 

O’Connor’s  Child .  395 

The  Exile  of  Erin .  359 

The  Last  Man . 643 

The  Soldier’s  Dream..  .  83 

To  the  Evening  Star .  447 

To  the  Rainbow .  444 

“Ye  mariners  of  England” .  356 

CANNING,  GEORGE  (b.  1770,  d.  1827). 

Epitaph  on  the  Tombstone  Erected  over  the 

Marquis  of  Anglesea’s  Leg .  948 

Song  by  Rogero,  in  “The  Rovers” .  935 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife- 
Grinder .  935 

CAREW,  THOMAS  (b.  1589,  d.  1639). 

“Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows” .  192 

Disdain  Returned .  180 

The  Airs  of  Spring .  431 

CAREY,  HENRY  (b.  about  1663,  d.  1743). 

God  Save  the  King .  355 

Sally  in  our  Alley .  120 

The  Maiden’s  Choice .  210 

CARY,  ALICE  (b.  1820,  d.  1870). 

Her  Last  Verses .  629 

CARY,  PHCEBE  (b.  1824,  d.  1871). 

Nearer  Home .  587 

CENNICK,  JOHN  (b.  1717,  d.  1755). 

“Children  of  the  heavenly  King” .  574 

CHALKIIILL,  JOHN  (b.  1600,  d.  1679). 

Praise  of  a  Country  Man’s  Life .  496 

The  Angler . .  468 

CHATTERTON,  THOMAS  (b.  1752,  d.  1770). 

Minstrel’s  Song  in  Aella .  147 

Resignation .  565 

CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY  (b.  about  1340,  d.  1400). 

Good  Counseil .  688 

CIBBER,  COLLEY  (b.  1671,  d.  1757). 

The  Blind  Boy .  67 


XXV111 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 

CLARE,  JOHN  (b.  1793,  d.  1864). 

His  Last  Verses .  618 

July .  432 

Sonnet — To  the  Glowworm .  483 

The  Laborer .  702 

The  Thrush’s  Nest . 476 

CLELAND,  WILLIAM  (b.  about  1661,  d.  1689). 

Hallo,  my  Fancy .  884 

CLEPHANE,  ELIZABETH  C. 

The  Ninety  and  Nine .  581 

CLOUGH,  ARTHUR  HUGH  (b.  1819,  d.  1861). 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus .  744 

The  Stream  of  Life .  614 

Where  Lies  the  Land .  466 

COFFIN,  ROBERT  BARRY  (b.  1826). 

Ships  at  Sea .  789 

COLERIDGE,  HARTLEY  (b.  1796,  d.  1849). 

Address  to  Certain  Gold-fishes .  469 

Night .  775 

“She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view” .  172 

Song — “  Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  merry  lark  ” .  472 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  (b.  1772,  d.  1834). 

Christabel .  841 

Cologne .  928 

Epigram .  959 

Fancy  in  Nubibus .  446 

France,  an  Ode .  333 

Genevieve .  155 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Cha- 

mouni .  518 

Kubla  Khan .  848 

Love .  100 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner .  855 

The  Devil’s  Thoughts .  917 

The  Good,  Great  Man .  662 

The  Knight’s  Tomb .  626 

Youth  and  Age .  94  | 

COLLINS,  JOHN  (18th  century). 

“  In  the  downhill  of  life  ” .  674 

COLLINS,  WILLIAM  (b.  1721,  d.  1759). 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline .  637 

Ode — “How  sleep  the  brave” .  363 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson .  244 

Ode  to  Evening .  440 

Ode  to  Fear .  776 

The  Passions .  730 

COLMAN,  GEORGE,  THE  YOUNGER  (b.  1762,  d. 

1836). 

Sir  Marmaduke .  784 

CONSTABLE,  HENRY  (b.  about  1560,  d.  1612). 

Sonnet — “To  live  in  hell,  and  heaven  to  be¬ 
hold” .  212 

COOK,  ELIZA  (b.  1817). 

The  Old  Arm-Chair .  73 

COOKE,  PHILIP  PENDLETON  (b.  1816,  d.  1850). 

Florence  Vane .  171 

COOKE,  ROSE  TERRY  (b.  1827). 

R6ve  du  Midi .  433 

CORBET,  RICHARD  (b.  1582,  d.  1635). 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies .  833 

To  Vincent  Corbet,  my  Son .  233 

COTTON,  CHARLES  (b.  1630,  d.  1687). 

Invitation  to  Izaak  Walton .  467 

The  Retirement .  495 


Page 


COTTON,  NATHANIEL  (b.  1721,  d.  1788). 

The  Fireside .  2 

COWLEY,  ABRAHAM  (b.  1618,  d.  1667). 

A  Supplication .  ]21 

Drinking .  446 

Epitaph  upon  a  Living  Author .  226 

Of  Myself. .  233 

COWPER,  WILLIAM  (b.  1731,  d.  1800). 

Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin .  929 

Joy  and  Peace  in  Believing .  573 

Light  Shining  out  of  Darkness .  543 

“  Lovest  thou  Me  ?” .  541 

On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother’s  Picture .  15 

Retirement .  582 

To  Mary . 245 

To  Mrs.  Unwin .  245 

Verses  supposed  to  be  Written  by  Alexander 

Selkirk .  679 

Walking  with  God .  564 

COXE,  ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  (b.  1818). 

Christmas  Carol .  530 

The  Chimes  of  England .  503 

The  Heart’s  Song .  575 

CRAIK,  DINAH  MARIA  MULOCK  (b.  1826). 

A  Lancashire  Doxology .  583 

Christmas  Carol .  533 

Now  and  Afterwards .  620 

Philip,  my  King .  30 

Too  Late .  17 


CRANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  PE  ARSE  (b.  1813). 

Stanzas — “  Thought  is  deep?r  than  all  speech  ”.  782 


CRASHAW,  RICHARD  (b.  about  1613,  d.  1650). 

Epitaph  upon  a  Husband  and  Wife .  635 

On  a  Prayer-Book .  586 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIII .  562 

Song — “To  thy  lover” .  126 

Wishes  for  the  Supposed  Mistress .  121 

CRAWFORD,  JULIA. 

We  Parted  in  Silence .  85 

CROLY,  GEORGE  (b.  1780,  d.  1860). 

Cupid  carrying  Provisions .  156 

Pericles  and  Aspasia .  289 

CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN  (b.  1784,  d.  1842). 

“  A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea  ” .  695 

“  Gane  were  but  the  winter  cauld  ” .  638 

It’s  Hame  and  it’s  Hame .  357 

Poet’s  Bridal-Day  Song .  18 

She’s  gane  to  Dwall  in  Heaven .  218 

The  Sun  rises  Bright  in  France .  358 

“  Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie”....  157 

DANA,  MARY  S.  B. 

Passing  Under  the  Rod .  589 

DANA,  RICHARD  HENRY  (b.  1787,  d.  1879). 

The  Little  Beach-Bird .  471 

DANIEL,  SAMUEL  (h.  1562,  d.  1619). 

“  Love  is  a  sickness  ” .  98 

Sonnet — Sleep .  776 

To  the  Lady  Margaret .  230 

DARLEY,  GEORGE  (b.  1785,  d.  1849). 

Gambols  of  Children .  53 

Song  of  the  Summer  Winds .  433 

The  Call .  178 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XXIX 


Page 

DARWIN,  ERASMUS  (b.  1731,  d.  1802). 

Song  to  May .  431 

DAVENANT,  SIR  WILLIAM  (b.  1605,  d.  1668). 

Song — “The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest”  472 


DAVIS,  FRANCIS. 

The  Fisherman’s  Song .  696 

DAVIS,  THOMAS  OSBORNE  (b.  1814,  d.  1845). 

Fontenoy .  321 

The  Welcome .  158 

DAVY,  SIR  HUMPHRY  (b.  1778,  d.  1829). 

The  Tempest . , .  462 

DE  CELANO,  THOMAS  (d.  1253). 

Dies  Irse .  609 

DEKKER,  THOMAS  (b.  about  1570,  d.  about  1641). 

A  Lullaby .  32 

Sweet  Content .  660 

DE  VERE,  AUBREY  THOMAS  (b.  1814). 

Sonnet — “  Sad  is  our  youth  ” .  614 

DIBDIN,  CHARLES  (b.  1745,  d.  1814). 

Nongtongpaw .  948 

Poor  Jack .  698 

The  High-Mettled  Racer .  488 

Tom  Bowling .  639 

DICKENS,  CHARLES  (b.  1812,  d.  1870). 

The  Ivy  Green .  456 

DICKINSON,  CHARLES  M. 

The  Children .  62 

DIMOND,  WILLIAM  (b.  1800,  d.  1837). 

The  Mariner’s  Dream .  696 

DIX,  JOHN  ADAMS  (b.  1798,  d.  1879). 

Translation  of  Dies  Irse .  611 

DOANE,  GEORGE  WASHINGTON  (b.  1799,  d. 

1859). 

Evening  Contemplation .  552 

DOBELL,  SYDNEY  (b.  1824,  d.  1874). 

How’s  my  Boy  ? .  67 

Tommy’s  Dead .  620 

DOBSON,  AUSTIN  (b.  1840). 

A  Virtuoso .  958 

To  Q.  H.  F .  921 

DODDRIDGE,  PHILIP  (b.  1702,  d.  1751). 

Dum  Vivimus,  Vivamus .  574 

For  New  Year’s  Day .  559 

“  Hark  !  the  glad  sound  ” .  533  | 

“  O  God  of  Bethel,  by  whose  hand  ” .  587 

“Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell” .  588 

DOMETT,  ALFRED  (b.  1811). 

A  Christmas  Hymn .  529 

DONNE,  JOHN  (b.  1573,  d.  1631). 

God .  565 

DORR,  JULIA  CAROLINE  (b.  1825). 

Twenty-One .  682 

DOTEN,  ELIZABETH  (b.  about  1829). 

Song  of  the  North .  421 

DOWLING,  BARTHOLOMEW. 

Battle  of  Fontenoy .  322 

Indian  Revelry .  787 

DOWNING,  MARY  (b.  1830). 

Grave  of  Macaura .  221 


Page 


DRAKE,  JOSEPH  RODMAN  (b.  1795,  d.  1820). 

Culprit  Fay .  810 

The  American  Flag .  353 

DRAYTON,  MICHAEL  (b.  1563,  d.  1631). 

Ballad  of  Agincourt .  298 

Sonnet — “Since  there’s  no  help,  come,  let  us 
kiss  and  part  ” .  170 

DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM  (b.  1585,  d.  1649). 

Beauty  Fades .  741 

Praise  of  a  Solitary  Life .  658 

Sonnet  —  “A  good  that  never  satisfies  the 

mind  ” .  656 

To  a  Nightingale . 477 

To  his  Lute .  734 

To  Spring .  4:15 

To  the  Nightingale .  478 

DRYDEN,  JOHN  (b.  1631,  d.  1700). 

“  Ah  !  how  sweet  it  is  to  love  ” .  97 

Alexander’s  Feast .  724 

Jealousy  the  Tyrant  of  the  Mind .  213 

Lines  Written  under  the  Picture  of  John 

Milton .  240 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia’s  Day .  726 

Veni  Creator .  543 

DUFFERIN,  HELEN  SELINA  SHERIDAN, 
LADY  (b.  1807,  d.  1867). 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant .  S6 

DWIGHT,  TIMOTHY  (b.  1752,  d.  1817). 

“I  love  Thy  kingdom,  Lord” .  574 

DYER,  JOHN  (b.  1700,  d.  1758). 

Grongar  Hill .  506 

EASTMAN,  CHARLES  GAMAGE  (b.  1816,  d.  1861). 

A  Picture .  6 

Dirge .  638 

ELLIOT,  SIR  GILBERT  (b.  1722,  d.  1777). 

Amynta .  200 

ELLIOT,  JANE  (b.  1727,  d.  1805). 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest . 306 

ELLIOTT,  CHARLOTTE  (b.  1789,  d.  1871). 

“  Just  as  I  am  ” .  568 

“  O  Thou,  the  contrite  sinner’s  friend  ” .  539 

Thy  Will  be  Done . 566 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO  (b.  1803,  d.  1882). 

Each  and  All .  707 

Good-Bye .  657 

The  Humble-Bee .  4S2 

The  Problem .  663 

The  Rhodora .  455 

To  Eva .  217 

Two  Rivers .  764 

EWEN,  JOHN  (b*.  1741,  d.  1821). 

The  Boatie  Rows .  701 

EYTINGE,  MARGARET. 

Baby  Louise .  29 

FABER,  FREDERICK  WILLIAM  (b.  1815, d.  1863). 

Evening  Hymn .  556 

Paradise .  601 

The  Pilgrims  of  the  Night .  600 

The  Right  must  Win .  572 

The  Will  of  God .  566 

FENNER,  CORNELIUS  GEORGE  (b.  1822,  d.  1847). 
Gulf-Weed .  463 


XXX 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 

FERGUSON,  SIR  SAMUEL  (b.  1810). 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor., .  693 

FIELDS,  JAMES  TICKNOR  (b.  1817,  d.  1881). 

Ballad  of  the  Tempest .  38 

The  Nantucket  Skipper .  927 

FINLEY,  JOHN  (b.  1797,  d.  1866). 

Bachelor’s  Hall .  960 

FLETCHER,  GILES  (b.  about  1582,  d.  unknown). 

Panglory’s  Wooing  Song .  98 

FLETCHER,  JOHN  (b.  1576,  d.  1625). 

Melancholia .  656 

Weep  no  More .  786 

FLETCHER,  PHINEAS  (b.  about  1584,  d.  about 

1650). 

Ilymn .  544 

FLOWERDEW,  ANNE. 

“Fountain  of  mercy!  God  of  love!” .  563 

FORD,  JOHN  (b.  1586,  d.  1639). 

Love  and  Death .  203 

FOSTER,  STEPHEN  COLLINS  (b.  1826,  d.  1864). 

Old  Folks  at  Home .  18 

GALL,  RICHARD  (b.  1766,  d.  1801). 

My  only  Jo  and  Dearie,  0 .  202 

GAT",  JOHN  (b.  1688,  d.  1732). 

Sweet  William’s  Farewell  to  Black-Eyed  Susan.  119 
“’Twas  when  the  seas  were  roaring” .  125 

GIBBONS,  THOMAS  (b.  1720,  d.  1785). 

Thy  Goodness,  Lord,  our  Souls  Confess .  562 

GILBERT,  WILLIAM  SCHWENCK  (b.  1836). 

Captain  Reece .  954 

Etiquette .  925 

The  Bumboat  Woman’s  Story .  894 

Yarn  of  the  Nancy  Bell .  910 

GILFILLAN,  ROBERT  (b.  1798.  d.  1850). 

The  Exile’s  Song .  362 

GILMAN,  CAROLINE  (b.  1794). 

The  Household  Woman .  24 

GLEN,  WILLIAM  (b.  1789,  d.  1826). 

“  Wae’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie  ” .  326 

GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER  (b.  1728,  d.  1774). 

Elegy  on  that  Glory  of  her  Sex,  Mrs.  Mary 

Blaize .  912 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog .  928 

Stanzas — “When  lovely  woman  stoops  to 

folly  ” .  687 

The  Deserted  Village .  756 

The  Hermit .  159 

The  Traveller . 767 

“  The  wretch  condemned  with  life  to  part  ” .  785 

GRAHAM,  JAMES,  Marquis  of  Montrose  (b. 

1612,  d.  1650). 

“  My  dear  and  only  love  ” .  193 

GRAHAM,  ROBERT,  of  Gartmore  (b.  1750,  d. 
1797;. 

“  Tell  me  how  to  woo  thee  ” .  161 

GRANT,  ANNE  (b.  1755,  d.  1838). 

On  a  Sprig  of  Heath . 447 

GRANT,  SIR  ROBERT  (b.  1785,  d.  1838). 

Litqny .  539 

“  When  gathering  clouds  around  I  view  ” .  569 


Page 

GRAY,  THOMAS  (b.  1716,  d.  1771). 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard .  630 

Hymn — To  Adversity .  777 

Ode — On  the  Spring .  427 

On  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College .  504 

The  Bard .  293 

The  Progress  of  Poesy .  728 

GREENE,  ALBERT  G.  (b.  1802,  d.  1868). 

Old  Grimes .  912 

The  Baron’s  Last  Banquet .  .  621 

GREENE,  ROBERT  (b.  about  1560,  d.  1592). 

Sonnet— Content . .'. .  660 

The  Shepherd’s  Wife’s  Song .  142 

GRINFIELD,  THOMAS  (b.  17SS). 

How  Kindly  Hast  Thou  Led  Me! .  570 

i  _ 

GURNEY,  ARCHER  THOMPSON  (b.  1820). 

Come,  ye  Lofty .  530 

HABINGTON,  WILLIAM  (b.  1605,  d.  1645). 

Castara .  179 

Night .  775 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE  (b.  1790,  d.  1867). 

Alnwick  Castle .  513 

Burns . ; .  249 

Marco  Bozzaris .  347 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake .  253 

HALPINE,  CHARLES  G.  (b.  1829,  d.  1868). 

The  Trooper  to  his  Mare .  493 

HAMILTON,  ELIZABETH  (b.  1758,  d.  1816). 

My  Ain  Fireside . , .  1 

HAMILTON,  WILLIAM  (of  Bangour),  (b.  1704, 
d.  1754). 

The  Braes  of  Yarrow .  332 

HARRINGTON,  JOHN  (b.  1534,  d.  1582). 

Lines  on  Isabella  Markham .  124 

HARTE,  FRANCIS  BRET  (b.  1839). 

Dickens  in  Camp .  282 

Fate .  785 

Her  Letter .  207 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James .  933 

The  Dead  Politician .  704 

The  Society  upon  the  Stanislow .  944 

HASTINGS,  THOMAS  (b.  1784,  d.  1S72). 

In  Sorrow .  543 

HAWEIS,  THOMAS  (b.  1732,  d.  1820). 

“O  Thou  from  whom  all  goodness  flows” .  584 

HAYNE,  PAUL  HAMILTON  (b.  1831). 

By  the  Autumn  Sea . .  466 

Pre-Existence .  783 

HEBER,  REGINALD  (b.  1783,  d.  1826). 

Early  Piety . 575 

Epiphany .  .  534 

Lines  Written  to  his  Wife .  S 

Missionary  Hymn .  580 

Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  a  Friend .  594 

The  Holy  Trinity .  546 

HEMANS,  FELICIA  DOROTHEA  BROWNE  (b. 

1794,  d.  1835). 

Casabianca . ! .  345 

The  Better  Laud .  598 

The  Graves  of  a  Household .  28 

The  Homes  of  England .  1 

The  Hour  of  Death .  330 

The  Hour  of  Prayer .  564 


INDEX 


p. 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers . 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep . 

HERBERT,  GEORGE  (b.  1593,  d.  1633). 

Complaining . 

Life . 

Sunday . 

The  Elixir . 

The  Flower . 

The  Pulley . 

Virtue . 

HERRICK,  ROBERT  (b.  1591,  d.  1674). 

A  Thanksgiving  to  God  for  His  House . 

Cherry  Ripe . . . 

Corinna’s  going  a-Maying . 

Delight  in  Disorder . 

The  Captive  Bee . 

The  Hag . 

The  Night  Piece . 

The  Primrose . 

To  Blossoms . 

To  Daffodils . 

To  Dianeme . 

To  Keep  a  True  Lent . 

To  Primroses  filled  with  Morning  Dew . 

To  Virgins,  to  make  much  of  Time . 

HEYWOOD,  THOMAS  (d.  about  1640). 

Good-Morrow  Song . 

Go,  Pretty  Birds . 

HINDS,  SAMUEL  (b.  1793,  d.  1872). 

“  Lord,  shall  Thy  children  come  to  Thee  ” . 

The  Sleeping  Babe . 

HOBART,  MRS.  CHARLES. 

The  Changed  Cross . 

HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FENNO  (b.  1806). 

Monterey., . 

HOGG,  JAMES  (b.  1770,  d.  1835). 

Abbot  M’Kinnon . 

Bonnie  Prince  Charlie . 

Charlie  is  my  Darling . 

“  I  hae  naebody  now  ” . 

Kilmenv . . 

The  Skylark . 

When  Maggie  gangs  away . 

When  the  Kye  comes  Hame . 

HOLCROFT,  THOMAS  (b.  1744,  d.  1809). 

Gaffer  Gray . . . 

HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  GILBERT  (b.  1819,  d.  1881). 
The  Heart  of  the  War . 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL  (b.  1809). 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl . 

The  Boys . 

The  Chambered  Nautilus . 

The  Deacon’s  Masterpiece . 

The  Last  Leaf . 

The  Old  Man  Dreams . 

The  Ploughman . 

The  Voiceless . 

HOOD,  THOMAS  (b.  1798,  d.  1845). 

Art  of  Book-Keeping . 

Dream  of  Eugene  Aram . : . 

Epicurean  Reminiscences  of  a  Sentimentalist. 

Fair  Ines . 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray . . 

Faithless  Sally  Brown . 


AUTHORS.  xxxi 


Page 

“I  remember,  I  remember” .  73 

Nocturnal  Sketch .  959 

Ode  to  ray  Little  Sor .  903 

Ruth .  144 

Serenade .  903 

Stanzas — “  Farewell,  life” .  637 

The  Bachelor’s  Dream .  902 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs . .  719 

The  Death-bed . 62-5 

The  Haunted  House .  866 

The  Lady’s  Dream .  714 

The  Lost  Heir .  904 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt .  716 

To  a  Child  Embracing  his  Mother .  35 

HOW,  WILLIAM  WALSHAM  (b.  1823). 

Behold,  I  Stand  at  the  Door  and  Knock .  550 

HOWARD,  HENRY,  Earl  of  Surrey  (b.  1518, 
u.  1547). 

Description  of  Spring .  425 

Means  to  attain  Happy  Life .  616 

No  Age  content  with  his  Own  Estate .  657 

Praise  of  his  Love .  154 


Prisoned  in  Windsor,  he  Recounteth  his  Pleas¬ 


ure  there  Passed .  222 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD  (b.  1819). 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic .  354 

HOWELL,  ELIZABETH  LLOYD. 

Milton’s  Prayer  of  Patience .  235 

HOWITT,  MARY  (b.  1804). 

The  Fairies  of  the  Caldon  Low .  809 

The  Use  of  Flowers .  455 

HUNT,  JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  (b.  1784,  d.  1859). 

Abou  Ben  Adhem .  664 

An  Apgel  in  the  House .  743 

Chorus  of  the  Flowers .  449 

Cupid  Swallowed .  103 

Jenny  Kissed  me .  186 

Song  of  the  Fairies .  794 

The  Glove  and  the  Lions .  411 

TheNuu .  171 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket .  482 

To  T.  L.  H.,  Six  Years  Old,  during  a  Sickness..  36 

HUNTER,  ANNE  HOME  (b.  1742,  d.  1821). 

The  Lot  of  Thousands .  685 

INGELOW,  JEAN  (b.  1830). 

Song  of  Margaret . 195 

Songs  of  Seven .  19 

The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire...  415 

IRONS,  WILLIAM  JOSIAH  (b.  1812). 

Translation  of  Dies  Irse .  610 

JACKSON,  HELEN  HUNT,  b.  (1830). 

Coronation .  702 

JOHNSON,  SAMUEL  (b.  1709,  d.  1784). 

On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Levett .  245 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes .  649 

JONES,  SIR  WILLIAM  (b.  1746,  d.  1794). 

Ode — In  Imitation  of  Alcaeus .  363 

The  Babe  (translation) .  50 

JONSON,  BEN  (b.  1574,  d.  1637). 

Epigram  on  Sir  Francis  Drake .  225 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H .  233 

Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy .  232 

Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke .  233 


OF 

AGE 

308 

463 

585 

756 

560 

544 

579 

662 

662 

559 

214 

428 

740 

209 

875 

127 

214 

457 

453 

210 

587 

452 

123 

215 

162 

582 

45 

590 

348 

878 

326 

325 

83 

833 

473 

161 

167 

715 

365 

90 

.  80 

,  470 

932 

,  755 

899 

,  692 

626 

951 

,  375 

,  952 

102 

.  896 

,  897 


XXX11 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 


Lines  on  the  Portrait  of  Shakespeare .  230 

Ode — To  Himself .  225 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford .  233 

Song — “  Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  flies  you  ” .  124 

Song — “  Still  to  be  neat  ” .  740 

The  Triumph  of  Charis .  160 

To  Celia .  195 

To  Cynthia .  446 

To  the  Memory  of  my  Beloved  Master,  Wil¬ 
liam  Shakespeare .  228 

K  EATS,  JOHN  (b.  1795,  d.  1821). 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes .  127 

Fairy  Song .  793 

Fancy . 500 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci .  865 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern .  504 

Ode — “  Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth” .  740 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn .  746 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale .  478 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman’s  Homer .  739 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket .  482 

To  Autumn .  435 

“  To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent  ” .  499 

KEBLE,  JOHN  (b.  1792,  d.  1866). 

Evening  Hymn .  555 

Flowers .  448 

Morning  Hymn .  553 

KELLY,  THOMAS  (b.  1769,  d.  1855). 

“We  sing  the  praise  of  Him  who  died  ” .  535 

KEMBLE,  FRANCES  ANNE  (b.  1809). 

Absence . 101 

Faith .  679 

KEN,  THOMAS  (b.  1637,  d.  1711). 

Evening  Hymn .  555 

Midnight  Hymn .  557 

Morning  Hymn .  553 

KEY,  FRANCIS  SCOTT  fb.  1779,  d.  1843). 

Hymn — “  Lord,  with  glowing  heart  I’d  praise 

Thee” .  548 

Life .  577 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner.., .  353 

KING,  HENRY  (b.  1591,  d.  1669). 

Sic  Yita .  688 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES  (b.  1819,  d.  1875). 

A  Farewell .  72 

Dolcino  to  Margaret . 780 

Song  of  the  River .  461 

The  Last  Buccaneer .  419 

The  Sands  o’  Dee .  417 

The  Three  Fishers .  699 

KNOWLES,  HERBERT  (b.  1798,  d.  1817). 

Lines  written  in  Richmond  Churchyard,  York¬ 
shire  .  633 

KNOX,  ISA  CRAIG  (b.  1831). 

Ode  on  the  Centenary  of  Burns .  250 

KNOX,  WILLIAM  (b.  1789,  d.  1825). 

“  Oh  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be 
proud  ?” .  627 

LAIDLAW,  WILLIAM  (b.  1780,  d.  1845). 

Lucy’s  Flittin’ .  202 

LAMB,  CHARLES  (b.  1775,  d.  1834). 

Farewell  to  Tobacco .  919 

Hester .  741 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces . .  77 


Page 


LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE  (b.  1775,  d.  1864). 

Children .  36 

Sixteen .  214 

Ternissa .  196 

The  Maid’s  Lament .  141 

The  One  Gray  Hair .  751 

To  Ianthe . 213 

To  the  Sister  of  Elia .  273 

LAPRAIK,  JOHN  (b.  1717,  d.  1807). 

Matrimonial  Happiness .  7 

LARCOM,  LUCY  (b.  1826). 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes .  698 

LEIGH,  HENRY  S. 

The  Twins .  906 

L’ESTRANGE,  SIR  ROGER  (b.  1616,  d.  1704). 

Loyalty  Confined .  241 

LEWIS,  MATTHEW  GREGORY  (b.  1775,  d.  1818). 
Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair  Imogine .  871 

LEYDEN,  JOHN  (b.  1775,  d.  1811). 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin .  87 

The  Sabbath  Morning .  439 

To  the  Evening  Star .  447 

LIPPINCOTT,  SARA  JANE  (“Grace  Green¬ 
wood  ”),  (b.  1823). 

The  Horseback  Ride .  489 

LOCKER,  FREDERICK  (b.  1821). 

Old  Letters .  88 

Unfortunate  Miss  Bailey .  954 

LOCKHART,  JOHN  GIBSON  (b.  1794,  d.  1854). 

Napoleon .  268 

The  Bridal  of  Andalla  ( Translation ) .  209 

The  Broadswords  of  Scotland .  357 

The  Bull-Fight  of  Gazul  ( Translation ) .  408 

The  Lamentation  for  Celin  ( Translation ) .  373 

The  Lamentation  of  Don  Roderick  <  Transla¬ 
tion) .  290 

The  Lord  of  Butrago  ( Translation ) .  296 

The  Vengeance  of  Mudara  ( Translation ) .  292 

Zara’s  Ear-rings  ( Translation ) . 183 

LODGE,  THOMAS  (b.  about  1556,  d.  1625). 

Rosader’s  Sonetto .  156 

Rosalind’s  Madrigal .  98 

Rosaline .  123 

LOGAN,  JOHN  (b.  1748,  d.  1788). 

Heavenly  Wisdom .  575 

“O  God  of  Bethel,  by  whose  hand” .  587 

The  Braes  of  Yarrow .  384 

To  the  Cuckoo .  481 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH  (b. 
1807,  d.  1882). 

Excelsior .  785 

Flowers . . .  448 

Footsteps  of  Angels .  773 

Maidenhood .  66 

Old  St.  David’s  at  Radnor .  522 

Paul  Revere’s  Ride .  329 

Psalm  of  Life .  615 

Resignation .  646 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield .  521 

The  Children’s  Hour .  45 

The  Day  is  Done .  774 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine . 679 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


xxxm 


Page 


The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs . 76 

The  Rainy  Day .  775 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor .  864 

The  Village  Blacksmith .  693 

OVELACE,  RICHARD  (b.  1618,  d.  1658). 

To  Althea,  from  Prison .  124 

To  Lucasta,  on  going  beyond  the  Seas .  125 

*To  Lucasta,  on  going  to  the  Wars . .* .  124 

LOVER,  SAMUEL  (b.  1797,  d.  1868). 

Rory  O’More .  165 

The  Angels’  Whisper .  33 

The  Birth  of  St.  Patrick .  943 

The  Low-Backed  Car .  165 

LOWELL,  MARIA  WHITE  (b.  1821,  d.  1853). 

The  Alpine  Sheep .  638 

The  Morning  Glory . .  49 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL  (b.  1819). 

Auf  Wiedersehen .  217 

My  Love .  208 

The  Courtin’ . 891 

The  First  Snowfall .  437 

The  Heritage .  705 

The  Present  Crisis .  343 

What  Mr.  Robinson  Thinks .  922 

Without  and  Within .  707 

LYLY,  JOHN  (b.  1553,  d.  about  1600). 

Cupid  and  Campaspe .  99 

Song  of  the  Fairies .  793 

The  Songs  of  Birds. . .  480 

LYTE,  HENRY  FRANCIS  (b.  1793,  d.  1847). 

Abide  with  Me .  557 

“Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken” .  539 

“  Long  did  I  toil  ” .  569 

Psalm  LXXXIV .  600 

LYTLE,  WILLIAM  HAINES  (b.  1826,  d.  1863). 

Antony  and  Cleopatra .  290 

LYTTON,  EDWARD  GEORGE  EARLE  BUL- 
WER  (Lord  Lytton),  (b.  1805,  d.  1873). 

“  When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies  ” .  218 

LYTTON,  EDWARD  ROBERT  BULWER  (Lord 
Lytton),  (“  Owen  Meredith  ”),  (b.  1831). 

Aux  Italiens .  180 

The  Chess-Board .  85 

The  Portrait .  199 

MACAULAY,  THOMAS  BABINGTON  (b.  1800, 
d.  1859). 

Iloratius .  283 

Ivry .  307 

Lines  Written  on  the  Night  of  the  30th  of 

July,  1847 .  273 

Naseby .  311 

MACDONALD,  GEORGE  (b.  1824). 

“  Where  did  you  come  from?” .  31 

MACE,  FRANCES  LAUGHTON  (b.  1836). 

Only  Waiting .  639 

MACKAY,  CHARLES  (b.  1814). 

Differences .  705 

“I  lay  in  sorrow,  deep  distressed ” .  687 

I  Love  my  Love .  146 

The  Child  and  the  Mourners .  55 

The  Good  Time  Coming .  750 

The  Sailor’s  Wife .  25 

C 


Page 

MACLEAN,  LjETITIA  ELIZABETH  LANDON 


(“L.  E.  L.”),  (b.  1802,  d.  1838). 

Crescentius .  292 

The  Awakening  of  Endymion .  172 

MACNEILL,  HECTOR  (b.  1746,  d.  1818). 

Mary  of  Castle  Cary .  164 

MAGINN,  WILLIAM  (b.  1793,  d.  1842). 

The  Irishman .  896 

MAHONY,  FRANCIS  (“Father  Prout”),  (b. 
about  1805,  d.  1866). 

Malbrouck  ( Translation ) .  948 

The  Bells  of  Shandon .  516 

MALLET,  DAVID  (b.  1700,  d,  1765). 

William  and  Margaret . 175 

MANT,  RICHARD  (b.  1776,  d.  1848), 

“There  is  a  dwelling-place  above”,., .  599 

MARLOWE,  CHRISTOPHER  (b.  1564,  d.  1593). 

The  Milkmaid’s  Song..,., .  140 

MARVELL,  ANDREW  (b.  1620,  d.  1678), 

An  Horatian  Ode . 238 

The  Emigrants  in  the  Bermudas .  549 

The  Nymph  Complaining  for  the  Death  of  her 

Fawn .  501 

The  Picture  of  T.  C.  in  a  Prospect  of  Flowers.  240 
Thoughts  in  a  Garden . 497 

MAYNE,  JOHN  (b.  1761,  d.  1830). 

Helen  of  Kirkconnell .  403 

McCarthy,  denis  Florence  (b.i8i7,d.i882). 
Summer  Longings .  429 

McMASTER,  GUY  HUMPHREY  (b.  1829). 

Carmen  Bellicosum .  33 

MENTEATH,  MRS.  A.  STUART. 

James  Melville’s  Child .  43 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE  (b.  1828). 

Love  in  the  Valley., .  142 

MERRICK,  JAMES  (b.  1720,  d.  1769). 

The  Chameleon . 686 

* 

MESSINGER,  ROBERT  HINCKLEY  (b.  1811,  d. 

1874).  ■ 

Give  me  the  Old .  743 

MICKLE  WILLIAM  JULIUS  (b.  1734,  d.  1788). 

Cum  nor  Hall .  379 

MILLER,  WILLIAM  (b.  1810,  d.  1872). 

The  Wonderfu’  Wean .  42 

Willie  Winkie.... .  41 

MILLIKEN,  RICHARD  ALFRED  (b.  1757,  d. 
1815), 

The  Groves  of  Blarney .  516 

MILMAN,  HENRY  HART  (b.  1791,  d.  1868). 

“Bound  upon  tlx’  accursbd  tree” . .• .  535 

Bridal  Song .  220 

Burial  Hymn .  595 

Christ  Crucified .  534 

“  When  our  heads  are  bowed  with  woe” .  582 

MILNES,  RICHARD  MONCKTON  (Baron  Hough¬ 
ton),  (b.  1809). 

TheBrookside .  169 

The  Long  Ago .  749 

The  Men  of  Old....  .  747 


XXXI V 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 

MILTON,  JOHN  (b.  1608,  d.  1674). 

Comus :  A  Mask .  818 

Epitaph  on  Shakespeare .  230 

II  Penseroso . ' .  735 

L’Allegro .  733 

Lycidas . 235 

On  the  Morning  of  Christ’s  Nativity. .  523 

Song — On  May  Morning .  427 

Sonnet — On  his  being  Arrived  to  the  Age  of 

Twenty-three .  226 

Sonnet — On  his  Blindness .  234 

Sonnet — On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont...  313 

Sonnet — To  Cyriac  Skinner .  234 

Sonnet — To  the  Lady  Margaret  Ley .  235 

Sonnet — To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell .  234 

Sonnet — To  the  Nightingale .  478 

Sonnet— When  the  Assault  was  Intended  to 
the  City .  313 

MOIR,  DAVID  MACBETH  (b.  1798,  d.  1851). 

Casa  Wappy .  39 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES  (b.  1771,  d.  1S54). 

“For  ever  with  the  Lord” .  597 

“Friend  after  friend  departs  ” .  638 

Gethsemane .  534 

Make  Way  for  Liberty .  297 

Night .  687 

Psalm  LXXII .  537 

“Songs  of  praise  the  angels  sang” .  588 

The  Common  Lob .  618 

The  Grave .  641 

The  Stranger  and  his  Friend .  541 

“To  Thy  temple  I  repair” .  561 

“What  are  these  in  bright  array” .  598 

What  is  Prayer? . ...  563 

MOORE,  CLARA  JESSUP. 

The  Web  of  Life .  617 

MOORE,  CLEMENT  C.  (b.  1779,  d.  1863). 

The  Night  before  Christmas .  67 


MOORE,  EDWARD  (b.  1712,  d.  1757). 

The  Happy  Marriage .  2 

MOORE,  THOMAS  (b.  1779,  d.  1852). 

“As  by  the  shore  at  break  of  day  ” .  363 

“Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young 

charms” .  162 

Canadian  Boat-Song .  735 

“ Come  rest  in  this  bosom” .  147 

“Farewell!  but  whenever  you  welcome  the 

hour  ” .  85 

Farewell  to  thee,  Araby’s  Daughter .  781 

“Go  where  glory  waits  thee ” .  95 

“  Has  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded  ” .  742 

“I  knew  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully 

curled” .  763 

“  Oft  in  the  stilly  night  ” .  77 

“Oh  breathe  not  his  name” .  252 

“  Oh  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own  ”.  194 

“She  is  far  from  the  land” .  275 

“Sound  the  loud  timbrel  ” .  550 

Sweet  Innisfallen .  517 

“  The  harp  that  once  through  Tara’s  halls  ”....  362 

The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp .  422 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters .  517 

The  Young  May  Moon . 162 

Those  Evening  Bells .  764 

“Thou  art,  O  God ” .  551 


Page 


“  ’Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer  ” .  456 

“To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain  ” .  182 

MORRIS,  GEORGE  P.  (b.  1802,  d.  1864). 

“  Woodman,  spare  that  tree  ” .  75 

MOSS,  THOMAS  (b.  1740,  d.  1S08). 

The  Beggar’s  Petition .  717 

MOTHERWELL,  WILLIAM  (b.  1797,  d.  1835).  « 

Cavalier’s  Song .  311 

Covenanters’  Battle-Chant .  310 

Jeanie  Morrison .  118 

“They  come  !  the  merry  summer  months” .  430 

MOULTRIE,  JOHN  (b.  1799,  d.  1874). 

“  Here’s  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie  ” .  214 

The  Three  Sons .  50 

MUHLENBERG,  WILLIAM  AUGUSTUS  (b.  1793, 
d.  1877). 

“I  would  not  live  alway” .  593 

“Saviour,  who  Thy  flock  art  feeding” .  540 

“Shout  the  glad  tidings” .  533 

NAIRNE,  CAROLINA,  LADY  (b.  1766,  d.  1845). 

The  Laird  o’  Cockpen .  892 

The  Land  of  the  Leal .  636 

NASH,  THOMAS  (b.  about  1564,  d.  1604). 

Spring .  427 

NEALE,  HANNAH  LLOYD. 

The  Neglected  Call .  684 

NEALE,  JOHN  MASON  (b.  1818,  d.  1866). 

“  Art  thou  weary  ?”  ( Translation) .  577 

The  Celestial  Country  “  .  604 

NEWMAN,  JOHN  HENRY  (b.  1801). 

Lead,  Kindly  Light .  569 

NEWTON,  JOHN  (b.  1725,  d.  1807). 

“How  sweet  the  name  of  Jesus  sounds” .  541 

Psalm  LX  XXVI 1 .  598 

NICOLL,  ROBERT  (b.  1814,  d.  1837). 

“  We  are  brethren  a’  ” .  706 

NOEL,  THOMAS. 

The  Pauper’s  Drive .  722 

NORRIS,  JOHN  (b.  1657,  d.  1711). 

Superstition .  179 

NORTON,  CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  SARAH  (b. 
1808,  d.  1S77). 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine .  83 

Love  Not .  187 

The  Arab’s  Farewell  to  his  Horse .  492 

The  King  of  Denmark’s  Ride .  420 

O’BRIEN,  FITZ-JAMES  (b.  1829,  d.  1862). 

Kane .  276 

O’KEEFE,  JOHN  (b.  1747,  d.  1833). 

“  I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray  ” .  910 

OLDYS,  WILLIAM  (b.  1696,  d.  1761). 

Song — “  Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly  ” .  483 

OLIVERS,  THOMAS  (b.  1725,  d.  1799). 

“  Lo  !  He  comes  with  clouds  descending” .  611 

“The  God  of  Abraham  praise” .  583 

OPIE,  AMELIA  (b.  1769,  d.  1853). 

Forget  me  Not .  94 

The  Orphan  Boy’s  Tale .  46 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XXXV 


Page 

OSGOOD,  FRANCES  SARGENT  (b.  1812,  d.  1850). 


Laborare  est  Orare .  691 

OSLER,  EDWARD. 

Praise .  601 

PALMER,  RAY  (b.  1808). 

“  My  faitli  looks  up  to  Thee” .  538 


Page 


Ode  on  Solitude .  755 

Prologue  to  Mr.  Addison’s  Tragedy  of  Cato....  242 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul .  59f» 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock .  795 

The  Universal  Prayer .  545 

POPE,  WALTER  (b.  about  1630,  d.  1714). 

The  Old  Man’s  Wish .  754 


PALMER,  WILLIAM  PITT  (b.  1805  . 

The  Smack  in  School .  923 

PARKER,  MARTYN. 

Ye  Gentlemen  of  England .  701 

PARNELL,  THOMAS  (b.  1679,  d.  1717). 

Hymn  to  Contentment .  659 

The  Hermit .  666 

PARR,  HARRIET  T. 

“Hear  my  prayer,  O  heavenly  Father” .  564 

PARSONS,  THOMAS  WILLIAM  (b.  1819). 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante .  221 

The  Groomsman  to  the  Bridesmaid .  183 

PAYNE,  JOHN  HOWARD  (b.  1792,  d.  1852). 

Home,  Sweet  Home .  1 

PEELE,  GEORGE  (b.  about  1552,  d.  1598). 

The  Aged  Man-at-Arms .  751 


PRAED,  WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  (b.  1802,  d. 
1839). 

Charade — Camp-Bell .  264 

Quince .  911 

School  and  Schoolfellows .  79 

The  Vicar .  913 

PRENTICE,  GEORGE  DENISON  (b.  1802,  d.  1870). 

Sabbath  Evening .  441 

The  Closing  Year . ; .  95 

To  an  Absent  Wife .  14 

PRENTISS,  ELIZABETH. 

Cradle  Song  ( Translation ) .  32 

PRINGLE,  THOMAS  (b.  1789,  d.  1834). 

“  Afar  in  the  desert  ” .  490 

PRIOR,  MATTHEW  (b.  1664,  d.  1721). 

Epitaph  Extempore .  241 


PERCIVAL,  JAMES  GATES  (b.  1795,  d.  1856). 

It  is  Great  for  our  Country  to  Die . 

The  Coral  Grove . 

The  Reign  of  May . 

To  Seneca  Lake . 

PERCY,  THOMAS  (b.  1728,  d.  1811). 

“O  Nanny,  wilt  thou  go  with  me” . 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray . 

PERRONET,  EDWARD  (d.  1792). 

Coronation . 

PERRY,  NORA. 

After  the  Ball . 

The  Love-Knot . 

PHILIPS,  AMBROSE  (b.  1671,  d.  1749). 

Fragrpent  from  Sappho . 

To  Charlotte  Pulteney . 

PIATT,  JOHN  JAMES  (b.  1835). 

The  Morning  Street . 

PIERPONT,  JOHN  (b.  1785,  d.  1866). 

My  Child . 

Not  on  the  Battle-Field . 

Passing  Away . 

Warren’s  Address.... . 

PIKE,  ALBERT  (b.  1809). 

Hymn  to  Neptune .  . 


365 

464 

432 

521 

161 

117 


536 


786 

217 


192 

35 


48  i 
677  j 

628  j 

329  j 
887 


PINKNEY,  EDWARD  COATE  (b.  1802,  d.  1828). 

A  Health .  178 

PIOZZI,  HESTER  LYNCH  TIIRALE  (b.  1739,  d. 
1821). 

The  Three  Warnings .  019 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN  (b.  1809,  d.  1849). 

Annabel  Lee. . . . 410 

The  Bells... 

The  Haunted  Palace. . . S71 

The  Raven. .  849 

POPE,  ALEXANDER  (b.  1688,  d.  1744). 

Elegy  to  the  Memory  of  an-Unfortunate  Lady.  635 

Messiah .  527 

Ode  on  St.  Cecilia’s  Day .  727 


PROCTER,  ADELAIDE  ANNE  (b.  1825,  d.  1864). 

A  Doubting  Heart .  684 

A  Dream . „ .  774 

A  Woman’s  Answer .  188 

A  Woman’s  Question .  187 

One  by  One .  683 

Per  Pacem  ad  Lucem .  537 

PROCTER,  BRYAN  WALLER  (b.  1787,  d.  1874). 

Golden-tressed  Adelaide .  39 

Life .  615 

Petition  to  Time .  .  751 

The  Blood  Horse .  488 

The  Pearl-Wearer .  700 

The  Poet’s  Song  to  his  Wife .  14 

The  Sea . .’. .  462 

The  Stormy  Petrel . 470 

QUARLES,  FRANCIS  (b.  1592,  d.  1644). 

Delight  in  God  only .  576 

Shortness  of  Life .  615 

Vanity  of  the  World .  ... .  654 

RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER  (b.  1552,  d.  1618). 

A  Vision  upon  this  Conceit  of  the  Faerie 

Queene .  739 

Epitaph  upon  Sir  Philip  Sidney .  227 

Lines  written  the  Night  before  his  Execution.  230 

The  Lie .  655 

The  Milkmaid’s  Mother’s  Answer .  140 

The  Pilgrimage .  578 

The  Silent  Lover .  182 

RAMSAY,  ALLAN  (b.  1686,  d.  1758). 

“At  setting  day  and  rising  morn” .  195 

Lochaber  no  More .  195 

The  Lass  of  Patie’s  Mill .  155 

RANDOLPH,  THOMAS  (b.  1605,  d.  1634). 

To  my  Picture . 755 

RANKIN,  J.  E. 

The  Babie .  41 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  (b.  1822,  d.  1872). 

Drifting .  465 

Sheridan’s  Ride .  351 

The  Closing  Scene . 640 

The  Stranger  on  the  Sill . 75 


XXXVI 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 


ROBINSON,  ROBERT  (b.  1735,  d.  1790). 

“Come,  Thou  Fount  of  every  blessing” .  585 

ROGERS,  SAMUEL  (b.  1768,  d.  1855). 

An  Italian  Song .  498 

A  Wish .  6 

Ginevra .  406 

To  the  Butterfly .  .  482 

ROSCOE,  WILLIAM  (b.  1753,  d.  1831). 

Sonnet — On  Parting  with  his  Books .  784 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  (b.  1830). 

Maude  Clare . . .  188 

Peal  of  Bells .  764 

Up-Hill .  578 

Weary . 591 

ROSSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL  (b.  1828,  d.  1882). 

Sister  Helen . i . . . .  875 

The  Blessed  Damozel..... . . .  839 

The  Sea  Limits .  462 

SANDS,  ROBERT  C.  (b.  1799,  d.  1832). 

Good-Night . 618 

SARGENT,  EPES  (b.  1812,  d.  1880). 

A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave . . .  695 

SAXE,  JOHN  GODFREY  (b.  1816). 

“I’m  growing  old  ” . 751 

Reflective  Retrospect .  79 

The  Briefless  Barrister . •. .  920 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER  (b.  1771,  d.  1832). 

Alice  Brand . 838 

Allen-a-Dale .  186 

Boat-Song — “Hail  to  the  chief” .  364 

Bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee .  316 

Border  Ballad .  358 

Coronach .  625 

Hellvellyn .  514 

Jock  of  Hazeldean .  134 

Loehinvar .  136 

Paraphrase  of  Dies  I rse .  610 

Pibroch  Of  Donuil  Dbu .  359 

“  Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood  ” .  890 

Rebecca’s  Hymn .  550 

Rosabelle .  408 

Serenade .  189 

“Soldier,  rest” .  700 

“The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed  ” .  186 

The  Outlaw .  176 

“  Where  shall  the  lover  rest  ” .  176 

SEAGRAVE,  ROBERT  (b.  1693,  d.  unknown). 

“  Rise,  my  soul,  and  stretch  thy  wings  ” .  570 

SEARS,  EDMUND  HAMILTON  (b.  1810,  d.  1876). 

“  It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear” .  532 

SEDLEY,  SIR  CHARLES  (b.  1639,  d.  1701). 

“  Love  still  hath  something  of  the  sea” .  99 

To  a  Very  Young  Lady .  189 

SEW  ALL,  HARRIET  WINSLOW  (b.  1819). 

Why  thus  Longing .  766 

SEWELL,  GEORGE  (d.  1726). 

The  Dying  Man  in  his  Garden .  637 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM  (b.  1564,  d.  1016). 

Ariel’s  Songs  in  “  The  Tempest  ” .  794 

“Come  unto  these  yellow  sands.” 

“  Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies.” 

“  Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I.” 

“ Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind” .  438 


Page 


“Come  away,  come  away,  Death  ” .  197 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth .  756 

Dirge  from  “Cymbeline” .  637 

^  Influence  of  Music .  732 

Morning .  439 

“  On  a  day — alack  the  day  ” .  141 

“  Over  hill,  over  dale  ” .  794 

“  Sigh  no  more,  ladies  ” .  187 

Song — “Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  bred” . .  838 

Song — “Under  the  greenwood  tree” .  457 

Sonnet — “  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have 

I  seen  ” .  439 

Sonnet — “  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true 

minds  ” .  218 

Sonnet — “  Like  as  the  waves  make  toward  the 

pebbled  shore” .  753 

Sonnet — “  No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am 

dead  ” .  219 

Sonnet — “Not  marble  nor  the  gilded  monu¬ 
ments” .  752 

Sonnet — “Oh,  how  much  more  doth  beauty 

beauteous  seem  ” .  753 

Sonnet — “Poor  Soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful 

earth” . 753 

Sonnet — “  Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer’s 

day?” .  220 

Sonnet — “  That  time  of  year  thou  may’st  in 

me  behold  ” .  219 

Sonnet — “They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and 

will  do  none  ” .  754 

Sonnet — “Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful 

death  I  cry  ” .  219 

Sonnet — “To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can 

be  old  ” .  752 

Sonnet — “  When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells 

the  time  ” .  752 

Sonnet— “When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and 

men’s  eyes” .  219 

Sonnet — “When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted 

time” .  220 

Sonnet— “When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  si¬ 
lent  thought” .  753 

Sweet-and-Twenty .  163 

“  When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall  ” .  438 

Who  is  Sylvia? .  217 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE  (b.  1792,  d.  1822). 

Adonais . 253 

A  Lament .  766 

Arethusa .  460 

Autumn,  a  Dirge .  436 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air .  103 

Love’s  Philosophy  .  97 

“Music  when  soft  voices  die” .  185 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind .  436 

“  One  word  is  too  often  profaned  ” .  148 

Song — “Rarely,  rarely  comest  thou  ” .  779 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples .  261 

The  Cloud .  444 

The  Invitation .  499 

The  Question .  459 

To  a  Skylark .  474 

To  Night .  442 

To  the  Moon .  446 

With  a  Guitar — To  Jane .  732 

8HENSTONE,  WILLIAM  (b.  1714,  d.  1763). 

Pastoral  Ballad .  205 

The  Schoolmistress . 57 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS, 


XXXVII 


Page 

SHIRLEY,  JAMES  (b.  1596,  d.  1666). 

Death’s  Final  Conquest .  623 

The  Last  Conqueror .  623 

SHIRLEY,  WALTER  (b.  1725,  d.  1786). 

“Lord,  dismiss  us  with  Thy  blessing” .  612 

SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP  (b.  1554,  d.  1586). 

A  Ditty .  127 

Sonnet — “Because  I  oft  in  dark  abstraeted 

guise  ” .  781 

Sonnet — “  Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand, 

nay  lance” .  192 

Sonnet — “0  happy  Thames,  that  didst  my 

Stella  bear” .  191 

Sonnet— On  Sleep .  776 

Sonnet — To  the  Moon .  118 

SIGOURNEY,  LYDIA  HUNTLEY  (b.  1791,  d.  1865). 

Indian  Names .  520 

The  Early  Blue-Bird .  475 

The  Return  of  Napoleon  from  St.  Helena .  268 

SKELTON,  JOHN  (b.  about  1460,  d.  1529). 

To  Mistress  Margaret  Hussey .  225 

SMITH,  CHARLOTTE  (b.  1749,  d.  1806). 

On  the  Departure  of  the  Nightingale .  480 

SMITH,  HORACE  (b.  1779,  d.  1849). 

Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Belzoni's  Exhibit  ion.  744 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers .  451 

Tale  of  Drury  Lane .  936 

The  Contrast .  342 

SMITH,  JAMES  (b.  1775,  d.  1839). 

The  Baby’s  Debut .  940 

The  Theatre .  938 

SMITH,  SAMUEL  FRANCIS  (b.  1808). 

America .  354 

SMITH,  SYDNEY  (b.  1771,  d.  1845). 

Parody  on  Pope .  923 

Recipe  for  Salad .  959 

SMOLLETT,  TOBIAS  GEORGE  (b.  1721,  d.  1771). 

Ode  to  Leven  Water .  515 

The  Tears  of  Scotland .  327 

SOUTHEY,  CAROLINE  ANNE  BOWLES  (b.  1787, 
d.  1854). 

Once  upon  a  Time .  93 

The  Pauper’s  Death-bed .  721 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT  (b.  1774,  d.  1843). 

Battle  of  Blenheim .  677 

Cataract  of  Lodore .  508 

Complaints  of  the  Poor .  714 

God’s  Judgment  on  a  Wilted  Bishop .  409 

History .  352 

Inchcape  Rock .  378 

“  My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed  ” .  737 

The  Holly  Tree .  458 

The  March  to  Moscow .  919 

The  Old  Man’s  Comforts . 674 

Well  of  St.  Keyne .  898 

SOUTHWELL,  ROBERT  (b.  1560,  d.  1595). 

Times  go  by  Turns .  778 

SPENCER,  PETER. 

A  Thought  among  the  Roses .  456 

SPENCER,  WILLIAM  ROBERT  (b.  1770,  d.  1834). 
Beth-Gelert .  392 


Page 

Stanzas — “When  midnight  o’er  the  moonless 


skies” .  94 

To  Lady  Anne  Hamilton .  779 

SPENSER,  EDMUND  (b.  1552,  d.  1599). 

Sonnet — “Like  as  the  culver  on  the  bared 

bough” .  190 

Sonnet — “Since  I  did  leave  the  presence  of 

my  love” .  190 

Sonnet — “Sweet  is  the  rose,  but  grows  upon  a 

brere  ” .  7S0 

Sonnet — “The  doubt  which  ye  misdeem,  fair 
love,  is  vain  ” .  101 

SPRAGUE,  CHARLES  (b.  1791,  d.  1875). 

The  Family  Meeting .  17 

STARK, 

Modern  Belle .  922 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE  (b.  1833). 

Cavalry  Song .  .  366 

Pan  in  Wall  Street .  886 

Toujours  Amour .  163 

STERLING,  JOHN  (b.  1806,  d.  1844). 

Louis  XY .  328 

STILL,  JOHN  (b.  1543,  d.  1607). 

Jolly  Good  Ale  and  Old . .  917 

STODDARD,  RICHARD  HENRY  (b.  1825). 

Never  Again .  764 

“The  house  is  dark  and  dreary” .  785 

Without  and  Within .  12 

STODDART,  THOMAS  TOD  (b.  1810). 

Angler’s  Trysting  Tree .  469 

STORY,  WILLIAM  WETMORE  (b.  1819). 

At  Dieppe .  518 

Praxiteles  and  Phryne .  784 

The  Violet . .  453 

STRODE,  WILLIAM  (b.  1600,  d.  1644). 

Kisses . 156 

SUCKLING,  SIR  JOHN  (b.  1609,  d.  about  1641). 

“  I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart  ” .  171 

“Why  so  pale” .  104 

SWAIN,  CHARLES  (b.  1803,  d.  1S74). 

Dryburgh  Abbey .  264 

Sabbath  Chimes .  5G1 

SWIFT,  JONATHAN  (b.  1667,  d.  1745). 

Baucis  and  Philemon .  899 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES  (b.  1837). 

Age  and  Song .  741 

Chorus — “  Before  the  beginning  of  years” .  744 

Chorus — “When  the  hounds  of  spring” .  426 

SYLVESTER,  JOSHUA  (b.  1563,  d.  1618). 

A  Contented  Mind .  660 

Love’s  Omnipresence .  99 

TANNAIIILL,  ROBERT  (b.  1774,  d.  1810). 

Jessie  the  Flower  of  Durablane .  163 

Tbe  Braes  of  Balquhither .  498 

“  The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn  ” .  440 

TATE,  NAHUM  (b.  1652,  d.  1715). 

Christmas .  529 

TATE  (NAHUM)  and  BRADY  (NICHOLAS),  (b. 

1659,  d.  1726). 

Psalm  C .  515 


XXXV111 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 


TAYLOR,  BAYARD  (h.  1825,  d.  1878). 

Bedouin  Sony; .  177 

Quaker  Widow .  22 

Song  of  the  Camp .  216 

TAYLOR,  JANE  (b.  1783,  d.  1824). 

The  Philosopher's  Scales . .,...  665 

The  Squire’s  Pew .  671 

TAYLOR,  JOHN. 

Monsieur  Tonson .  945 

TAYLOR,  TOM  (b.  1817). 

Abraham  Lincoln .  280 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED  (b.  1809). 

“  Ask  me  no  more  ” .  192 

“  Break,  break,  break  ” .  88 

Bugle  Song .  502 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade .  348 

“  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud  ” .  177 

Death  of  the  Old  Year .  438 

Dedication  to  “The  Idylls  of  the  King” .  280 

From  “  In  Memoriam  ” — 

“  Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave  ” .  689 

“  Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time  ” .  690 

“  I  envy  not,  in  any  moods  ” .  689 

“  I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings” .  689 

“  Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good  ” .  689 

“  Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky  ” .  690 

“Who  loves  not  Knowledge?  Who  shall 

rail” .  690 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Vere .  210 

Lady  Clare .  138 

Lady  of  Shalott .  888 

Lilian .  203 

Locksley  Hall .  149 

Lord  of  Burleigh .  201 

May  Queen .  69 

Miller’s  Daughter . 155 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington..  270 

Reconciliation .  39 

Song  of  the  Brook .  460 

St.  Agnes’  Eve .  546 

“Sweet  and  low  ” .  31 

The  Days  that  are  no  More .  91 

“Thy  voice  is  heard  through  rolling  drums”..  743 

Tithonus .  787 

Widow  and  Child .  56 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  (b. 
1811,  d.  1863). 

Age  of  Wisdom .  87 

At  the  Church  Gate .  211 

Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse . 89 

Chronicle  of  the  Drum .  334 

End  of  the  Play .  673 

King  of  Brentford’s  Testament .  906 

Little  Billee .  909 

Mr.  Molony’s  Account  of  the  Ball .  955 

Sorrows  of  Werther .  895 

THOM,  WILLIAM  (b.  1789,  d.  1848). 

The  Mitherless  Bairn .  46 

THOMSON,  JAMES  (b.  1700,  d.  1748). 

Hymn — The  Seasons .  423 

Rule,  Britannia . 355 

TIIORNBURY,  GEORGE  WALTER  (b.  1828,  d. 
1876). 

La  Tricoteuse .  332 


Page 


The  Jester’s  Sermon .  916 

The  Pompadour .  327 

The  Three  Troopers . . 309 

THORPE,  ROSA  ITARTWICK  (b.  1850). 

Curfew  must  not  Ring  to-night .  404 

THURLOW,  EDWARD  HOVELL  THURLOW, 
LORD  (b.  1781,  d.  1829). 

Song  to  May .  428 

Sonnet — Summer .  433 

Sonnet — To  a  Bird  that  Haunted  the  Waters 

of  Laaken  in  the  Winter . 472 

Sonnet — To  the  Moon .  446 

TICKELL,  THOMAS  (b.  1686,  d.  1740). 

Colin  and  Lucy . 197 

To  the  Earl  of  Warwick  on  the  Death  of  Mr. 
Addison .  .  242 

TIMROD,  HENRY  (b.  1829,  d.  1867). 

Spring .  431 

TOPLADY,  AUGUSTUS  MONTAGUE  (b.  1740,  d. 
1778). 

Address  to  the  Soul .  596 

Rock  of  Ages .  540 

TRENCH,  RICHARD  CHENEVIX  (b.  1807). 

Different  Minds .  658 

Harmosan .  291 

The  Kingdom  of  God .  662 

.TROWBRIDGE,  JOHN  T.  (b.  1827). 

At  Sea .  465 

The  Vagabonds .  717 

TURNER,  CHARLES  (b.  1808,  d.  1879.). 

The  Lachrymatory .  740 

TYCHBORN,  CHIDIOCK  (d.  1586). 

Lines  Written  l»y  One  in  the  Tower,  being 
Young  and  Condemned  to  Die .  688 

VAUGHAN,  HENRY  (b.  1621,  d.  1695). 

Son-Dayes .  560 

The  Rainbow .  443 

The  Retreat .  92 

They  are  all  Gone .  597 

VAUX,  THOMAS,  LORD  (b.  1510,  a.  1557). 

On  a  Contented  Mind .  658 

VERE,  EDWARD,  Earl  of  Oxford  (b.  about 
1534,  d.  1604). 

A  Renunciation .  190 

WAKEFIELD,  NANCY  A.  W.  P.  (b.  1836,  d.  1870). 
Over  the  River .  629 

WALLER,  EDMUND  (b.  1605,  d.  1687). 

Go,  Lovely  Rose .  185 

On  a  Girdle .  185 

On  his  Divine  Poems .  688 

WALTON,  IZAAK  (b.  1593,  d.  1683). 

The  Angler’s  Wish .  467 

WARING,  ANNA  L/ETITIA. 

Thy  Will  be  Done .  567 

WARTON,  THOMAS  (b.  1687,  d.  1745). 

Sonnet— Written  after  Seeing  Windsor  Castle.  504 

WARTON,  THOMAS  (b.  1728,  d.  1790) 

On  Revisiting  the  River  Loddou .  508 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XX  XIX 


Page 

WASTELL,  SIMON  (b.  about  1560,  d.  about  1630). 


Man’s  Mortality .  626 

WATSON,  JOHN  W. 

Beautiful  Snow .  720 

WATSON,  THOMAS  (b.  1560,  d.  1592). 

Sonnet — May . 428 

Sonnet — “Time  wasteth  years,  and  months, 
and  hours  ” . - .  172 

WATTS,  ISAAC  (b.  1674,  d.  1748). 

“  Come,  Holy  Spirit,  heavenly  Hove  ” .  542 

Cradle  Hymn .  34 

Glorying  in  the  Cross .  547 

“I  give  immortal  praise” .  546 

“0  happy  soul  that  lives  on  high” .  575 

Psalm  XC .  549 

Psalm  XCVIII .  549 

Psalm  C .  546 

Psalm  CXVII .  552 

Psalm  CXXI .  583 

“There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight” .  599 

WAUGH,  EDWIN  (b.  1818). 

“The  dule’s  i’  this  bonnet  o’  mine” .  166 

WEBSTER,  JOHN  (b.  about  1585,  d.  about  1654). 

Dirge  from  “  The  White  Devil  ” .  638 

WESLEY,  CHARLES  (b.  1708,  d.  1788). 

“Hark,  how  all  the  welkin  rings” .  532 

“  Jesu,  lover  of  my  soul” .  540 

“  Jesu,  my  strength,  my  hope  ” .  579 

The  Omnipotent  Decree .  585 

The  Lord  is  Risen .  535 

Wrestling  Jacob .  571 

WESTWOOD,  THOMAS  (b.  1814). 

Little  Lell .  38 

Under  my  Window .  53 

WHITE,  HENRY  KIRKE  (b.  1785,  d.  1806). 

Hymn  for  Family  Worship .  568 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem .  577 

To  an  Early  Primrose .  452 

WHITE,  JOSEPH  BLANCO  (b.  1775,  d.  1841). 

.Sonnet — To  Night .  441 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF  (b.  1807). 

Angels  of  Buena  Vista .  345 

Barbara  Frietchie .  350 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie .  279 

Eve  of  Election .  675 

Ichabod .  267 

In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  Sturge .  277 

Maud  Muller. .  167 

My  Playmate .  82 

My  Psalm .  613 

Randolph  of  Roanoke .  262 

Red  River  Voyageur .  680 

Skipper  Ireson’s  Ride .  371 

Thy  Will  be  Done .  568 


WILDE,  RICHARD  HENRY  (b.  1789,  d.  1847). 

Stanzas — “My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose”...  616 

WILLIAMS,  HELEN  MARIA  (b.  1762,  d.  1827). 


Sonnet — To  Hope .  663 

“  Whilst  Thee  I  seek  ” .  572 


Page 

WILLIAMS,  ISAAC  (b.  1802,  d.  1865). 

“The  child  leans  on  its  parent’s  breast” .  573 

WILLIAMS,  WILLIAM  (b.  1717,  d.  1791). 

“Guide  me,  O  Thou  great  Jehovah  ” .  573 

WILLIS,  NATHANIEL  PARKER  (b.  1S07,  d. 
1867). 

Saturday  Afternoon .  77 

WILSON,  ALEXANDER  (b.  1766,  d.  1813). 

The  Blue  Bird .  475 

WILSON,  JOHN  (b.  1785,  d.  1854). 

The  Evening  Cloud .  442 


WJNCHELSEA,  ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF  (b.  about 
1660,  d.  1720). 


A  Nocturnal  Reverie .  434 

WITHER,  GEORGE  (b.  1588,  d.  1667). 

A  Stolen  Kiss .  156 

Evening  Hymn .  556 

Lemuel’s  Song .  24 

Morning  Hymn .  554 

Psalm  CXLVIII .  551 

“  Sweet  baby,  sleep  ” .  34 

The  Shepherd’s  Resolution .  169 

The  Steadfast  Shepherd .  153 

WOLFE,  CHARLES  (b.  1791,  d.  1823). 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore .  252 

WOODWORTH,  SAMUEL  (b.  1785,  d.  1842). 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket .  74 

The  Whiskers .  892 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM  (b.  1770,  d.  1850). 

Daffodils .  452 

Elegiac  Stanzas  suggested  by  a  Picture  of 

Peele  Castle .  505 

Hart-Leap  Well .  387 

Lucy .  49 

Lucy  Gray  ;  or,  Solitude .  56 

Ode — Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recol¬ 
lections  of  Early  Childhood .  644 

Ode  to  Duty .  664 

“She  was  a  Phantom  of  J  ILht” .  10 

Sonnet — Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge..  503 

Sonnet — “  It  is  a  beauteous  evening  calm  and 

free” .  441 

Sonnet — On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian 

Republic .  348 

Sonnet — “  Scorn  not  the  sonnet  ” . 781 

Sonnet — To  Milton .  240 

The  Good  Lord  Clifford .  223 

The  Kitten  and  the  Falling  Leaves .  485 

The  Pet  Lamb .  487 

The  Rainbow .  444 

“  Three  years  she  grew  ” .  49 

To  a  Highland  Girl .  65 

To  a  Skylark .  473 

To  a  Skylark .  473 

To  the  Cuckoo .  480 

To  the  Daisy .  453 

To  the  Daisy .  454 

We  are  Seven .  51 

Yarrow  Revisited .  511 


xl  INDEX 


p 

Yarrow  Unvisited .  . 

Yarrow  Visited . . . 

WOTTON,  SIR  HENRY  (b.  1568,  d.  1639). 

Character  of  a  Happy  Life . 

Tears  wept  at  the  Grave  of  Sir  Albertos  Morton. 

To  his  Mistress,  the  Queen  of  Bohemia . 

Upon  the  Death  of  Sir  Albertus  Morton’s  Wife. 
Upon  the  Sudden  Restraint  of  the  Earl  of  Som¬ 
erset . 

Verses  in  Praise  of  Angling . 

WYATT,  SIR  THOMAS  (b.  1503,  d.  1542). 

Blame  not  my  Lute . 

The  Recured  Lover  Exulteth  in  his  Freedom.. 

YOUNG,  ANDREW  (b.  about  1809). 

“  There  is  a  happy  land  ” . 

AUTHOR  UNKNOWN. 

A-Hunting  we  will  Go . 

Annie  Laurie . 

Armstrong’s  Good-Night . 

Ballad  of  Chevy-Chace . 

Barbara  Allen’s  Cruelty . 

Between  the  Lights . 

Bonnie  George  Campbell . 

Burd  Helen . 

Child  of  Elle . 

Children  in  the  Wood . 

Christmas  Carol . 

“Christ  will  gather  in  His  own  ” . . 

Cornin’  through  the  Rye .  . 

Cruel  Sister . 

Cumberland,  The . 

Dowie  Dens  of  Yarrow . 

Dumb  Child . 

Edward,  Edward . 

Fair  Annie  of  Lochroyan . 

Fair  Helen . 


A  U  THORS. 


Page 


Fairy  Queen .  793 

Glenlogie .  406 

Good-Night .  688 

Heir  of  Linne .  368 

Jovial  Beggar .  918 

Katharine  Janfarie . .  393 

Lady  Anne  Both  well’s  Lament .  32 

Lament  of  the  Border  Widow .  417 

Lord  Lovel .  198 

Love  Lightens  Labor .  24 

Loveliness  of  Love .  139 

“Love  uot  me  for  comely  grace” .  130 

Love  will  Find  out  the  Way .  97 

Merry  Pranks  of  Robin  Goodfellow .  808 

Monody  on  the  Death  of  an  Only  Client .  921 

New  Jerusalem .  602 

Nut-Brown  Maid .  112 

Old  and  Young  Courtier .  672 

Origin  of  the  Opal .  459 

Robin  Hood  and  Allen-a-Dale .  390 

Siege  of  Belgrade .  960 

Sir  Patrick  Spens .  367 

St.  Anthony’s  Sermon  to  the  Fishes .  915 

Take  thy  Old  Cloak  about  Thee .  901 

They’re  Dear  Fish  to  Me .  699 

Three  Ravens .  411 

To  a  Skeleton .  642 

To  my  Horse .  493 

Twa  Corbies .  412 

Twenty  Years  Ago .  78 

Useful  Plough .  692 

Veni  Creator  Spiritus .  542 

Vicar  of  Bray .  914 

Waly,  waly,  but  Love  be  Bonny .  103 

Wandering  Jew .  374 

Where  are  you  Going,  my  Pretty  Maid? .  898 

White  Rose .  214 

Winifreda .  7 

Young  Airly .  325 


OF 

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510 

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661 

228 

185 

228 

230 

467 

190 

191 

599 

493 

199 

656 

299 

417 

683 

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■(^/ 


Poetry 


OF 

Home  and  the  Fireside. 


Home,  Sweet  Home. 

’Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may- 
roam, 

Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there’s  no  place  like 
home ! 

A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  hallow  us 
there, 

Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne’er 
met  with  elsewhere. 

Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet,  home ! 

There’s  no  place  like  home ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in 
vain ; 

Oh !  give  me  my  lowly  thatch’d  cottage 
again ! 

The  birds,  singing  gayly,  that  came  at  my 
call — 

Give  me  them  ! — and  the  peace  of  mind 
dearer  than  all. 

Home,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  home ! 

There’s  no  place  like  home! 

John  Howard  Payne. 


The  Homes  of  England. 

The  stately  Homes  of  England ! 

How  beautiful  they  stand, 

Amidst  their  tall,  ancestral  trees, 

O’er  all  the  pleasant  land ! 

The  deer  across  their  greensward  bound, 
Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam, 

And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the 
sound 

Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  Homes  of  England ! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 

What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 

Meet  in  the  ruddv  light ! 

1 


There  woman’s  voice  flows  forth  in  song, 
Or  childhood’s  tale  is  told, 

Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 
Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  Homes  of  England ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 
That  breathes  from  Sabbath  hours  ! 
Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-bell’s  chime 
Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn : 

All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 

The  cottage  Homes  of  England ! 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 

They  are  smiling  o’er  the  silvery  brooks, 
An  1  round  the  hamlet  fanes. 

Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 
Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves, 

And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England ! 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall, 

May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  rear’d 

To  guard  each  hallow’d  wall ! 

And  green  for  ever  be  the  groves, 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 

Where  first  the  child’s  glad  spirit  loves 

Its  country  and  its  God  ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


My  Ain  Fireside. 

I  hae  seen  great  anes,  and  sat  in  great  ha’s, 

’Mang  lords  and  fine  ladies  a’  cover’d  wi’ 
braws, 

At  feasts  made  for  princes  wi’  princes  I’ve 
been, 

When  the  grand  shine  o’  splendor  has 
dazzled  my  een ; 


1 


2 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  a  sight  sae  delightfu’  I  trow  I  ne’er 
spied 

As  the  bonny  blithe  blink  o’  my  ain  fireside. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside, 

Oh  cheery’s  the  blink  o’  my  ain  fireside ; 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside, 

Oh,  there’s  naught  to  compare  wi’  ane’s 
ain  fireside. 

Ance  mair,  Gude  be  thankit,  round  my  ain 
heartsome  ingle, 

Wi’  the  friends  o’  my  youth  I  cordially 
mingle  ; 

Nae  forms  to  compel  me  to  seem  wae  or 
glad, 

I  may  laugh  when  I’m  merry,  and  sigh 
when  I’m  sad. 

Nae  falsehood  to  dread,  and  nae  malice  to 

fear, 

But  truth  to  delight  me,  and  friendship  to 
cheer ; 

Of  a’  roads  to  happiness  ever  were  tried, 

There’s  nane  half  so  sure  as  ane’s  ain  fire¬ 
side. 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside, 

Oh,  there’s  naught  to  compare  wi’  ane’s 
ain  fireside. 

When  I  draw  in  my  stool  on  my  cozy 
hearthstane, 

My  heart  loups  sae  light  I  scarce  ken’t  for 
my  ain ; 

Care’s  down  on  the  wind,  it  is  clean  out  o’ 
sight, 

Past  troubles  they  seem  but  as  dreams  o’ 
the  night. 

I  hear  but  kend  voices,  kend  faces  I  see, 

And  mark  saft  affection  glent  fond  frae 
ilk  ee ; 

Nae  fleecliings  o’  flattery,  nae  boastings  o’ 
pride, 

’Tis  heart  speaks  to  heart  at  ane’s  ain  fire¬ 
side. 

Mv  ain  fireside,  mv  ain  fireside, 

t  %J  7 

Oh  there’s  naught  to  compare  wi’  ane’s 
ain  fireside. 

Elizabeth  Hamilton. 
- #o* - 

The  Happy  Marriage. 

How  blest  has  my  time  been,  what  joys 
have  I  known, 

Since  wedlock’s  soft  bondage  made  Jessy 
my  own ! 


So  joyful  my  heart  is,  so  easy  my  chain, 

That  freedom  is  tasteless,  and  roving  a  pain. 

Through  walks  grown  with  woodbines,  as 
often  we  stray, 

Around  us  our  boys  and  girls  frolic  and  play : 

How  pleasing  their  sport  is !  The  wanton 
ones  see, 

And  borrow  their  looks  from  mv  Jessy  and 
me. 

To  try  her  sweet  temper,  ofttimes  am  I  seen, 

In  revels  all  day,  with  the  nymphs  on  the 
green : 

Though  painful  my  absence,  my  doubts 
she  beguiles, 

And  meets  me  at  night  with  complacence 
and  smiles. 

What  though  on  her  cheeks  the  rose  loses 
its  hue, 

Her  wit  and  good-humor  bloom  all  the 
year  through ; 

Time  still,  as  he  flies,  adds  increase  to  her 
truth, 

And  gives  to  her  mind  what  he  steals  from 
her  youth. 

Ye  shepherds  so  gay,  who  make  love  to 
ensnare 

And  cheat  with  false  vows  the  too  credu 
lous  fair; 

In  search  of  true  pleasure,  how  vainly  yoi* 
roam! 

To  hold  it  for  life,  you  must  find  it  at  home 

Edward  Moore. 

-  ♦<>« - 

The  Fireside. 

Dear  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd, 
The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud. 

In  folly’s  maze  advance, 

Though  singularity  and  pride 
Be  call’d  our  choice,  we’ll  step  aside, 

Nor  join  the  giddy  dance. 

From  the  gay  world  we’ll  oft  retire 
To  our  own  family  and  fire, 

Where  love  our  hours  employs  ; 

No  noisy  neighbor  enters  here, 

No  intermeddling  stranger  near, 

To  spoil  our  heartfelt  joys. 

If  solid  happiness  we  prize, 

WTithin  our  breast  this  jewel  lies, 

And  they  are  fools  who  roam ; 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


3 


The  world  hath  nothing  to  bestow — 

From  our  own  selves  our  bliss  must  flow, 
And  that'dear  hut,  our  home. 

Of  rest  was  Noah’s  dove  bereft, 

When  with  impatient  wing  she  left 
That  safe  retreat,  the  ark  ; 

Giving  her  vain  excursion  o’er, 

The  disappointed  bird  once  more 
Explored  the  sacred  barP. 

Though  fools  spurn  Hymen’s  gentle  powers, 
We,  who  improve  his  golden  hours, 

By  sweet  experience  know 
That  marriage,  rightly  understood, 

Gives  to  the  tender  and  the  good 
A  paradise  below. 

Our  babes  shall  richest  comforts  bring  ; 

If  tutor’d  right,  they’ll  prove  a  spring 
Whence  pleasures  ever  rise  ; 

We’ll  form  their  minds  with  studious  care 
To  all  that’s  manly,  good,  and  fair, 

And  train  them  for  the  skies. 

While  they  our  wisest  hours  engage, 
They’ll  joy  our  youth,  support  our  age, 
And  crown  our  hoary  hairs  ; 

They’ll  grow  in  virtue  every  day, 

And  thus  our  fondest  loves  repay, 

And  recompense  our  cares. 

No  borrow’d  joys,  they’re  all  our  own, 
While  to  the  world  we  live  unknown, 

Or  by  the  world  forgot ; 

Monarchs  !  we  envy  not  your  state — 

We  look  with  pity  on  the  great, 

And  bless  our  humble  lot. 

Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed  ; 

But  then  how  little  do  we  need, 

For  Nature’s  calls  are  few  ! 

In  this  the  art  of  living  lies — 

To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice, 

And  make  that  little  do. 

We’ll  therefore  relish  with  content 
Whate’er  kind  Providence  has  sent, 

Nor  aim  beyond  our  power; 

For,  if  our  stock  be  very  small, 

’Tis  prudence  to  enjoy  it  all, 

Nor  lose  the  present  hour. 

To  be  resign’d  when  ills  betide, 

Patient  when  favors  are  denied, 

And  pleased  with  favors  given — 


Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom’s  part, 

This  is  that  incense  of  the  heart 
Whose  fragrance  smells  to  heaven. 

We’ll  ask  no  long-protracted  treat, 

Since  winter-life  is  seldom  sweet  ; 

But,  when  our  feast  is  o’er, 

|  Grateful  from  table  we’ll  arise, 

Nor  grudge  our  sons,  with  envious  eyes, 
The  relics  of  our  store. 

I  Thus  hand  in  hand  through  life  we’ll  go ; 
Its  chequer’d  paths  of  joy  and  woe 
With  cautious  steps  we’ll  tread ; 

!  Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a  tear, 
Without  a  trouble  or  a  fear, 

And  mingle  with  the  dead ; 

While  conscience,  like  a  faithful  friend, 
Shall  through  the  gloomy  vale  attend, 

And  cheer  our  dying  breath — 

Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease, 

Like  a  kind  angel  whisper  peace, 

And  smooth  the  bed  of  death. 

Nathaniel  Cotton. 

■ - •<>« - 

The  Cotters  Saturday  Night. 

Inscribed  to  Bobert  Aiken,  Esq. 

“  Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor.” — Gray. 

My  lov’d,  my  honor’d,  much-respected 
friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end: 
My  dearest  meed,  a  friend’s  esteem  and 
praise ; 

To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 
The  lowly  train  in  life’s  sequester’d  scene; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless 
ways ; 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have 
been ; 

Ah !  tho’  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier 
there,  I  ween! 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi’  angry  sugh ; 

The  short’ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh ; 
The  black’ning  trains  o’  craws  to  their 
repose : 

The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labor  goes,— 


4 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, — 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his 
hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to 
spend, 

And  weary,  o’er  the  moor,  his  course  does 
hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ; 

Th’  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher 
through 

To  meet  their  “dad,”  wi’  flichterin’  noise 
an’  glee. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin’  bonnilie, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  tliriftie  wifie’s 
smile, 

The  lisping  infant,  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a’  his  weary  kiaugh  and  care  beguile, 

And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and 
his  toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun’ ; 

Borne  ca’  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie 
rin 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neibor  town  : 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman 
grown, 

In  youthfu’  bloom — love  sparkling  in  her 
e’e — 

Comes  hame ;  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw 
new  gown, 

Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hard¬ 
ship  be. 

With  joy  unfeign’d,  brothers  and  sisters 
meet, 

And  each  for  other’s  welfare  kindly 
spiers : 

The  social  hours,  swift-wing’d,  unnoticed 
fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears. 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful 
years ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view  ; 

The  mother,  wi’  her  needle  and  her 
shears, 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel’s  the 
new : 

The  father  mixes  a’  wi’  admonition  due. 


Their  master’s  and  their  mistress’s  com¬ 
mand, 

The  younkers  a’  are  warned ‘to  obey; 

And  mind  their  labors. wi’  an  eydent  hand, 

And  ne’er,  tho’  out  o’  sight,  to  jauk  or 
play ; 

“And  oh,  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway, 

And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and  night; 

Lest  in  temptation’s  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 

They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the 
Lord  aright.” 

But  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o’  the 
same, 

Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  came  o’er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her 
hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny’s  e’e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 

With  heart-struck  anxious  care,  inquires 
his  name, 

While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak; 

Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears,  it’s  nae 
wild,  worthless  rake. 

With  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him 
ben; 

A  strappin’  youth,  he  takes  the  mother’s 
eye; 

Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit’s  no  ill  ta’en  ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleuglis,  and 
kye. 

The  youngster’s  artless  heart  o’erflows 
wi’  joy, 

But,  blate  an’  laithfu’,  scarce  can  weel 
behave ; 

The  mother,  wi’  a  woman’s  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu’  an’  sae 
grave ; 

Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn’s  respected 
like  the  lave. 

O  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found  : 

0  heartfelt  raptures !  bliss  beyond  com¬ 
pare  ! 

I’ve  pac&d  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  de¬ 
clare, — 

“  If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleas¬ 
ure  spare — 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


5 


One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, — 

’Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 

In  other’s  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents 
the  evening  gale.” 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 
A  wretch !  a  villain !  lost  to  love  and 
truth ! 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 
Betray  sweet  Jenny’s  unsuspecting 
youth  ? 

Curse  on  his  perjured  arts  !  dissembling, 
smooth ! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o’er  their 
child  ? 

Then  paints  the  ruin’d  maid,  and  their  dis¬ 
traction  wild  ? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple 
board, 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  of  Scotia’s 
food ; 

The  sowpe  their  only  hawkie  does  atford, 
That,  ’yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her 
cood : 

The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental 
mood, 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain’d  keb- 
buck,  fell ; 

And  aft  he’s  prest,  and  aft  he  ca’s  it  guid : 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 

How  ’twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin’  lint  was  i’ 
the  bell. 

The  clieerfu’  supper  done,  wi’  serious  face, 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 

The  sire  turns  o’er,  with  patriarchal  grace, 
The  big  ha’  Bible,  ance  his  father’s  pride : 
His  bonnet  rev’rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 
glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care ; 

And  “  Let  us  worship  God  !”  he  says  with 
solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple 
guise, 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by.  far  the  no¬ 
blest  aim : 


Perhaps  “  Dundee’s  ”  wild  warbling  meas¬ 
ures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  “  Martyrs,”  worthy  of  the 
name ; 

Or  noble  “  Elgin  ”  beets  the  heavenward 
flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia’s  holy  lays : 

Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are 
tame : 

The  tickled  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures 
raise ; 

Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator’s 
praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on 
high  ; 

Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek’s  ungracious  progeny; 

Or,  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven’s  avenging 
ire  ; 

Or  Job’s  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah’s  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred 
lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was 
shed ; 

How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second 
name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  Plis 
head : 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a 
land : 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 

And  heard  great  Bab’lon’s  doom  pro¬ 
nounced  by  Heaven’s  command. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven’s  Eternal 
King 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband 
prays : 

Hope  “springs  exulting  on  triumphant 
wing,” 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future 
days, 

There,  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 

Together  hymning  their  Creator’s  praise 


6 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


In  such  society,  vet  still  more  dear, 

While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an 
eternal  sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Keligion’s 
pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion’s  ev’ry  grace,  except  the 
heart ! 

The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will 
desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of 
the  soul  ; 

And  in  His  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor 
enroll. 


Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev’ral 
way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 

The  parent  pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 
And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm 
request, 

That  He  who  stills  the  raven’s  clam’rous 
nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow’ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the 
best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 

But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine 
preside. 


From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia’s  grandeur 
springs, 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered 
abroad : 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

“  An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of 
God ;” 

And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue’s  heavenly  road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind; 

What  is  a  lordling’s  pomp?  a  cumbrous 
load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined ! 


( )  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven 
is  sent, 

J  iOng  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and 
sweet  content ! 


i 


And  oh,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives 
prevent 

From  luxury’s  contagion,  weak  and  vile! 
Then,  howe’er  crowns  and  coronets  be 
rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much¬ 
loved  isle. 

0  Thou  !  who  pour’d  the  patriotic  tide, 
That  stream’d  thro’  Wallace’s  undaunted 
heart, 

Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part : 
(The  patriot’s  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art, 
His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  re¬ 
ward  ! ) 

Oh  never,  never  Scotia’s  realm  desert ; 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament 
and  guard ! 

Robert  Burns. 

- K>« - 

A  Wish. 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 

A  beehive’s  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear ; 

A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 

With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch, 

Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 

And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 

Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew ; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village  church,  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 

And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

Samuel  Rogers. 

- -+0+ - 

A  Picture. 

The  farmer  sat  in  his  easy-cliair 
Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 

While  his  hale  old  wife,  with  busy  care, 
Was  clearing  the  dinner  away ; 

A  sweet  little  girl,  with  fine  blue  eyes, 

On  her  grandfather’s  knee  was  catching 
flies. 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  her  head, 
With  a  tear  on  his  wrinkled  face  ; 

He  thought  how  often  her  mother,  dead, 
Had  sat  in  the  self-same  place. 

As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half-shut 
eye, 

“  Don’t  smoke !”  said  the  child ;  “  how  it 
makes  you  cry !” 


The  house-dog  lay  stretch’d  out  on  the 
floor, 

Where  the  shade  after  noon  used  to  steal ; 
The  busy  old  wife,  by  the  open  door, 

Was  turning  the  spinning-wheel ; 

And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  manteltree 
Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three. 


Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy-chair, 
While  close  to  his  heaving  breast 
The  moisten’d  brow  and  the  cheek  so  fair 
Of  his  sweet  grandchild  were  press’d  ; 
His  head,  bent  down,  on  her  soft  hair  lay  : 
Fast  asleep  were  they  both,  that  summer 
day  ! 

Charles  G.  Eastman. 


Ma  trimonial  Happiness. 


When  I  upon  thy  bosom  lean, 

And  fondly  clasp  thee  a’  my  ain, 

I  glory  in  the  sacred  ties 

That  made  us  ane  wha  ance  were  twain. 
A  mutual  flame  inspires  us  baith, 

The  tender  look,  the  meltin’  kiss ; 

Even  years  shall  ne’er  destroy  our  love, 
But  only  gi’e  us  change  o’  bliss. 

Hae  I  a  wish  ?  it’s  a’  for  thee ! 

I  ken  thy  wish  is  me  to  please ; 

Our  moments  pass  sae  smooth  away 
That  numbers  on  us  look  and  gaze ; 

Weel  pleased  they  see  our  happy  days, 

Nor  envy’s  sel’  finds  aught  to  blame; 
And  ave  when  wearv  cares  arise. 

Thy  bosom  still  shall  be  my  hame. 

I’ll  lay  me  there  and  tak’  my  rest ; 

And  if  that  aught  disturb  my  dear, 

I’ll  bid  her  laugh  her  cares  away, 

And  beg  her  not  to  drop  a  tear. 

Hae  I  a  joy?  it’s  a’  her  ain  ! 

United  still  her  heart  and  mine; 

They’re  like  the  woodbine  round  the  tree, 
That’s  twined  till  death  shall  them  disjoin. 

John  Lapraik. 


Winifred  a. 

Away  !  let  naught  to  love  displeasing, 

My  Winifreda,  move  your  care ; 

Let  naught  delay  the  heavenly  blessing, 
Nor  squeamish  pride  nor  gloomy  fear. 

What  though  no  grants  of  royal  donors 
With  pompous  titles  grace  our  blood; 

We’ll  shine  in  more  substantial  honors, 
And  to  be  noble  we’ll  be  good. 

Our  name,  while  virtue  thus  we  tender, 
Will  sweetly  sound  where’er  ’tis  spoke, 

And  all  the  great  ones,  they  shall  wonder 
How  they  respect  such  little  folk. 

What  though  from  fortune’s  lavish  bounty 
No  mighty  treasures  we  possess; 

We’ll  find  within  our  pittance  plenty, 

And  be  content  without  excess. 

Still  shall  each  returning  season 
Sufficient  for  our  wishes  give ; 

For  we  will  live  a  life  of  reason  ; 

And  that’s  the  only  life  to  live. 

Through  youth  and  age,  in  love  excelling, 
We’ll  hand  in  hand  together  tread ; 

Sweet-smiling  peace  shall  crown  our  dwell¬ 
ing, 

And  babes,  sweet-smiling  babes,  our  bed. 

How  should  I  love  the  pretty  creatures 
While  round  my  knees  they  fondly 
clung, 

To  see  them  look  their  mother’s  features, 
To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother’s  tongue ! 

And  when  with  envy  time,  transported, 
Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys, 

You’ll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 

And  I’ll  go  a-wooing  in  my  boys. 

Author  Unknown. 

•o« - 

Hermione. 

Wherever  I  wander,  up  and  about, 

This  is  the  puzzle  I  can’t  make  out — 

Because  I  care  little  for  books,  no  doubt  : 

I  have  a  wife,  and  she  is  wise, 

Deep  in  philosophy,  strong  in  Greek  ; 

Spectacles  shadow  her  pretty  eyes, 

Coteries  rustle  to  hear  her  speak  ; 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


8 


She  writes  a  little — for  love,  not  fame  ; 

Has  publish’d  a  book  with  a  dreary  name ; 
And  yet  (God  bless  her!)  is  mild  and 
meek. 

And  how  I  happened  to  woo  and  wed. 

A  wife  so  pretty  and  wise  withal, 

Is  part  of  the  puzzle  that  fills  my  head — 
Plagues  me  at  day-time,  racks  me  in  bed, 
Haunts  me,  and  makes  me  appear  so 
small. 

The  only  answer  that  I  can  see 
Is — I  could  not  have  married  Hermione 
(That  is  her  fine  wise  name),  but  she 
Stoop’d  in  her  wisdom  and  married  me. 

For  I  am  a  fellow  of  no  degree, 

Given  to  romping  and  jollity  ; 

The  Latin  they  thrash’d  into  me  at  school 
The  world  and  its  fights  have  thrash’d 
away : 

At  figures  alone  I  am  no  fool, 

And  in  city  circles  I  say  my  say. 

But  I  am  a  dunce  at  twenty-nine, 

And  the  kind  of  study  that  I  think  fine 
Is  a  chapter  of  Dickens,  a  sheet  of  the 
Times , 

When  I  lounge,  after  work,  in  my  easy- 
chair  ; 

Punch  for  humor,  and  Praed  for  rhymes, 
And  the  butterfly  mots  blown  here  and 
there 

By  the  idle  breath  of  the  social  air. 

A  little  French  is  my  only  gift, 

Wherewith  at  times  I  can  make  a  shift, 
Guessing  at  meanings,  to  flutter  over 
A  filigree  tale  in  a  paper  cover. 

Hermione,  my  Hermione  ! 

What  could  your  wisdom  perceive  in  me  ? 
And,  Hermione,  my  Hermione  ! 

How  does  it  happen  at  all  that  we 
Love  one  another  so  utterly  ? 

Well,  I  have  a  bright-eyed  boy  of  two, 

A  darling  who  cries  with  lung  and 
tongue  about : 

As  fine  a  fellow,  I  swear  to  you, 

As  ever  poet  of  sentiment  sung  about ! 
And  my  lady-wife  with  the  serious  eyes 
Brightens  and  lightens  when  he  is  nigh, 
And  looks,  although  she  is  deep  and  wise, 
As  foolish  and  happy  as  he  or  I ! 

And  I  have  the  courage  just  then,  you  see, 
To  kiss  the  lips  of  Hermione — 


Those  learned  lips  that  the  learned  praise — 
And  to  clasp  her  close  as  in  sillier  days  ; 

To  talk  and  joke  in  a  frolic  vein, 

To  tell  her  my  stories  of  things  and  men  ; 
And  it  never  strikes  me  that  I’m  profane, 
For  she  laughs  and  blushes,  and  kisses 
again  ; 

And,  presto  !  fly  !  goes  her  wisdom  then  ! 
For  boy  claps  hands,  and  is  up  on  her 
breast, 

Roaring  to  see  her  so  bright  with  mirth  ; 
And  I  know  she  deems  me  (oh  the  jest !) 
The  cleverest  fellow  on  all  the  earth  ! 

And  Hermion6,  my  Hermion6, 

Nurses  her  boy  and  defers  to  me ; 

Does  not  seem  to  see  I’m  small — 

Even  to  think  me  a  dunce  at  all ! 

And  wherever  I  wander,  up  and  about, 
Here  is  the  puzzle  I  can’t  make  out : 

That  Hermion6,  my  Hermion6, 

In  spite  of  her  Greek  and  philosophy, 
When  sporting  at  night  with  her  boy  and  me, 
Seems  sweeter  and  wiser,  I  assever — 
Sweeter  and  wiser,  and  far  more  clever, 
And  makes  me  feel  more  foolish  than  ever, 
Through  her  childish,  girlish,  joyous  grace, 
And  the  silly  pride  in  her  learned  face  ! 

That  is  the  puzzle  I  can’t  make  out — 
Because  I  care  little  for  books,  no  doubt ; 
But  the  puzzle  is  pleasant,  I  know  not 
why, 

For,  whenever  I  think  of  it,  night  or 
morn, 

I  thank  my  God  she  is  wise,  and  1 

The  happiest  fool  that  was  ever  born  ! 

Robert  Buchanan. 

- KX - 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 

But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 

But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson,  my  jo  ! 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither, 

And  mony  a  cantie  day,  John, 

We’ve  had  wi’  ane  anitlier: 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


9 


JN  ow  we  maun  totter  down,  J ohn  ; 

And  hand  in  hand  we’ll  go, 

And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

Robert  Burns. 

- - 

Lines  Written  to  his  Wife , 
While  ox  a  Visit  to  Upper  Ixdia. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 

How  fast  would  evening  fail 
In  green  Bengala’s  palmy  grove, 
Listening  the  nightingale ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee, 

How  gaily  would  our  pinnace  glide 
O’er  Gunga’s  mimic  sea  ! 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray, 

When,  on  our  deck  reclined, 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay, 

And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga’s  stream 
My  twilight  steps  I  guide  ; 

But  most  beneath  the  lamp’s  pale  beam 
I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try, 

The  lingering  noon  to  cheer, 

But  miss  thy  kind,  approving  eye, 

Thy  meek,  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  and  eve  the  star 
Beholds  me  on  mv  knee, 

I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on !  then  on  !  where  duty  leads, 
My  course  be  onward  still — 

On  broad  Hindostan’s  sultry  meads, 

O’er  black  Almorah’s  hill. 

That  course  nor  Delhi’s  kingly  gates 
Nor  mild  Malwah  detain  ; 

For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 
By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they 
sav, 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea ; 

But  never  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 
As  then  shall  meet  in  thee ! 

Reginald  Heber. 


To  My  Wife. 

Oh,  hadst  thou  never  shared  my  fate, 
More  dark  that  fate  would  prove : 

My  heart  were  truly  desolate 
Without  thy  soothing  love. 

But  thou  hast  suffer’d  for  my  sake, 

Whilst  this  relief  I  found, 

1 

Like  fearless  lips  that  strive  to  take 
The  poison  from  a  wound. 

Mv  fond  affection  thou  hast  seen, 

Then  judge  of  my  regret 

To  think  more  happy  thou  hadst  been 
If  we  had  never  met ! 

And  has  that  thought  been  shared  by  thee  ? 
Ah,  no  !  that  smiling  cheek 

Proves  more  unchanging  lo\  e  for  me 
Than  labor’d  words  could  speak. 

But  there  are  true  hearts  which  the  sight 
Of  sorrow  summons  forth  ; 

Though  known  in  days  of  past  delight, 

We  knew  not  half  their  worth. 

How  unlike  some  who  have  profess’d 
So  much  in  Friendship’s  name, 

Yet  calmly  pause  to  think  how  best 
They  may  evade  her  claim. 

But  ah  !  from  them  to  thee  I  turn, — 
They’d  make  me  loathe  mankind ; 

Far  better  lessons  I  may  learn 
From  thy  more  holy  mind. 

The  love  that  gives  a  charm  to  home 
I  feel  they  cannot  take : 

We’ll  pray  for  happier  years  to  come. 

For  one  another’s  sake. 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. 

- K>« - 

The  Winsome  Wee  Thing. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 

She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 

She  is  a  lo’esome  wee  thing:. 

This  dear  wee  wife  o’  mine. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 

I  never  lo’ed  a  dearer  ; 

And  neist  my  heart  I’ll  wear  her, 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 

She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 


10 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


She  is  a  lo’esome  wee  thing, 

This  dear  wee  wife  o’  mine. 

The  warld’s  wrack  we  share  o’t, 

The  warstle  and  the  care  o’t, 

Wi’  her  I’ll  blythely  bear  it, 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 

Robert  Burns. 

- •<>• - 

Site  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight. 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleam’d  upon  my  sight ; 

A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment’s  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair; 

Like  Twilight’s,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn; 

A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 

To  hunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her,  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  Creature,  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature’s  daily  food — 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 

A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  Traveller  between  life  and  death ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  plann’d, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 

And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

William  Wordsworth. 
- - 

To  Mary. 

“  Thee,  Mary,  with  this  ring  I  wed  ” — 
So,  fourteen  years  ago,  I  said. 

Behold  another  ring ! — “For  what? — 

To  wed  thee  o’er  again?”  Why  not? 
With  that  first  ring  I  married  youth, 
Grace,  beauty,  innocence,  and  truth ; 
Taste  long  admired,  sense  long  revered, 
And  all  my  Molly  then  appear’d. 


If  she,  bv  merit  since  disclosed, 

Prove  twice  the  woman  I  supposed, 

I  plead  that  double  merit  now 
To  justify  a  double  vow. 

Here,  then,  to-day  (with  faith  as  sure, 
With  ardor  as  intense,  as  pure, 

As  when,  amidst  the  rites  divine, 

I  took  thy  troth  and  plighted  mine), 

To  thee,  sweet  girl,  my  second  ring, 

A  token  and  a  pledge,  I  bring : 

With  this  I  wed,  till  death  us  part, 

Thy  riper  virtues  to  my  heart — 

Those  virtues  which,  before  untried, 

The  wife  has  added  to  the  bride ; 

Those  virtues  whose  progressive  claim. 
Endearing  wedlock’s  very  name, 

My  soul  enjoys,  my  song  approves, 

For  conscience’  sake  as  well  as  love’s. 

And  why  ?  They  show  me  every  hour 
Honor’s  high  thought,  Affection’s  power, 
Discretion’s  deed,  sound  Judgment’s  sen¬ 
tence, 

And  teach  me  all  things — but  repentance. 

Samuel  Bishop. 

- - 

The  Mariner’s  Wife. 

Axd  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he’s  weel  ? 

Is  this  a  time  to  think  o’  wark  ? 

Ye  jauds  fling  by  your  wheel! 

Is  this  a  time  to  think  o’  wark, 

When  Colin’s  at  the  door? 

Rax  me  my  cloak,  I’ll  to  the  quay 
And  see  him  come  ashore. 

For  there’s  nae  luck  about  the  house, 
There’s  nae  luck  at  a’ ; 

There’s  little  pleasure  in  the  house 
When  our  gudeman’s  awa’. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop’s  satin  gown  ; 

For  I  maun  tell  the  baillie’s  wife 
That  Colin’s  come  to  town. 

My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on, 

My  hose  o’  pearl  blue ; 

It’s  a’  to  pleasure  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he’s  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise  up  and  mak  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 

Gie  little  Kate  her  Sunday  gown. 

And  Jock  his  button  coat; 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


11 


And  mak  their  slioon  as  black  as  slaes, 
Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw ; 

It’s  a’  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he’s  been  long  awa’. 

■* 

There’s  twa  fat  hens  upo’  the  bank 
They’ve  fed  this  month  and  mair ; 

Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 
That  Colin  weel  may  fare ; 

And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw ; 

For  wlia  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 
When  he  was  far  awa’  ? 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 
His  breath  like  caller  air ; 

His  very  foot  has  music  in’t 
As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 

I’m  downright  dizzy  wi’  the  thought, 

In  troth  I’m  like  to  greet ! 

Since  Colin’s  weel,  I’m  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave : 

Could  I  but  live  to  mak  him  blest, 

I’m  blest  aboon  the  lave  : 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 

I’m  downright  dizzy  wi’  the  thought, 

In  troth  I’m  like  to  greet. 

For  there’s  nae  luck  about  the  house, 
There’s  nae  luck  at  a’  ; 

There’s  little  pleasure  in  the  house 
When  our  gudeman’s  awa’. 

Jean  Adam. 


The  Exile  to  his  Wife. 

Come  to  me,  dearest,  I’m  lonely  without 
thee, 

Day-time  and  night-time,  I’m  thinking 
about  thee ; 

Night-time  and  day-time,  in  dreams  I  be¬ 
hold  thee ; 

Unwelcome  the  waking  which  ceases  to 
fold  thee. 

Come  to  me,  darling,  my  sorrows  to 
lighten ; 

Come  in  thy  beauty  to  bless  and  to 
brighten ; 

Come  in  thy  womanhood,  meekly  and 
lowly, 

Come  in  thy  lovingness,  queenly  and  holy. 


Swallows  will  flit  round  the  desolate  ruin, 

Telling  of  spring  and  its  joyous  renewing, 

And  thoughts  of  thy  love,  and  its  mani¬ 
fold  treasure, 

Are  circling  my  heart  with  a  promise  of 
pleasure. 

O  Spring  of  my  spirit !  O  May  of  my  bosom  ! 

Shine  out  on  my  soul,  till  it  bourgeon  and 
blossom  ; 

The  waste  of  my  life  has  a  rose-root  with¬ 
in  it, 

And  thy  fondness  alone  to  the  sunshine 
can  win  it. 

Figure  that  moves  like  a  song  through  the 
even  ; 

Features  lit  up  by  a  reflex  of  heaven ; 

Eyes  like  the  skies  of  poor  Erin,  our 
mother, 

Where  shadow  and  sunshine  are  chasing 
each  other ; 

Smiles  coming  seldom,  but  childlike  and 
simple, 

Planting  in  each  rosy  cheek  a  sweet 
dimple ; — 

Oh,  thanks  to  the  Saviour,  that  even  thy 
seeming 

Is  left  to  the  exile  to  brighten  his  dreaming ! 

You  have  been  glad  when  you  knew  I  was 
gladden’d ; 

Dear,  are  you  sad  now  to  hear  I  am  sad¬ 
den’d? 

Our  hearts  ever  answer  in  tune  and  in 
time,  love, 

As  octave  to  octave,  and  rhyme  unto 
rhyme,  love : 

I  cannot  weep  but  your  tears  will  be 
flowing, 

You  cannot  smile  but  my  cheek  will  be 
glowing ; 

I  would  not  die  without  you  at  my  side, 
love ; 

You  will  not  linger  when  I  shall  have 
died,  love. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  ere  I  die  of  my  sorrow, 

Pise  on  my  gloom  like  the  sun  of  to¬ 
morrow  ; 

Strong,  swift,  and  fond  as  the  words  which 
I  speak,  love, 

With  a  song  on  your  lip  and  a  smile  on 
your  cheek,  love. 


12 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Come,  for  my  heart  in  your  absence  is 
weary,— 

Haste,  for  my  spirit  is  sicken’d  and 
dreary, — 

Come  to  the  arms  which  alone  should 
caress  thee, 

Come  to  the  heart  that  is  throbbing  to 
press  thee! 

Joseph  Bren  an. 

•<>♦ - 

A  Wife. 

The  wife  sat  thoughtfully  turning  over 
A  book  inscribed  with  the  school-girl’s 
name ; 

A  tear,  one  tear,  fell  hot  on  the  cover 
So  quickly  closed  when  her  husband 
came. 

He  came,  and  he  went  away,  it  was 
nothing ; 

With  commonplace  upon  either  side; 

But,  just  as  the  sound  of  the  room-door 
shutting, 

A  dreadful  door  in  her  soul  stood- wide. 

Love  she  had  read  of  in  sweet  romances, 
Love  that  could  sorrow,  but  never  fail ; 

Built  her  own  palace  of  noble  fancies, 

All  the  wide  world  like  a  fairy  tale. 

Bleak  and  bitter  and  utterly  doleful, 
Spread  to  this  woman  her  map  of  life : 

Hour  after  hour  she  look’d  in  her  soul, 
full 

Of  deep  dismay  and  turbulent  strife. 

Face  in  hands,  she  knelt  on  the  car¬ 
pet; 

The  cloud  was  loosen’d,  the  storm-rain 
fell. 

Oh  life  has  so  much  to  wither  and  warp  it, 
One  poor  heart’s  day  what  poet  could  tell  ? 

William  Allingham. 

- •<>• - 

Without  and  Within. 

i. 

The  night  is  dark,  and  the  winter  winds 
Go  stabbing  about  with  their  icy  spears; 

The  sharp  hail  rattles  against  the  panes, 
And  melts  on  my  cheeks  like  tears. 

’Tis  a  terrible  night  to  be  out  of  doors, 

But  some  of  us  must  be,  early  and  late ; 


We  needn’t  ask  who,  for  don’t  we  know 
It  has  all  been  settled  by  Fate? 

Not  woman,  but  man.  Give  woman  her 
flowers, 

Her  dresses,  her  jewels,  or  what  she  de¬ 
mands  : 

The  work  of  the  world  must  be  done  by 
man, 

Or  why  has  he  brawny  hands  ? 

As  I  feel  my  way  in  the  dark  and  cold, 

I  think  of  the  chambers  warm  and 
bright — 

The  nests  where  these  delicate  birds  of 
ours 

Are  folding  their  wings  to-night ! 

Through  the  luminous  windows,  above 
and  below, 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  life  they  lead : 

Some  sew,  some  sing,  others  dress  for  the 
ball, 

While  others  (fair  students)  read. 

There’s  the  little  lady  who  bears  my 
name — 

She  sits  at  my  table  now,  pouring  her 
tea ; 

Does  she  think  of  me  as  I  hurry  home, 
Hungry  and  wet?  Not  she. 

She  helps  herself  to  the  sugar  and  cream 
In  a  thoughtless,  dreamy,  nonchalant 
way ; 

Her  hands  are  white  as  the  virgin  rose 

That  she  wore  on  her  wedding-day. 

My  stubbed  fingers  are  stain’d  with  ink — 
The  badge  of  the  ledger,  the  mark  of 
trade ; 

But  the  money  I  give  her  is  clean  enough, 
In  spite  of  the  way  it  is  made. 

I  wear  out  my  life  in  the  counting-room, 
Over  day-book  and  cash-book,  Bought 
and  Sold ; 

My  brain  is  dizzy  with  anxious  thought, 
My  skin  is  as  sallow  as  gold. 

How  does  she  keep  the  roses  of  youth 
Still  fresh  in  her  cheeks  ?  My  roses  are 
flown. 

It  lies  in  a  nutshell :  why  do  I  ask  ? 

A  woman’s  life  is  her  own. 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


13 


She  gives  me  a  kiss  when  we  part  for  the 
day, 

Then  goes  to  her  music,  blithe  as  a  bird  ; 
She  reads  it  at  sight,  and  the  language  too, 
Though  I  know  never  a  word. 

She  sews  —  a  little ;  makes  collars  and 
sleeves ; 

Or  embroiders  me  slippers  (always  too 
small) ; 

Nets  silken  purses  (for  me  to  fill) — 

Often  does  nothing  at  all 

But  dream  in  her  chamber,  holding  a 
flower, 

Or  reading  my  letters  (she’d  better  read 
me) ! 

Even  now,  while  I  am  freezing  with  cold, 
She  is  cozily  sipping  her  tea. 

If  I  ever  reach  home  I  shall  laugh  aloud 
At  the  sight  of  a  roaring  fire  once  more ; 
She  must  wait,  I  think,  till  I  thaw  myself, 
For  the  usual  kiss  at  the  door. 

I'll  have  with  my  dinner  a  bottle  of  port, 
To  warm  up  my  blood  and  soothe  my 
mind ; 

Then  a  little  music,  for  even  I 

Like  music — when  I  have  dined. 

I’ll  smoke  a  pipe  in  the  easy-chair, 

And  feel  her  behind  me  patting  my 
head ; 

Or,  drawing  the  little  one  on  my  knee, 
Chat  till  the  hour  for  bed. 

II. 

Will  he  never  come  ?  I  have  watch’d  for 
him 

Till  the  misty  panes  are  roughen’d  with 
sleet ; 

I  can  see  no  more :  shall  I  never  hear 

The  welcome  sound  of  his  feet? 

I  think  of  him  in  the  lonesome  night, 
Tramping  along  with  a  weary  tread, 

And  wish  he  were  here  by  the  cheery  fire, 
Or  I  were  there  in  his  stead. 

I  sit  by  the  grate,  and  hark  for  his  step, 
And  stare  in  the  fire  with  a  troubled 
mind ; 

The  glow  of  the  coals  is  bright  in  my 
face, 

But  my  shadow  is  dark  behind. 


I  think  of  woman,  and  think  of  man, 

The  tie  that  binds,  and  the  wrongs  that 
part, 

And  long  to  utter  in  burning  words 

What  I  feel  to-night  in  my  heart. 

No  weak  complaint  of  the  man  I  love, 

No  praise  of  myself  or  my  sisterhood; 
But — something  that  women  understand, 
By  men  never  understood. 

Their  natures  jar  in  a  thousand  things ; 
Little  matter,  alas !  who  is  right  or 
wrong. 

She  goes  to  the  wall.  11  She  is  weak!”  they 
say; 

It  is  that  that  makes  them  strong. 

But  grant  us  weak  (as  in  truth  we  are 
In  our  love  for  them),  they  should  make 
us  strong ; 

But  do  they?  Will  they?  “Woman  is 
weak  !” 

Is  the  burden  still  of  their  song. 

Wherein  am  I  weaker  than  Arthur,  pray  ? 

He  has,  as  he  should,  a  sturdier  frame, 
And  he  labors  early  and  late  for  me  •, 

But  I — I  could  do  the  same. 

My  hands  are  willing,  my  brain  is  clear, 
The  world  is  wide,  and  the  workers  few ; 
But  the  work  of  the  world  belongs  to  man  ; 

There  is  nothing  for  woman  to  do. 

Yes,  she  has  the  holy  duties  of  home, 

A  husband  to  love,  and  children  to  bear ; 
The  softer  virtues,  the  social  arts — 

In  short,  a  life  without  care. 

So  our  masters  say.  But  what  do  they 
know 

Of  our  lives  and  feelings  when  they  are 
away? 

Our  household  duties,  our  petty  tasks, 

The  nothings  that  waste  the  day  ? 

Nay,  what  do  they  care?  ’Tis  enough  for 
them 

That  their  homes  are  pleasant;  thev 
seek  their  ease : 

One  takes  a  wife  to  flatter  his  pride ; 
Another,  to  keep  his  keys. 

|  They  say  they  love  us ;  perhaps  they  do, 

In  a  masculine  way,  as  they  love  their 
wine ; 


14 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  the  soul  of  a  woman  needs  something 
more, 

Or  it  suffers  at  times  like  mine. 

Not  that  Arthur  is  ever  unkind 
In  word  or  deed,  for  he  loves  me  well ; 
But  I  fear  he  thinks  me  weak  as  the  rest — 
(And  I  may  be :  who  can  tell  ?) 

I  should  die  if  he  changed  or  loved  me  less, 
For  I  live  at  best  but  a  restless  life ;  . 

Y  et  he  may,  for  they  say  the  kindest  men 
Grow  tired  of  a  sickly  wife. 

Oh,  love  me,  Arthur,  my  lord,  my  life ! 

If  not  for  my  love  and  my  womanly 
fears, 

At  least  for  your  child.  But  I  hear  his 
step — 

He  must  not  find  me  in  tears. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


The  Poets  Song  to  his  Wife. 

Hoav  many  summers,  love, 

Have  I  been  thine? 

How  many  days,  my  dove, 

Hast  thou  been  mine? 

Time,  like  the  winged  wind 
When ’t  bends  the  flowers, 

Hath  left  no  mark  behind, 

To  count  the  hours  ! 

Some  weight  of  thought,  though  loath, 
On  thee  he  leaves  ; 

Some  lines  of  care  round  both 
Perhaps  he  weaves; 

Some  fears, — a  soft  regret 
For  joys  scarce  known  ; 

Sweet  looks  we  half  forget; 

All  else  is  flown ! 

Ah  !  with  what  thankless  heart 
I  mourn  and  sing ! 

Look,  where  our  children  start, 

Like  sudden  spring! 

With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low, 

Like  a  pleasant  rhyme, 

They  tell  how  much  I  owe 
To  thee  and  Time  ! 

Bryan  Waller  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall). 


To  an  Absent  Wife. 

Written  at  Biloxi. 

’Tis  Morn  : — the  sea-breeze  seems  to  bring 
Joy,  health,  and  freshness  on  its  wing; 
Bright  flowers,  to  me  all  strange  and  new. 
Are  glittering  in  the  early  dew, 

And  perfumes  rise  from  every  grove, 

As  incense  to  the  clouds  that  move 
Like  spirits  o’er  yon  welkin  clear : 

But  I  am  sad — thou  art  not  here ! 

’Tis  Noon  : — a  calm,  unbroken  sleep 
Is  on  the  blue  waves  of  the  deep ; 

A  soft  haze,  like  a  fairy  dream, 

Is  floating  over  wood  and  stream; 

And  many  a  broad  magnolia  flower, 
Within  its  shadowy  woodland  bower, 

Is  gleaming  like  a  lovely  star : 

But  I  am  sad — thou  art  afar ! 

’Tis  Eve : — on  earth  the  sunset  skies 
Are  painting  their  own  Eden  dyes ; 

The  stars  come  down,  and  trembling  glow 
Like  blossoms  on  the  waves  below , 

And,  like  an  unseen  spirit,  the  breeze 
Seems  lingering  ’midst  these  orange  trees, 
Breathing  its  music  round  the  spot: 

But  I  am  sad — I  see  thee  not ! 

’Tis  Midnight : — with  a  soothing  spell, 

The  far  tones  of  the  ocean  swell, 

Soft  as  a  mother’s  cadence  mild, 

Low  bending  o’er  her  sleeping  child; 

And  on  each  wandering  breeze  are  heard 
The  rich  notes  of  the  mocking-bird, 

In  many  a  wild  and  wondrous  lay : 

But  I  am  sad — thou  art  away ! 

I  sink  in  dreams: — low,  sweet,  and  clear, 
Thy  own  dear  voice  is  in  my  ear ; 

Around  my  neck  thy  tresses  twine — 

Thy  own  loved  hand  is  clasped  in  mine— 
Thy  own  soft  lip  to  mine  is  pressed — 

Thy  head  is  pillowed  on  my  breast : — 

Oh !  I  have  all  my  heart  holds  dear, 

And  I  am  happy — thou  art  here! 

George  Dennison  Prentice. 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


15 


Fare  Thee  Well / 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  for  ever, 

Still  for  ever,  fare  thee  well: 

Even  though  unforgiving,  never 
’Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 

Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain, 

While  that  placid  sleep  came  o’er  thee 
Which  thou  ne’er  canst  know  again ! 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 
Every  inmost  thought  could  show  ! 

Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 
’Twas  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 

Though  the  world  for  this  commend  thee, — 
Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow, 

Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 

Founded  on  another’s  woe: 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 

Could  no  other  arm  be  found, 

Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 

To  inflict  a  cureless  wound? 

Yet,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not: 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay, 

But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 
Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away : 

Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth, — 

Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat ; 
And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 
Is — that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 
Than  the  wail  above  the  dead ; 

Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 
Wake  us  from  a  widowed  bed. 

And  when  thou  wouldst  solace  gather, 
When  our  child’s  first  accents  flow, 

Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  “Father!” 
Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  pressed, 

Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  thee, 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  blessed ! 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 
Those  thou  nevermore  mayst  see, 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 


All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest, 

All  my  madness  none  can  know; 

All  my  hopes,  where’er  thou  goest, 

Wither,  yet  with  thee  they  go. 

Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken  ; 

Pride,  which  not  a  world  could  bow, 
Bows  to  thee, — by  thee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now : 

But  ’tis  done :  all  words  are  idle, — 

Words  from  me  are  vainer  still ; 

But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 
Force  their  way  without  the  will. 

Fare  thee  well ! — thus  disunited, 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie, 

Seared  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted, 

More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die. 

Lord  Byron. 

•o« - 

On  the  Receipt  of  my 
Mothers  Picture. 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language  !  Life  has 
pass’d 

With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile 
I  see, 

The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
“  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears 
away !” 

The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  Art  that  can  immortalize, — 
The  Art  that  baffles  Time’s  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it!)  here  shines  on  me  still  the 
same. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 
O  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected,  here  ! 
Who  bidst  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

I  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  ; 
And  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, — 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 
My  mother !  when  I  learn’d  that  thou 
wast  dead, 

Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I 
shed  ? 

Hover’d  thy  spirit  o’er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life’s  journey  just 
begun  ? 


16 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Perhaps  thou  gav’st  me,  though  unfelt,  a 
kiss ; 

Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  ! — it  answers — 
Yes. 

I  heard  the  bell  toll’d  on  thy  burial-day, 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window, 
drew 

A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such  ? — It  was. — Where  thou 
art  gone 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful 
shore, 

The  parting  words  shall  pass  my  lips  no 
more ! 

Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my 
concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wish’d,  I  long  believed, 
And  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived  ; 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and 
went, 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 
I  learn’ d  at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 

But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne’er 
forgot.  * 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard 
no  more, 

Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery 
floor ; 

And  where  the  gardener  Bobin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and 
wrapt 

In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capt, 
’Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known, 
That  once  we  call’d  the  pastoral  house  our 
own. 

Short-lived  possession  !  But  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness 
there, 

Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  ef¬ 
faced 

A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply 
traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and 
warmly  laid ; 


Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow’d 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and 
glow’d ; 

All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no 
fall, 

Ne’er  roughen’d  by  those  cataracts  and 
breaks 

That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes  ; 
All  this,  still  legible  in  memory’s  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorn’d  in  heaven,  though  little  no¬ 
ticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore 
the  hours, 

When  playing  with  thy  vesture’s  tissued 
flowers, 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 

I  prick’d  them  into  paper  with  a  pin 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the 
while, 

Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head, 
and  smile), — 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  ap¬ 
pear, 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish 
them  here  ? 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart ;  the  dear  de¬ 
light 

Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion’s 
coast 

(The  storms  all  weather’d  and  the  ocean 
cross’d), 

Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven’d  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons 
smile, 

There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that 
show 

Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers 

gay; 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


17 


So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reach’d 
the  shore, 

“  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows 
roar 

And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous 
tide 

Of  life  long  since  has  anchor’d  by  thy 
side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  dis¬ 
tress’d, — 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest- 
toss’d, 

Sails  ripp’d,  seams  opening  wide,  and  com¬ 
pass  lost, 

And  day  by  day  some  current’s  thwarting 
force 

Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous 
course. 

Yet  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe, 
and  he! 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 

My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 

From  loins  enthroned  and  rulers  of  the 
earth, 

But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions 
rise, — 

The  son  of  parents  pass’d  into  the  skies. 

And  now,  farewell ! — Time  unrevoked  has 
run 

His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish’d  is 
done. 

By  contemplation’s  help,  not  sought  in 
vain, 

I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o’er 
again ; 

To  have  renew’d  the  joys  that  once  were 
mine, 

Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine ; 

And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are 
free, 

And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 

Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft, — 

Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me 
left. 

William  Cowper. 

- *<>♦ - 

Too  Late. 

“  Dowglas,  Dowglas,  tendir  and  treu.” 

Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas, 
Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 

2 


I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 

I’d  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels  do  ; — 
Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Oh  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were 
few ; 

Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in  heaven, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true  ? 

I  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas ; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you ; 

Now  all  men  beside  seem  to  me  like 
shadows — 

I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas, 
Douglas, 

Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew  ; 
As  I  lay  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart, 
Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Dinah  Mulock  Craik, 

- KX - 

The  Family  Meeting. 

We  are  all  here, 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 

All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 

Each  chair  is  fill’d ;  we’re  all  at  home ! 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come. 

It  is  not  often  thus  around 

Our  old  familiar  hearth  we’re  found. 

Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot ; 

For  once  be  every  care  forgot ; 

Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 

And  kind  Affection  rule  the  hour. 

We’re  all — all  here. 

We’re  not  all  here ! 

Some  are  away, — the  dead  ones  dear, 

Who  throng’d  with  us  this  ancient  hearth, 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guileless  mirth. 

Fate,  with  a  stern,  relentless  hand, 

Look’d  in,  and  thinn’d  our  little  band ; 
Some  like  a  night-flash  pass’d  away, 

And  some  sank  lingering  day  by  day ; 

The  quiet  graveyard, — some  lie  there, — 
And  cruel  Ocean  has  his  share. 

We’re  not  all  here. 


18 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


W e  are  all  here ! 

Even  they, — the  dead, — though  dead,  so 
dear, — 

Fond  Memory,  to  her  duty  true, 

Brings  back  their  faded  forms  to  view. 
How  life-like,  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Each  well-remember’d  face  appears  ! 

We  see  them,  as  in  times  long  past; 

From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast; 

We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  be¬ 
hold  ; 

They’re  round  us,  as  they  were  of  old. 

We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here, 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 

You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 

This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 

Soon  must  we  join  the  gather’d  dead, 

And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 

Oh,  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below ! 

So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 

May  each  repeat  in  words  of  bliss, 

We’re  all — all  here  ! 

Charles  Sprague. 

- +o* - 

The  Poets  Bridal-Day  Bong. 

Oh,  my  love’s  like  the  steadfast  sun, 

Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run ; 

Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years, 

Nor  moments  between  sighs  and  tears — 
Nor  nights  of  thought,  nor  days  of  pain, 
Nor  dreams  of  glory  dream’d  in  vain— 
Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  that  flows 
To  sober  joys  and  soften  woes, 

Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee 
One  moment,  my  sweet  wife,  from  thee. 

Even  while  I  muse  I  see  thee  sit 
In  maiden  bloom  and  matron  wit — 

Fair,  gentle  as  when  first  I  sued, 

Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood; 

Yet  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee 
As  when,  beneath  Arbigland  tree, 

We  stay’d  and  woo’d,  and  thought  the 
moon 

Set  on  the  sea  an  hour  too  soon  ; 

Or  linger’d  ’mid  the  falling  dew, 

When  looks  were  fond  and  words  were 
few. 


Though  I  see  smiling  at  thy  feet 
Five  sons  and  ae  fair  daughter  sweet; 

And  time,  and  care,  and  birth-time  woes 
Have  dimm’d  thine  eye  and  touch’d  thy  rose; 
To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee  belong 
Whate’er  charms  me  in  tale  or  song  ; 
When  words  descend  like  dews  unsought 
With  gleams  of  deep,  enthusiast  thought, 
And  Fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free — 

They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  thee. 

Oh,  when  more  thought  we  gave  of  old 
To  silver  than  some  give  to  gold, 

’Twas  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o’er 
How  we  should  deck  our  humble  bower ! 
’Twas  sweet  to  pull  in  hope  with  thee 
The  golden  fruit  of  Fortune’s  tree; 

And  sweeter  still  to  choose  and  twine 
A  garland  for  that  brow  of  thine — 

A  song- wreath  which  may  grace  my  Jean, 
While  rivers  flow  and  woods  grow  green. 

i 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought, 
i  Grave  moments  of  sedater  thought — 
When  Fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  our  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light ; 

And  Hope,  that  decks  the  peasant’s  bower, 
Shines  like  a  rainbow  through  the  shower — 
Oh,  then  I  see,  while  seated  nigh, 

A  mother’s  heart  shine  in  thine  eye ; 

And  proud  resolve  and  purpose  meek, 
Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak : 
I  think  this  wedded  wife  of  mine 

The  best  of  all  things  not  divine. 

Allan  Cunningham. 

♦o*  ■  - 

Old  Folks  at  Home. 

’Way  down  upon  de  Swannee  Ribber, 

Far,  far  away, — 

j  Dare’s  wha  my  heart  is  turning  ebber, — 
Dare’s  wha  de  old  folks  stay. 

All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation 
Sadly  I  roam; 

Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary 
Eb’rywhere  I  roam ; 

Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 
Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


19 


All  ’round  de  little  farm  I  wander’d 
When  I  was  young ; 

Den  many  happy  days  I  squander’d, — 
Many  de  songs  I  sung. 

When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brudder, 
Happy  was  I ; 

Oh,  take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder ! 

Dare  let  me  live  and  die  ! 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary 
Eb’rywhere  I  roam ; 

Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 
Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home  ! 

One  little  hut  among  de  bushes, — 

One  dat  I  love, — 

Still  sadly  to  my  mem’ry  rushes, 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 

When  will  I  see  de  bees  a-humming 
All  round  de  comb  ? 

When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming 
Down  in  my  good  old  home  ? 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary 
Eb’rywhere  I  roam  ; 

Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 
Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 

Stephen  C.  Foster. 

—  — K>< - 

Songs  of  Seven. 

SEVEN  TIMES  ONE. 
EXULTATION. 

There’s  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and 
clover, 

There’s  no  rain  left  in  heaven : 

I’ve  said  my  “seven  times”  over  and  over, 
Seven  times  one  are  seven. 

T  am  old,  so  old,  I  can  write  a  letter ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done  ; 

The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no 
better ; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

O  moon !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you 
sailing 

And  shining  so  round  and  low; 

You  were  bright!  ah  bright!  but  your 
light  is  failing, — 

You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  moon,  have  you  done  something 
wrong  in  heaven 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face? 


I  hope  if  you  have  you  will  soon  be  for¬ 
given, 

And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

0  velvet  bee,  you’re  a  dusty  fellow, 

You’ve  powder’d  your  legs  with  gold  ! 

0  brave  marshmary  buds,  rich  and  yellow. 

Give  me  your  money  to  hold  ! 

0  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrapper, 

Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell ! 

0  cuckoopint,  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 

That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 

And  show  me  your  nest  with  the  young 
ones  in  it  ; 

I  will  not  steal  them  away ; 

I  am  old !  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  lin¬ 
net, — 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

SEVEN  TIMES  TWO. 

ROMANCE. 

You  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring,  ring  out 
your  changes, 

How  many  soever  they  be, 

And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark’s  note  as 
he  ranges 

Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 

Yet  bird’s  clearest  carol  by  fall  or  by 
swelling 

No  magical  sense  conveys, 

And  bells  have  forgotten  their  old  art  of 
telling 

The  fortune  of  future  days. 

“Turn  again,  turn  again,”  once  they  rang 
cheerily, 

While  a  boy  listen’d  alone  ; 

Made  his  heart  yearn  again,  musing  so 
wearily 

All  by  himself  on  a  stone. 

Poor  bells !  I  forgive  you ;  your  good 
days  are  over, 

And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be ; 

No  listening,  no  longing  shall  aught,  aught 
discover : 

You  leave  the  story  to  me. 

The  foxglove  shoots  out  of  the  green  mat- 
ted  heather, 

Preparing  her  hoods  of  snow ; 


20 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


She  was  idle,  and  slept  till  the  sunshiny- 
weather  : 

Oh,  children  take  long  to  grow. 

I  wish,  and  I  wish  that  the  spring  would 
go  faster, 

Nor  long  summer  bide  so  late; 

And  I  could  grow  on  like  the  foxglove  and 
aster, 

For  some  things  are  ill  to  wait. 

I  wait  for  the  day  when  dear  hearts  shall 
discover, 

While  dear  hands  are  laid  on  my  head; 

“  The  child  is  a  woman,  the  book  may 
close  over, 

For  all  the  lessons  are  said.” 

I  wait  for  my  story — the  birds  cannot  sing  it, 

Not  one,  as  he  sits  on  the  tree  ; 

The  bells  cannot  ring  it,  but  long  years,  oh 
bring  it! 

Such  as  I  wish  it  to  be. 

SEVEN  TIMES  THREE. 

LOVE. 

I  lean’d  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the 
white  clover, 

Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not 
the  gate; 

“  Now,  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my 
one  lover — 

Hush  nightingale,  hush  !  O  sweet  night¬ 
ingale,  wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near, 

For  my  love  he  is  late ! 

“  The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer 
and  nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the 
tree, 

The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes 
clearer : 

To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what 
dost  thou  see? 

Let  the  star-clusters  glow, 

Let  the  sweet  waters  flow, 

And  cross  quickly  to  me. 

“  You  night-moths  that  hover  where  honey 
brims  ovef 

From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or 
sleep ; 


You  glow-worms,  shine  out,  and  the  path¬ 
way  discover 

To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the 
rough  steep. 

Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste, 

For  the  time  runs  to  waste, 

And  my  love  lieth  deep — 

“  Too  deep  for  swift  telling ;  and  yet,  my 
one  lover, 

I’ve  conn’d  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee 
to-night.” 

By  the  sycamore  pass’d  he,  and  through 
the  white  clover, 

Then  all  the  sweet  speech  I  had  fashion’d 
took  flight ; 

But  I’ll  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e’er  wife  loved  before, 

Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 

SEVEN  TIMES  FOUR. 

MATERNITY. 

Heigh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall ! 

When  the  wind  wakes  how  they  rock  in 
the  grasses, 

And  dance  with  the  cuckoo-buds  slender 
and  small ! 

Here’s  two  bonny  boys,  and  here’s  mother’s 
own  lasses, 

Eager  to  gather  them  all. 

Heigh-ho !  daisies  and  buttercups ! 

Mother  shall  thread  them  a  daisy  chain  ; 

Sing  them  a  song  of  the  pretty  hedge- 
sparrow, 

That  loved  her  brown  little  ones,  loved 
them  full  fain ; 

Sing,  “  Heart,  thou  art  wide,  though  the 
house  be  but  narrow,” — 

Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 

Heigh-ho !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend  and 
they  bow ; 

A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  ocean  waters, 

And  haply  one  musing  doth  stand  at  her 
prow. 

O  bonny  brown  sons,  and  0  sweet  little 
daughters, 

Maybe  he  thinks  on  you  now ! 

Heigh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall — 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


21 


A  sunshiny  world  full  of  laughter  and 
leisure, 

And  fresh  hearts  unconscious  of  sorrow 
and  thrall !  • 

Send  down  on  their  pleasure  smiles  passing 
its  measure, 

God  that  is  over  us  all ! 

SEVEN  TIMES  FIVE. 
WIDOWHOOD. 

I  sleep  and  rest,  my  heart  makes  moan 
Before  I  am  well  awake ; 

“  Let  me  bleed!  oh  let  me  alone, 

Since  I  must  not  break  !” 

For  children  wake,  though  fathers  sleep 
With  a  stone  at  foot  and  at  head  ; 

O  sleepless  God,  for  ever  keep, 

Keep  both  living  and  dead ! 

I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  what  to  see 
But  a  world  happy  and  fair  ? 

I  have  not  wish’d  it  to  mourn  with  me — 
Comfort  is  not  there. 

Oh,  what  anear  but  golden  brooms, 

And  a  waste  of  reedy  rills ! 

Oh,  what  afar  but  the  fine  glooms 
On  the  rare  blue  hills ! 

I  shall  not  die,  but  live  forlorn ; 

How  bitter  it  is  to  part ! 

Oh,  to  meet  thee,  my  love,  once  more ! 

Oh,  my  heart,  my  heart ! 

No  more  to  hear,  no  more  to  see ; 

Oh,  that  an  echo  might  wake, 

And  waft  one  note  of  thy  psalm  to  me 
Ere  my  heart-strings  break ! 

I  should  know  it  how  faint  soe’er, 

And  with  angel-voices  blent ; 

Oh,  once  to  feel  thy  spirit  anear, 

I  could  be  content ! 

Or  once  between  the  gates  of  gold, 

While  an  angel  entering  trod, 

But  once — thee  sitting  to  behold 
On  the  hills  of  God  ! 

SEVEN  TIMES  SIX. 

GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE. 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose : 

To  see  my  bright  ones  disappear, 

Drawn  up  like  morning  dews; 


To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose : 

This  have  I  done  when  God  drew  near 
Among  his  own  to  choose. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

And  with  thy  Lord  depart 
In  tears  that  he,  as  soon  as  shed, 

Will  let  no  longer  smart; 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

This  while  thou  didst  I  smiled, 

For  now  it  was  not  God  who  said, 

“  Mother,  give  me  thy  child.” 

Oh,  fond,  oh,  fool,  and  blind, 

To  God  I  gave  with  tears ; 

But  when  a  man  like  grace  would  find, 
My  soul  put  by  her  fears. 

Oh,  fond,  oh,  fool,  and  blind, 

God  guards  in  happier  spheres ; 

That  man  will  guard  where  he  did  bind 
Is  hope  for  unknown  years. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

Fair  lot  that  maidens  choose, 

Thy  mother’s  tenderest  words  are  said. 

Thy  face  no  more  she  views ; 

Thy  mother’s  lot,  my  dear, 

She  doth  in  naught  accuse ; 

Her  lot  to  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  love, — and  then  to  lose. 

SEVEN  TIMES  SEVEN. 

LONGING  FOR  HOME. 

A  song  of  a  boat : — 

There  was  once  a  boat  on  a  billow : 
Lightly  she  rock’d  to  her  port  remote, 
And  the  foam  was  white  in  her  wake  like 
snow, 

And  her  frail  mast  bow’d  when  the  breeze 
would  blow, 

And  bent  like  a  wand  of  willow. 

I  shaded  mine  eyes  one  day  when  a  boat 
Went  curtseying  over  the  billow, 

I  mark’d  her  course  till  a  dancing  mote 
She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam, 

And  I  stay’d  behind  in  the  dear  loved  home ; 
And  my  thoughts  all  day  were  about  the 
boat 

And  my  dreams  upon  the  pillow. 


99 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  boat, 

For  it  is  but  short : — 

My  boat,  you  shall  find  none  fairer  afloat, 
In  river  or  port. 

Long  I  look’d  out  for  the  lad  she  bore, 

On  the  open  desolate  sea, 

And  I  think  he  sail’d  to  the  heavenly 
shore, 

For  he  came  not  back  to  me — 

Ah  me ! 

A  song  of  a  nest : — 

There  was  once  a  nest  in  a  hollow : 
Down  in  the  mosses  and  knot-grass  press’d, 
Soft  and  warm,  and  full  to  the  brim. 
Vetches  lean’d  over  it  purple  and  dim, 
With  buttercup  buds  to  follow. 

* 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest, 

For  it  is  not  long : — 

You  shall  never  light,  in  a  summer  quest, 
The  bushes  among — 

Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 

A  fairer  nestful,  nor  ever  know 
A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter, 
That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. 

I  had  a  nestful  once  of  my  own, 

Ah  happy,  happy  I ! 

Eight  dearly  I  loved  them:  but  when  they 
were  grown 

They  spread  out  their  wings  to  fly. 

Oh,  one  after  one  they  flew  away 
Far  up  to  the  heavenly  blue, 

To  the  better  country,  the  upper  day, 

And — I  wish  I  was  going  too. 

I  pray  you,  what  is  the  nest  to  me, 

My  empty  nest? 

And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to  see 
My  boat  sail  down  to  the  west  ? 

Can  I  call  that  home  where  I  anchor 
yet, 

Though  my  good  man  has  sail’d  ? 

Can  I  call  that  home  where  my  nest  was 
set, 

Now  all  its  hope  hath  fail’d? 

Nay,  but  the  port  where  my  sailor  went, 
And  the  land  where  my  nestlings  be, — 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts 
are  sent, 

The  only  home  for  me — 

Ah  me ! 

Jean  Ingelow. 


The  Quaker  Widow. 

Thee  finds  me  in  the  garden,  Hannah, — 
come  in !  ’Tis  kind  of  thee 

ft 

To  wait  until  the  Friends  were  gone,  who 
came  to  comfort  me. 

The  still  and  quiet  company  a  peace  may 
give,  indeed, 

But  blessed  is  the  single  heart  that  comes 
to  us  at  need. 

Come,  sit  thee  down  !  Here  is  the  bench 
where  Benjamin  would  sit 

On  the  First-day  afternoons  in  spring,  and 
watch  the  swallows  flit  ; 

He  loved  to  smell  the  sprouting  box,  and 
hear  the  pleasant  bees 

Go  humming  round  the  lilacs  and  through 
the  apple  trees. 

1  think  he  loved  the  spring :  not  that  he 
cared  for  flowers;  most  men 

Think  such  things  foolishness, — but  we 
were  first  acquainted  then, 

One  spring :  the  next  he  spoke  his  mind  ; 
the  third  I  was  his  wife, 

And  in  the  spring  (it  happen’d  so)  our 
children  enter’d  life. 

He  was  but  seventy-five :  I  did  not  think 
to  lay  him  yet 

In  Kennett  graveyard,  where  at  Monthly 
Meeting  first  we  met. 

The  Father’s  mercy  shows  in  this:  ’tis 
better  I  should  be 

Pick’d  out  to  bear  the  heavy  cross — alone 
in  age — than  he. 

We’ve  lived  together  fifty  years :  it  seems 
but  one  long  day, 

One  quiet  Sabbath  of  the  heart,  till  he  was 
call’d  away ; 

And  as  we  bring  from  Meeting-time  a 
sweet  contentment  home, 

So,  Hannah,  I  have  store  of  peace  for  all 
the  days  to  come. 

I  mind  (for  I  can  tell  thee  now)  how  hard 
it  was  to  know 

If  I  had  heard  the  Spirit  right,  that  told 
me  I  should  go; 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


23 


For  father  had  a  de’ep  concern  upon  his 
mind  that  day, 

But  mother  spoke  for  Benjamin, — she  knew 
Avhat  best  to  say. 

Then  she  was  still :  they  sat  a  while :  at  last 
she  spoke  again, 

“The  Lord  incline  thee  to  the  right!”  and 
“Thou  shalt  have  him,  Jane  !” 

My  father  said.  I  cried.  Indeed,  ’twas 
not  the  least  of  shocks, 

For  Benjamin  was  Hicksite,  and  father 
Orthodox. 

I  thought  of  this  ten  years  ago,  when 
daughter  Ruth  we  lost : 

Her  husband’s  of  the  world,  and  yet  I 
could  not  see  her  cross’d. 

She  wears,  thee  knows,  the  gayest  gowns, 
she  hears  a  hireling  priest — 

Ah,  dear !  the  cross  was  ours :  her  life’s  a 
happy  one,  at  least. 

Perhaps  she’ll  wear  a  plainer  dress  when 
she’s  as  old  as  I, — 

Would  thee  believe  it,  Hannah?  once  I 
felt  temptation  nigh ! 

My  wedding-gown  was  ashen  silk,  too 
simple  for  my  taste  : 

I  wanted  lace  around  the  neck,  and  a  rib¬ 
bon  at  the  waist. 

How  strange  it  seem’d  to  sit  with  him 
upon  the  women’s  side  ! 

I  did  not  dare  to  lift  my  eyes  :  I  felt  more 
fear  than  pride, 

Till,  “  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord,”  he 
said,  and  then  there  came 

A  holy  strength  upon  my  heart,  and  I 
could  say  the  same. 

I  used  to  blush  when  he  came  near,  but 
then  I  show’d  no  sign ; 

With  all  the  meeting  looking  on,  I  held 
his  hand  in  mine. 

It  seem’d  my  bashfulness  was  gone,  now  I 
was  his  for  life  : 

Thee  knows  the  feeling,  Hannah, — thee, 
too,  hast  been  a  wife. 

As  home  we  rode,  I  saw  no  fields  look 
half  so  green  as  ours  ; 

The  woods  were  coming  into  leaf,  the 
meadows  full  of  flowers  ; 


The  neighbors  met  us  in  the  lane,  and 
every  face  was  kind, — 

’Tis  strange  how  lively  everything  comes 
back  upon  my  mind. 

I  see,  as  plain  as  thee  sits  there,  the  wed¬ 
ding-dinner  spread  : 

At  our  own  table  we  were  guests,  with 
father  at  the  head, 

And  Dinah  Passmore  help’d  us  both — 
’twas  she  stood  up  with  me, 

And  Abner  Jones  with  Benjamin, — and 
now  they’re  gone,  all  three  ! 

It  is  not  right  to  wish  for  death ;  the  Lord 
disposes  best. 

His  Spirit  comes  to  quiet  hearts,  and  fits 
them  for  His  rest ; 

And  that  He  halved  our  little  flock  was 
merciful,  I  see : 

For  Benjamin  has  two  in  heaven,  and  two 
are  left  with  me. 

Eusebius  never  cared  to  farm, — ’twas  not 
his  call,  in  truth, 

And  I  must  rent  the  dear  old  place,  and 
go  to  daughter  Ruth. 

Thee’ll  say  her  ways  are  not  like  mine, — 
young  people  now-a-days 

Have  fallen  sadly  off,  I  think,  from  all  the 
good  old  ways. 

But  Ruth  is  still  a  Friend  at  heart;  she 
keeps  the  simple  tongue, 

The  cheerful,  kindly  nature  we  loved  when 
she  was  young ; 

And  it  was  brought  upon  my  mind,  remem¬ 
bering  her,  of  late, 

That  we  on  dress  and  outward  things  per¬ 
haps  lay  too  much  weight. 

I  once  heard  Jesse  Kersey  say,  a  spirit 
clothed  with  grace, 

And  pure,  almost,  as  angels  are,  may  have 
a  homely  face. 

And  dress  may  be  of  less  account:  Mie 
Lord  will  look  within  : 

The  soul  it  is  that  testifies  of  righteousness 
or  sin. 

Thee  mustn’t  be  too  hard  on  Ruth :  she’s 
anxious  I  should  go, 

And  she  will  do  her  duty  as  a  daughter 
should,  I  know. 


24 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


’Tis  hard  to  change  so  late  in  life,  but  we 
must  be  resign’d : 

The  Lord  looks  down  contentedly  upon  a 
willing  mind. 

Bayard  Taylor. 

-  -■  ♦<>♦ - - 

Love  Lightens  Labor. 

A  good  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one  morn, 

And  thought,  with  a  nervous  dread, 

Of  the  piles  of  clothes  to  be  washed,  and 
more 

Than  a  dozen  mouths  to  be  fed. 

“  There’s  the  meals  to  get  for  the  men  in 
the  field, 

And  the  children  to  fix  away 

To  school,  and  the  milk  to  be  skimmed  and 
churned ; 

And  all  to  be  done  this  day.” 

It  had  rained  in  the  night,  and  all  the 
wood 

Was  wet  as  it  could  be ; 

There  were  puddings  and  pies  to  bake,  be¬ 
sides 

A  loaf  of  cake  for  tea. 

And  the  day  was  hot,  and  her  aching  head 

Throbbed  wearily  as  she  said, 

“  If  maidens  but  knew  what  good  wives  know, 

They  would  not  be  in  haste  to  wed/” 

“  Jennie,  what  do  you  think  I  told  Ben 
Brown  ?” 

Called  the  farmer  from  the  well ; 

And  a  flush  crept  up  to  his  bronzed  brow, 

And  his  eyes  half-bashfully  fell. 

“  It  was  this,”  he  said,  and  coming  near 

He  smiled,  and  stooping  down 

Kissed  her  cheek, — “’twas  this,  that  you 
were  the  best 

And  the  dearest  wife  in  town  !” 

The  farmer  went  back  to  the  field,  and  the 
wife, 

In  a  smiling,  absent  way, 

Sang  snatches  of  tender  little  songs 

She’d  not  sung  for  many  a  day. 

And  the  pain  in  her  head  was  gone,  and 
the  clothes 

Were  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea; 

Her  bread  was  light,  and  her  butter  was 
sweet, 

And  as  golden  as  it  could  be. 


“Just  think,”  the  children  all  called  in  a 
breath, 

“Tom  Wood  has  run  off  to  sea! 

He  wouldn’t,  I  know,  if  he’d  only  had 
As  happy  a  home  as  we.” 

The  night  came  down,  and  the  good  wife 
smiled 

To  herself,  as  she  softly  said, 

“’Tis  so  sweet  to  labor  for  those  we  love! — 

It’s  not  strange  that  maids  will  wed!” 

Author  Unknown. 

- K>« - 

The  Household  ivoman. 

Graceful  may  seem  the  fairy  form, 

With  youth,  and  health,  and  beauty  warm, 
Gliding  along  the  airy  dance, 

Imparting  joy  at  every  glance. 

And  lovely,  too,  when  o’er  the  strings 
Her  hand  of  music  woman  flings, 

While  dewy  eyes  are  upward  thrown, 

As  if  from  heaven  to  claim  the  tone. 

And  fair  is  she  when  mental  flowers 
Engage  her  soul’s  devoted  powers, 

And  wreaths,  unfading  wreaths  of  mind, 
Around  her  temples  are  entwined. 

But  never,  in  her  varied  sphere, 

Is  woman  to  the  heart  more  dear 
Than  when  her  homely  task  she  plies, 
With  cheerful  duty  in  her  eyes ; 

And,  every  lowly  path  well  trod, 

Looks  meekly  upward  to  her  God. 

Caroline  Gilman. 

- •<>• - - 

Lemuel's  Song. 

Who  finds  a  woman  good  and  wise, 

A  gem  more  worth  than  pearls  hath  got ; 
Her  husband’s  heart  on  her  relies ; 

To  live  by  spoil  he  needeth  not. 

His  comfort  all  his  life  is  she ; 

No  wrong  she  willingly  will  do; 

For  wool  and  flax  her  searches  be, 

And  cheerful  hands  she  puts  thereto. 

The  merchant-ship,  resembling  right, 

Her  food  she  from  afar  doth  fet. 

Ere  day  she  wakes,  that  give  she  might 
Her  maids  their  task,  her  household  meat. 
A  field  she  views,  and  that  she  buys ; 

Her  hand  doth  plant  a  vineyard  there ; 


POETRY  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


25 


Her  loins  with  courage  up  she  ties; 

Her  arms  with  vigor  strengthened  are. 

If  in  her  work  she  profit  feel, 

By  night  her  candle  goes  not  out : 

She  puts  her  finger  to  the  wheel, 

Her  hand  the  spindle  turns  about. 

To  such  as  poor  and  needy  are 

Her  hand  (yea,  both  hands)  reacheth  she. 
The  winter  none  of  hers  doth  fear, 

For  double  clothed  her  household  be. 
She  mantles  maketh,  wrought  by  hand, 
And  silk  and  purple  clothing  gets. 
Among  the  rulers  of  the  land 

(Known  in  the  gate)  her  husband  sits. 
For  sale  fine  linen  weaveth  she, 

And  girdles  to  the  merchant  sends. 
Renown  and  strength  her  clothing  be, 

And  joy  her  later  time  attends. 

She  speaks  discreetly  when  she  talks ; 

The  law  of  grace  her  tongue  hath  learned ; 
She  heeds  the  way  her  household  walks, 
And  feedeth  not  on  bread  unearned. 

Her  children  rise,  and  blest  her  call ; 

Her  husband  thus  applaudetli  her, 

“  Oh,  thou  hast  far  surpassed  them  all, 
Though  many  daughters  thriving  are !” 

Deceitful  favor  quickly  wears, 

And  beauty  suddenly  decays  ; 

But,  if  the  Lord  she  truly  fears, 

That  woman  well  deserveth  praise, 

The  fruit  her  handiwork  obtains : 

Without  repining  grant  her  that, 

And  yield  her  when  her  labor  gains, 

To  do  her  honor  in  the  gate. 

George  Wither. 


The  Sailor’s  Wife. 
Part  I. 

I’ve  a  letter  from  thy  sire, 
Baby  mine,  baby  mine ; 

I  can  read  and  never  tire, 

Baby  mine. 

He  is  sailing  o’er  the  sea, 

He  is  coming  back  to  thee, 
He  is  coming  home  to  me, 
Baby  mine. 

He’s  been  parted  from  us  long, 
Baby  mine,  baby  mine ; 


But  if  hearts  be  true  and  strong, 

Baby  mine, 

They  shall  brave  Misfortune’s  blast 
And  be  overpaid  at  last 
For  all  pain  and  sorrow  pass’d, 
Baby  mine. 

Oh,  I  long  to  see  his  face, 

Baby  mine,  baby  mine, 

In  his  old-accustom’d  place, 

Baby  mine. 

Like  the  rose  of  May  in  bloom, 
Like  a  star  amid  the  gloom, 

Like  the  sunshine  in  the  room, 
Baby  mine. 

Thou  wilt  see  him  and  rejoice, 

Baby  mine,  baby  mine ; 

Thou  wilt  know  him  by  his  voice, 
Baby  mine, 

By  his  love-looks  that  endear, 

By  his  laughter  ringing  clear, 

By  his  eyes  that  know  not  fear, 
Baby  mine. 

I’m  so  glad — I  cannot  sleep, 

Babv  mine,  babv  mine% 

I’m  so  happy — I  could  weep, 

Baby  mine. 

He  is  sailing  o’er  the  sea, 

He  is  coming  home  to  me, 

He  is  coming  back  to  thee, 

Baby  mine. 

Part  II. 

O’er  the  blue  ocean  gleaming 
She  sees  a  distant  ship, 

As  small  to  view 
As  the  white  sea-mew 
Whose  wings  in  the  billows  dip. 

“  Blow,  favoring  gales,  in  her  answering 
sails, 

Blow  steadily  and  free ! 

Rejoicing,  strong, 

Singing  a  song 

Her  rigging  and  her  spars  among, 

And  waft  the  vessel  in  pride  along 
That  bears  my  love  to  me.” 

Nearer,  still  nearer  driving, 

The  white  sails  grow  and  swell  ; 

Clear  to  her  eyes 
The  pennant  flies, 

And  the  flag  she  knows  so  well. 


26 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Blow,  favoring  gales,  in  her  answering 
sails. 

Waft  him,  O  gentle  sea! 

And  still,  O  heart, 

Thy  fluttering  start ! 

Why  throb  and  beat  as  thou  wouldst 
part, 

When  all  so  happy  and  bless’d  thou 
art? 

He  comes  again  to  thee !” 

The  swift  ship  drops  her  anchor, 

A  boat  puts  off  for  shore ; 

Against  its  prow 
The  ripples  flow 
To  the  music  of  the  oar. 

“  And  art  thou  here,  mine  own,  my  dear, 

Safe  from  the  perilous  sea  ? 

Safe,  safe  at  home, 

No  more  to  roam  ! 

Blow,  tempests,  blow;  my  love  has 
come ! 

And  sprinkle  the  clouds  with  your 
dashing  foam ! 

He  shall  part  no  more  from  me.” 

Charles  Mackay. 

- - 

Mother  and  Poet. 

Dead  !  One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in 
the  East, 

And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  West  by 
the  sea. 

Dead !  both  my  boys !  When  you  sit  at 
the  feast 

And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy 
free, 

Let  none  look  at  me! 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men 
said ; 

But  this  woman,  —  this ,  who  is  agonized 
here, — 

The  east  sea  and  the  west  sea  rhyme  on 
in  her  head 
For  ever  instead. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at?  Oh, 
vain ! 

What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her 
breast 

With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile 
at  the  pain? 


Ah,  boys,  how  you  hurt!  You  were 
strong  as  you  pressed, 

And  I  proud  by  that  test. 

What  art’s  for  a  woman?  To  hold  on  her 
knees 

Both  darlings!  to  feel  all  their  arms 
round  her  throat, 

Cling,  strangle  a  little!  to  sew  by  de¬ 
grees 

And  ’broider  the  long  clothes  and  neat 
little  coat; 

To  dream  and  to  dote. 

To  teach  them. — It  stings  there !  I  made 
them,  indeed, 

Speak  plain  the  word  country.  I  taught 
them,  no  doubt, 

That  a  country’s  a  thing  men  should  die 
for  at  need. 

I  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 

The  tyrant  cast  out. 

And  when  their  eyes  flashed,  —  oh,  my 
beautiful  eyes ! — 

I  exulted  ;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the 
wheels 

Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.  But,  then, 
the  surprise 

When  one  sits  quite  alone !  Then  one 
weeps,  then  one  kneels ! 

God,  how  the  house  feels! 

At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters 
mailed 

With  my  kisses, — of  camp-life  and  glory, 
and  how 

They  both  loved  me;  and,  soon  coming 
home  to  be  spoiled, 

In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from 
my  brow 

With  their  green  laurel-bough. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin:  “Ancona  was 
free !” 

And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in 
the  street, 

With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something 
to  me. 

My  Guido  was  dead !  I  fell  down  at  his 
feet, 

While  they  cheered  in  the  street. 


POEMS  OF  HOME  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


27 


I  bore  it;  friends  soothed  me;  my  grief 
looked  sublime 

As  the  ransom  of  Italy.  One  boy  re¬ 
mained 

To  be  leant  on  and  walked  with,  recalling 
the  time 

When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both 
of  us  strained 

To  the  height  he  had  gained. 

And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder,  more 
strong, 

Writ  now  but  in  one  hand,  “  I  was  not  to 
faint, — 

One  loved  me  for  two — would  be  with  me 
ere  long : 

And  viva  V Italia!  —  he  died  for,  our 
saint, 

Who  forbids  our  complaint.” 

My  Nanni  would  add,  “he  was  safe,  and 
aware 

Of  a  presence  that  turned  off  the  balls, — 
was  imprest, 

It  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I 
could  bear, 

And  how  ’twas  impossible,  quite  dispos¬ 
sessed,  * 

To  live  on  for  the  rest.” 

On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph- 
line 

Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gae- 
ta  : — Shot ; 

Tell  his  mother.  Ah,  ah,  “his,”  “their” 
mother, — not  “mine,” 

No  voice  says,  “ My  mother ,”  again  to 
me.  What ! 

You  think  Guido  forgot? 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy 
with  Heaven, 

They  drop  earth’s  affections,  conceive 
not  of  woe? 

I  think  not.  Themselves  were  too  lately 
forgiven 

Through  that  love  and  sorrow  which  rec¬ 
onciled  so 

The  Above  and  Below. 

O  Christ  of  the  seven  wounds,  who  look’dst 
through  the  dark 


To  the  face  of  Thy  mother !  consider,  I 
pray, 

How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate, 
mark, 

Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with 
eyes  turned  away, 

And  no  last  word  to  say ! 

Both  boys  dead  ?  but  that’s  out  of  nature. 
We  all 

Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must 
always  keep  one. 

’Twere  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a 
wall ; 

And,  when  Italy’s  made,  for  what  end  is 
it  done 

If  we  have  not  a  son? 

Ah,  ah,  ah!  when  Gaeta’s  taken,  what 
then  ? 

When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more 
at  her  sport 

Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashing  souls  out 
of  men? 

When  the  guns  of  Cavalli,  with  final  re¬ 
tort, 

Have  cut  the  game  short? 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new 
jubilee, 

When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its 
white,  green  and  red, 

When  you  have  your  country  from  moun¬ 
tain  to  sea, 

When  King  Victor  has  Italy’s  crown  on 
his  head 

(And  I  have  my  Dead) — 

What  then?  Do  not  mock  me.  Ah,  ring 
your  bells  low, 

And  burn  your  lights  faintly!  My  coun¬ 
try  is  there , 

Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last  peak  of 
snow : 

My  Italy’s  there,  with  my  brave  civic 
Pair, 

To  disfranchise  despair ! 

Forgive  me.  Some  women  bear  children 
in  strength, 

And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in 
self-scorn ; 


28 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring 
us  at  length 

Into  wail  such  as  this — and  we  sit  on  for¬ 
lorn 

When  the  man-child  is  born. 

Dead !  One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the 
East, 

And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  West  by  the 
sea. 

Both !  both  my  boys !  If  in  keeping  the 
feast 

You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy 
free, 

Let  none  look  at  me! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

- K>* - 

The  Graves  of  a  Household. 

They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side, 

They  fill’d  one  home  with  glee  ; — 

Their  graves  are  sever’d,  far  and  wide, 

By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O’er  each  fair  sleeping  brow  ; 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight— 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 


One,  ’midst  the  forests  of  the  West 
By  a  dark  stream  is  laid — 

The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest 
Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one — 

He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep  ; 

He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 
O’er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  drest 
Above  the  noble  slain  : 

He  wrapt  his  colors  round  his  breast 
On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one — o’er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fann’d  ; 

She  faded  midst  Italian  flowers — 

The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  play’d 
Beneath  the  same  green  tree ; 

Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  pray’d 
Around  one  parent  knee  ! 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall. 

And  cheer’d  with  song  the  hearth  ! — ■ 
Alas!  for  love,  if  thou  wert  all, 

And  naught  beyond,  O  earth  ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


Poetry 


OF 


Infancy  and  Childhood. 

- - 


Baby  May. 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches ; 

Lips  whose  velvet  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies  paleness ;  round  large  eyes 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise ; 

Minutes  filled  with  shadeless  gladness ; 
Minutes  just  as  brimm’d  with  sadness ; 
Happy  smiles  and  wailing  cries, 

Crows  and  laughs  and  tearful  eyes, 
Lights  and  shadows,  swifter  born 
Than  on  windswept  autumn  corn ; 

Ever  some  new  tiny  notion, 

Making  every  limb  all  motion, 
Catchings  up  of  legs  and  arms, 
Throwings  back  and  small  alarms, 
Clutching  fingers — straightening  jerks, 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works, 
Kickings  up  and  straining  risings, 
Mother’s  ever-new  surprisings  ; 

Hands  all  wants,  and  looks  all  wonder 
At  all  things  the  heavens  under ; 

Tiny  scorns  of  smiled  reprovings 
That  have  more  of  love  than  lovings ; 
Mischiefs  done  with  such  a  winning 
Archness  that  we  prize  such  sinning; 
Breakings  dire  of  plates  and  glasses, 
Graspings  small  at  all  that  passes ; 
Pullings  off  of  all  that’s  able 
To  be  caught  from  tray  or  table; 
Silences — small  meditations 
Deep  as  thoughts  of  cares  for  nations — 
Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 
In  a  tongue  that  nothing  teaches, 

All  the  thoughts  of  whose  possessing 
Must  be  woo’d  to  light  by  guessing ; 
Slumbers — such  sweet  angel-seemings 
That  we’d  ever  have  such  dreamings, 
Till  from  sleep  we  see  thee  breaking, 


And  we’d  always  have  thee  waking ; 
Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  measure, 
Pleasure  high  above  all  pleasure, 

Gladness  brimming  over  gladness, 

Joy  in  care — delight  in  sadness, 

Loveliness  beyond  completeness, 

Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness, 

Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  be, 

That’s  May  Bennett ;  that’s  my  baby. 

W.  C.  Bennett. 

- *0* - - 

Baby  Louise. 

I’m  in  love  with  you,  Baby  Louise! 
With  your  silken  hair  and  your  soft  blue 
eyes, 

And  the  dreamy  wisdom  that  in  them  lies, 
And  the  faint,  sweet  smile  you  brought  from 
the  skies ; 

God’s  sunshine,  Baby  Louise ! 

When  you  fold  your  hands,  Baby 
Louise — 

Your  hands, 'like  a  fairy’s,  so  tiny  and  fair — 
With  a  pretty,  innocent,  saint-like  air, 

Are  you  trying  to  think  of  some  angel- 
taught  prayer 

You  learned  above,  Baby  Louise? 

I’m  in  love  with  you,  Baby  Louise ! 
Why  !  you  never  raise  your  beautiful  head ! 
Some  day,  little  one,  your  cheek  will  grow 
red 

With  a  flush  of  delight  to  hear  the  words 
said, 

“  I  love  you,”  Baby  Louise. 

Do  you  hear  me,  Baby  Louise  ? 

I  have  sung  your  praises  for  nearly  an  hour, 


30 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  your  lashes  keep  drooping  lower  and 
lower, 

And  you’ve  gone  to  sleep  like  a  weary 
flower, 

Ungrateful  Baby  Louise ! 

Margaret  Eytinge. 

- K»  — 

Philip  my  King. 

“  Who  bears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovei’eignty.” 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 
Philip,  my  king ! 

Round  whom  the  enshadowing  purple  lies 
Of  babyhood’s  royal  dignities : 

Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand, 

With  Love’s  invisible  sceptre  laden  ; 

I  am  thine  Esther  to  command 

Till  thou  shalt  find  a  queen-hand¬ 
maiden, 

Philip,  my  king ! 

Oh,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-wooing, 
Philip,  my  king ! 

When  those  beautiful  lips  ’gin  suing, 

And,  some  gentle  heart’s  bars  undoing, 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crown’d,  and  there 
Sittest,  love-glorified  ! — Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair  ; 

For  we  that  love,  ah  !  we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip,  my  king ! 

LTp  from  thy  sweet  mouth  up  to  thy  brow, 
Philip,  my  king ! 

The  spirit  that  there  lies  sleeping  now 
May  rise  like  a  giant,  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  heaven-chosen  amongst  his  peers. 
My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  taller  and 
fairer 

Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years ! 

Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  my  king — 

A  wreath,  not  of  gold,  but  palm.  One  day, 
Philip,  my  king ! 

Thou,  too,  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny,  and  cruel,  and  cold,  and  gray ; 
Rebels  within  thee  and  foes  without 

Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.  But  march 
on,  glorious, 

Martyr,  yet  monarch  !  till  angels  shout, 

As  thou  sitt’st  at  the  feet  of  God  vic¬ 
torious, 

“  Philip,  the  king !” 

Dinah  Mulock  Craik. 


Baby  Bell. 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 

The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar: 

With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 

She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of 
even, — 

Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 

O’er  which  the  white-wing’d  angels  go, 
Bearing  the  holy  dead  to  heaven. 

She  touch’d  a  bridge  of  flowers, — those 
feet, 

So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels, 

They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers  : 

Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet ! 
And  thus  came  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 

She  came,  and  brought  delicious  May. 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves; 
Like  sunlight,  in  and  out  the  leaves 
The  robins  went  the  livelong  day ; 

The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell ; 

And  o’er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 
Seem’d  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine. 
How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell ! 

Oh,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds 
And  opening  spring-tide  flowers, 

When  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Came  to  this  world  of  ours ! 

Oh,  Baby,  dainty  Baby  Bell, 

How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day ! 

What  woman-nature  fill’d  her  eves, 

What  poetry  within  them  lay  ! 

Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 

So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 

And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more : 

Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 
Was  love  so  lovely  born  : 

We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen — 

The  land  bevond  the  morn  ; 

And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 

For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 

(The  mother’s  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Baby  came  from  Paradise), — 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


31 


For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
W e  said,  Dear  Christ ! — our  hearts  bent 
down 

Like  violets  after  rain. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 
Were  rich  in  autumn’s  mellow  prime  ; 

The  cluster’d  apples  burnt  like  flame, 

The  soft-cheek’d  peaches  blush’d  and  fell, 
The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 

The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange ; 
And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 
In  little  Baby  Bell. 

Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 

And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 

In  soften’d  curves,  her  mother’s  face. 
Her  angel-nature  ripen’d  too  : 

We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 
But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now : — 

Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
W  e  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame ! 

God’s  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 

That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 

Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 

We  never  held  her  being’s  key  ; 

We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things : 

She  was  Christ’s  self  in  purity. 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees, 

We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell, — 

The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 
His  messenger  for  Baby  Bell. 

We  shudder’d  with  unlanguaged  pain, 
And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 
Like  sunshine  into  rain. 

We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 

“  Oh,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God ! 

Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 

And  perfect  grow  through  grief.” 

Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell ; 

Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  Baby  Bell ! 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands  : 
And  what  did  dainty  Baby  Bell  ? 

She  only  cross’d  her  little  hands, 


She  only  look’d  more  meek  and  fair ! 

We  parted  back  her  silken  hair, 

We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, — 
White  buds,  the  summer’s  drifted  snow, — 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers ! 
And  thus  went  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

—  »o« - 

Where  did  you  Come  from? 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here. 

Where  did  get  your  eyes  so  blue  ? 

Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and 
spin? 

Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 

Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 

I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and 
high  ? 

A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm 
white  rose  ? 

I  saw  something  better  than  any  one 
knows. 

Whence  that  three-corner’d  smile  of  bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear  ? 

God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands  ? 
Love  made  itself  into  hooks  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling 
things  ? 

From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs’  wings. 

How  did  they  all  come  just  to  be  you  ? 
God  thought  of  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear  ? 
God  thought  of  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 

George  Macdonald. 

- - 

u Sweet  and  Lowe 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 

Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 


32 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 

Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 
Blow  him  again  to  me, 

While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Best,  rest,  on  mother’s  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the 
nest, 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon  : 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
sleep. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


Lullaby. 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes, 

Smiles  awake  you  when  you  rise. 

Sleep,  pretty  wantons ;  do  not  cry, 

And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby  : 

Bock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 

Care  is  heavy,  therefore  sleep  you ; 

You  are  care,  and  care  must  keep  you. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons ;  do  not  cry, 

And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby : 

Bock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 

Thomas  Dekker. 

- K>« - 

Lady  Anne  Both  welds  Lament. 

Balow,  my  babe,  lye  stil  and  sleipe ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe  : 

If  thou’st  be  silent,  I’se  be  glad, 

Thy  maining  maks  my  heart  ful  sad. 
Balow,  my  boy,  thy  mother’s  joy, 

Thy  father  breides  me  great  annoy. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  still  and  sleipe, 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

Whan  he  began  to  court  my  luve, 

And  with  his  sugred  wordes  to  muve, 

His  faynings  fals,  and  flattering  cheire 
To  me  that  time  did  not  appeire  : 

But  now  I  see,  most  cruell  liee 
Cares  neither  for  my  babe  nor  mee. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe, 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

Ly  stil,  my  darling,  sleipe  a  while, 

And  when  thou  wakest,  sweitly  smile: 


But  smile  not,  as  thy  father  did, 

To  cozen  maids  :  nay,  God  forbid ! 

Bot  yett  I  feire,  thou  wilt  gae  neire 
Thy  fatheris  hart  and  face  to  beire. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe, 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

I  cannae  chuse,  but  ever  will 
Be  luving  to  thy  father  stil : 

Whair-eir  he  gae,  whair-eir  he  ryde, 

My  luve  with  him  doth  stil  abyde : 

In  weil  or  wae,  whair-eir  he  gae, 

Mine  hart  can  neire  depart  him  frae. 
Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe, 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

But  doe  not,  doe  not,  pretty  mine, 

To  faynings  fals  thine  hart  incline ; 

Be  loyal  to  thy  luver  trew, 

And  nevir  change  her  for  a  new : 

If  gude  or  faire,  of  hir  have  care, 

For  women’s  banning’s  wondrous  sair. 
Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe, 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

Bairne,  sin  thy  cruel  father  is  gane, 

Thy  winsome  smiles  maun  eise  my  paine ; 
My  babe  and  I’ll  together  live, 

He’ll  comfort  me  when  cares  doe  grieve : 
My  babe  and  I  right  saft  will  ly, 

And  quite  forgeit  man’s  cruelty. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe, 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

Fareweil,  fareweil,  thou  falsest  youth, 
That  evir  kist  a  woman’s  mouth  ! 

I  wish  all  maides  be  warn’d  by  mee 
Nevir  to  trust  man’s  curtesy  ; 

For  if  we  doe  bot  chance  to  bow, 

They’ll  use  us  than  they  care  not  how. 
Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe, 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

Author  Unknown. 

■  --•<>•  ■ ■ — 

Cradle  Song. 

[From  the  German.] 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Thy  father’s  watching  the  sheep, 

Thy  mother’s  shaking  the  dreamland  tree, 
And  down  drops  a  little  dream  for  thee. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  I 
The  large  stars  are  the  sheep, 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


33 


The  little  stars  are  the  lambs,  I  guess, 

The  bright  moon  is  the  shepherdess. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

And  cry  not  like  a  sheep. 

Else  the  sheep-dog  will  bark  and  whine, 
And  bite  this  naughty  child  of  mine. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Thy  Saviour  loves  His  sheep ; 

He  is  the  Lamb  of  God  on  high 
Who  for  our  sakes  came  down  to  die. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Away  to  tend  the  sheep, 

Away,  thou  sheep-dog  fierce  and  wild, 

And  do  not  harm  my  sleeping  child  ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Elizabeth  Prentiss. 

- +0* - 

The  Angels’  Whisper. 

A  baby  was  sleeping ; 

Its  mother  was  weeping ; 

For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild  raging 
sea ; 

And  the  tempest  was  swelling 
Round  the  fisherman’s  dwelling  ; 
And  she  cried,  “  Dermot,  darling,  oh  come 
back  to  me !” 

Her  beads  while  she  number’d, 

The  baby  still  slumber’d, 

And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her 
knee : 

“  Oh,  blest  be  that  warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering 
with  thee ! 

“  And  while  they  are  keeping 
Bright  watch  o’er  thy  sleeping, 

Oh,  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me ! 
And  say  thou  wouldst  rather 
They’d  watch  o’er  thy  father  ! 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering 
to  thee.” 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 

Saw  Dermot  returning, 

3 


And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's 
father  to  see ; 

And  closely  caressing 
Her  child  with  a  blessing, 

Said,  “  I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whis¬ 
pering  with  thee.” 

Samuel  Lover. 


The  Child  and  the  Watcher. 

Sleep  on,  baby  on  the  floor, 

Tired  of  all  thy  playing — 

Sleep  with  smile  the  sweeter  for 
That  you  dropped  away  in  ; 

On  your  curls,  fair  roundness  stand 
Golden  lights  serenely ; 

One  cheek,  push’d  out  by  the  hand 
Folds  the  dimple  inly — 

Little  head  and  little  foot 
Heavy  laid  for  pleasure  ; 
Underneath  the  lids  half-shut 
Plants  the  shining  azure  ; 
Open-soul’d  in  noonday  sun, 

So,  you  lie  and  slumber ; 

Nothing  evil  having  done, 

Nothing  can  encumber. 

I,  who  cannot  sleep  as  well, 

Shall  I  sigh  to  view  you  ? 

Or  sigh  further  to  foretell 
All  that  may  undo  you  ? 

Nay,  keep  smiling,  little  child, 

Ere  the  fate  appeareth ! 

I  smile  too ;  for  patience  mild 
Pleasure’s  token  weareth. 

Nay,  keep  sleeping  before  loss ; 

I  shall  sleep,  though  losing ! 

As  by  cradle,  so  by  cross, 

Sweet  is  the  reposing. 

And  God  knows,  who  sees  us  twain, 
Child  at  childish  leisure, 

I  am  all  as  tired  of  pain 
As  you  are  of  pleasure. 

Very  soon,  too,  by  His  grace, 

Gently  wrapt  around  me, 

I  shall  show  as  calm  a  face, 

I  shall  sleep  as  soundly — 

Differing  in  this,  that  you 

Clasp  your  playthings  sleeping 
While  my  hand  must  drop  the  few 
Given  to  my  keeping — 

Differing  in  this,  that  I, 

Sleeping,  must  be  colder, 


34 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And,  in  waking  presently, 

Brighter  to  beholder — 

Differing  in  this,  beside 
(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me? 

Do  you  move  and  open  wide 
Your  great  eyes  toward  me?), 

That  while  I  you  draw  withal 
From  this  slumber  solely, 

Me,  from  mine,  an  angel  shall, 

Trumpet-tongued  and  holy ! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

- KX - 

Sweet  Baby ;  Sleep. 

Sweet  baby,  sleep  !  what  ails  my  dear  ? 

What  ails  my  darling,  thus  to  cry  ? 

Be  still,  my  child,  and  lend  thine  ear, 

To  hear  me  sing  thy  lullaby. 

My  pretty  lamb,  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  dear  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Thou  blessed  soul,  what  canst  thou  fear  ? 

What  thing  to  thee  can  mischief  do  ? 
Thy  God  is  now  thy  Father  dear, 

His  holy  Spouse  thy  mother  too. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Though  thy  conception  was  in  sin, 

A  sacred  bathing  thou  hast  had  ; 

And  though  thy  birth  unclean  hath  been, 
A  blameless  babe  thou  now  art  made. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  dear  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

While  thus  thy  lullaby  I  sing, 

For  thee  great  blessings  ripening  be  ; 
Thine  eldest  brother  is  a  King, 

And  hath  a  kingdom  bought  for  thee. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Sweet  baby,  sleep,  and  nothing  fear ; 

For  whosoever  thee  offends 
By  thy  Protector  threaten’d  are. 

And  God  and  angels  are  thy  friends. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

When  God  with  us  was  dwelling  here, 

In  little  babes  He  took  delight ; 

Such  innocents  as  thou,  my  dear, 

Are  ever  precious  in  His  sight. 


Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

A  little  infant  once  was  He ; 

And  strength  in  weakness-  then  was  laid 

Upon  His  virgin  mother’s  knee, 

That  power  to  thee  might  be  convey’d. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

In  this  thy  frailty  and  thy  need 

He  friends  and  helpers  doth  prepare, 

Which  thee  shall  cherish,  clothe,  and  feed. 
For  of  thy  weal  they  tender  are. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

The  King  of  kings,  when  He  was  born, 
Had  not  so  much  for  outward  ease ; 
j  By  Him  such  dressings  were  not  worn, 
ISor  such-like  swaddling-clothes  as  these. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Within  a  manger  lodged  thy  Lord, 

Where  oxen  lav  and  asses  fed  : 

Warm  rooms  we  do  to  thee  afford, 

An  easy  cradle  or  a  bed. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  wreep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

The  wants  that  He  did  then  sustain 

Have  purchased  -wealth,  my  babe,  foi 
thee ; 

And  by  His  torments  and  His  pain 
Thy  rest  and  ease  secured  be. 

My  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Thou  hast,  yet  more  to  perfect  this, 

A  promise  and  an  earnest  got 

Of  gaining  everlasting  bliss, 

Though  thou,  my  babe,  perceiv’st  it  not : 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Geor<;e  Wither. 


Cradle  Hymn. 

Hush,  my  dear  !  Lie  still  and  slumber  ! 

Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed  ! 

Heavenly  blessings  without  number, 
Gently  falling  on  thy  head. 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD 


35 


Sleep,  my  babe  !  thy  food  and  raiment, 
House  and  home,  thy  friends  provide ; 
All  without  thy  care  or  payment, 

All  thy  wants  are  well  supplied. 

How  much  better  thou’rt  attended 
Than  the  Son  of  God  could  be, 

When  from  heaven  He  descended, 

And  became  a  child  like  thee  ! 

Soft  and  easy  is  thy  cradle  : 

Coarse  and  hard  thy  Saviour  lay, 

When  His  birthplace  was  a  stable 
And  His  softest  bed  was  hay. 

Blessed  Babe  !  what  glorious  features, — 
Spotless  fair,  divinely  bright ! 

Must  He  dwell  with  brutal  creatures  ? 
How  could  angels  bear  the  sight  ? 

Was  there  nothing  but  a  manger 
Cursed  sinners  could  afford, 

To  receive  the  heavenly  stranger  ? 

Did  they  thus  affront  the  Lord  ? 

Soft,  my  child  !  I  did  not  chide  thee, 
Though  my  song  might  sound  too  hard  : 
’Tis  thy  mother  sits  beside  thee, 

And  her  arm  shall  be  thy  guard. 

Yet  to  read  the  shameful  story, 

How  the  Jews  abused  their  King, 

How  they  served  the  Lord  of  glory, 

Makes  me  angry  while  I  sing. 

See  the  kinder  shepherds  round  Him, 
Telling  wonders  from  the  sky  ! 

Where  they  sought  Him,  there  they  found 
Him, 

With  His  virgin  mother  by. 

See  the  lovely  Babe  a-dressing  ; 

Lovely  Infant,  how  He  smiled  ! 

When  He  wept,  His  mother’s  blessing 
Sooth’d  and  hush’d  the  holy  Child. 

Lo,  He  slumbers  in  a  manger, 

Where  the  horned  oxen  fed  : — 

Peace,  my  darling,  here’s  no  danger : 
There’s  no  ox  a-near  thy  bed. 

’Twas  to  save  thee,  child,  from  dying, 

Save  my  dear  from  burning  flame, 

Bitter  groans  and  endless  crying, 

That  thy  blest  Redeemer  came. 


May’st  thou  live  to  know  and  fear  Him, 
Trust  and  love  Him  all  thy  days, 
Then  go  dwell  for  ever  near  Him  : 

See  His  face,  and  sing  His  praise  ! 

I  could  give  thee  thousand  kisses  ! 

Hoping  what  I  most  desire, 

Not  a  mother’s  fondest  wishes 

Can  to  greater  joys  aspire  ! 

Isaac  Watts. 

- - 

To  a  Child  • 
Embracing  his  Mother. 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one ! 

Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again, — 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 

Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 

Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes, 

And  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee, — 
Hereafter  thou  may’st  shudder  sighs 
To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes  ! 

Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow 

With  love  that  they  have  often  told, — 
Hereafter  thou  may’st  press  in  woe, 

And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 
Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow  ! 

Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 

Although  it  be  not  silver-gray — 

Too  early  Death,  led  on  by  Care, 

May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 
Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn, 

That  Heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer— 
For  thou  may’st  live  the  hour  forlorn 
When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn  ! 

Thomas  IIood. 

- *o* - 

To  Charlotte  Pulteney. 

Timely  blossom,  infant  fair, 
Fondling  of  a  happy  pair, 

Every  morn  and  every  night 
Their  solicitous  delight ; 

Sleeping,  waking,  still  at  ease, 
Pleasing,  without  skill  to  please  ; 
Little  gossip,  blithe  and  hale, 
Tattling  many  a  broken  tale; 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


Singing  many  a  tuneless  song, 
Lavish  of  a  heedless  tongue  ; 
Simple  maiden,  void  of  art, 
Babbling  out  the  very  heart, 

Yet  abandon’d  to  thy  will, 

Yet  imagining  no  ill, 

Yet  too  innocent  to  blush  ; 

Like  the  linnet  in  the  bush 
To  the  mother-linnet’s  note 
Moduling  her  slender  throat, 
Chirping  forth  thy  petty  joys, 
Wanton  in  the  change  of  toys  ; 

Like  the  linnet  green  in  May 
Flitting  to  each  bloomy  spray  ; 
Wearied  then  and  glad  of  rest, 

Like  the  linnet  in  the  nest ; — 

This  thy  present  happy  lot 
This,  in  time  will  be  forgot : 

Other  pleasures,  other  cares, 
Ever-busy  Time  prepares ; 

And  thou  shalt  in  thy  daughter  see 

This  picture,  once,  resembled  thee. 

Ambrose  Philips. 

- >o»  ■  — 

To  T.  L.  H. 

Six  Years  Old,  During  a  Sickness. 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 
My  little,  patient  boy  ; 

And  balmy  rest  about  thee 
Smooths  off  the  day’s  annoy. 

I  sit  me  down,  and  think 
Of  all  thv  winning  ways  ; 

Set  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink, 
That  I  had  less  to  praise. 

Thy  sidelong  pillowed  meekness, 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid, 

Thy  heart,  in  pain  and  weakness, 

Of  fancied  faults  afraid  ; 

The  little  trembling  hand 
That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears  : 
rhese,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 
Dread  memories  for  years. 

Sorrows  I’ve  had,  severe  ones, 

I  will  not  think  of  now ; 

And  calmly,  midst  my  dear  ones, 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow; 


But  when  thy  fingers  press 
And  pat  my  stooping  head, 

I  cannot  bear  the  gentleness — 

The  tears  are  in  their  bed. 

Ah,  first-born  of  thy  mother, 

When  life  and  hope  were  new  ; 

Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother, 

Thy  sister,  father  too ; 

My  light,  where’er  I  go  ; 

My  bird,  when  prison-bound  ; 

My  hand-in-hand  companion — No, 

My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

To  say  “He  has  departed ” — 

“His  voice” — “his  face” — is  gone, 
To  feel  impatient-hearted, 

Yet  feel  we  must  bear  on — 

Ah,  I  could  not  endure 
To  whisper  of  such  woe, 

Unless  I  felt  this  sleep  ensure 
That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Yes,  still  he’s  fixed,  and  sleeping! 

This  silence  too  the  while — 

Its  very  hush  and  creeping 
Seem  whispering  us  a  smile ; 

Something  divine  and  dim 
Seems  going  by  one’s  ear, 

Like  parting  wings  of  cherubim, 

Who  say,  “  We’ve  finished  here.” 

Leigh  Hex*. 

- •<>• - 

Children. 

Children  are  what  the  mothers  are. 
No  fondest  father’s  fondest  care 
Can  fashion  so  the  infant  heart 
As  those  creative  beams  that  dart, 
With  all  their  hopes  and  fears,  upon 
The  cradle  of  a  sleeping  son. 

His  startled  eyes  with  wonder  see 
A  father  near  him  on  his  knee, 

Who  wishes  all  the  while  to  trace 
The  mother  in  his  future  face; 

But  ’tis  to  her  alone  uprise 

His  wakening  arms  ;  to  her  those  eyes 

Open  with  joy  and  not  surprise. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


37 


Castles  in  the  air. 

The  bonnie,  bonnie  bairn,  who  sits  poking 
in  the  ase, 

Glowering  in  the  fire  with  his  wee  round 
face ; 

Laughing  at  the  fuflin’  lowe,  what  sees  he 
there  ? 

Ha !  the  young  dreamer’s  bigging  castles 
in  the  air. 

His  wee  chubby  face  and  his  touzie  curly 
pow, 

Are  laughing  and  nodding  to  the  dancing 
lowe ; 

He’ll  brown  his  rosy  cheeks,  and  singe  his 
sunny  hair, 

Glowering  at  the  imps  wi’  their  castles  in 
the  air. 

He  sees  muckle  castles  towering  to  the 
moon ! 

He  sees  little  sogers  pu’ing  them  a’  doun  ! 

Worlds  whombling  up  and  down,  bleezing 
wi’  a  flare, 

See  how  he  loups !  as  they  glimmer  in  the 
air. 

For  a’  sae  sage  he  looks,  what  can  the  laddie 
ken? 

He’s  thinking  upon  naething,  like  mony 
mighty  men, 

A  wee  thing  maks  us  think,  a  sma’  thing 
maks  us  stare, 

There  are  mair  folk  than  him  bigging 
castles  in  the  air. 

Sic  a  night  in  winter  may  weel  mak  him 
cauld : 

His  chin  upon  his  buffy  hand  will  soon 
mak  him  auld ; 

His  brow  is  brent  sae  braid,  oh,  pray  that 
daddy  Care 

Would  let  the  wean  alane  wi’  his  castles  in 
the  air. 

He’ll  glower  at  the  fire  !  and  he’ll  keek  at 
the  light ! 

Eut  mony  sparkling  stars  are  swallow’d  up 
by  night ; 

Aulder  een  than  his  are  glamour’d  by  a 
glare, 

Hearts  are  broken,  heads  are  turn’d,  wi’ 

castles  in  the  air. 

James  Ballantyne, 

- - KX - 


The  Little  Black  Boy. 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 

And  I  am  black,  but,  oh,  my  soul  is 
white ! 

White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 

But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree ; 

And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of 
day, 

She  took  me  on  her  lap  and  kissed  me, 

And,  pointing  to  the  East,  began  to  say : 

“  Look  on  the  rising  sun :  there  God  does 
live, 

And  gives  his  light,  and  gives  his  heat 
away, 

And  flowers,  and  trees,  and  beasts,  and  men, 
receive 

Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noon¬ 
day. 

“And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space, 

That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams 
of  love ; 

And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt 
face 

Are  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

“For,  when  our  souls  have  learn’d  the  heat 
to  bear, 

The  cloud  will  vanish,  we  shall  heai 
His  voice 

Saying :  ‘  Come  from  the  grove,  my  love 
and  care, 

And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs 
rejoice.’  ” 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me, 

And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy. 

When  I  from  black,  and  he  from  white 
cloud  free, 

And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs 
we  joy, 

I’ll  shade  him  from  the  heat,  till  he  can 
bear 

To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father’s  knee ; 

And  then  I’ll  stand  and  stroke  his  silver 
hair, 

And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love 
me. 


William  Blake. 


38 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Ballad  of  the  Tempest. 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 

Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep, — 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 

And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

’Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  Winter 
To  be  shattered  in  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder:  “Cut  away  the  mast!” 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence, — 

For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 

And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers, 

“  We  are  lost  !”  the  captain  shouted 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand : 

“  Isn’t  God  upon  the  ocean 
Just  the  same  as  on  the  land?” 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 

And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer, 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 

When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 

James  T.  Fields. 

- - 

Little  Bell. 

He  praveth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

Ancient  Mariner. 

Piped  the  blackbird  on  the  beechwood 
spray : 

“  Pretty  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way, 
What’s  your  name?”  quoth  he — 

“  What’s  your  name  ?  Oh  stop  and  straight 
unfold, 

Pretty  maid  with  showery  curls  of  gold,” — 
“Little  Bell,”  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  beneath  the  rocks — 
Tossed  aside  her  gleaming  golden  locks — 

“  Bonny  bird,”  quoth  she, 

“  Sing  me  your  best  song  before  I  go.” 

“  Here’s  the  very  finest  song  I  know, 

Little  Bell,”  said  he. 

And  the  blackbird  piped  ;  you  never  heard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird — 


Full  of  quips  and  wiles, 

Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  for  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 
Dimpled  o’er  with  smiles. 

And  the  while  the  bonny  bird  did  pour 
His  full  heart  out  freely  o’er  and  o’er 
’Neath  the  morning  skies, 

In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 
From  the  blue,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripped  and  through  the 
glade, 

Peeped  the  squirrel  from  the  hazel  shade, 
And  from  out  the  tree 
Swung  and  leaped,  and  frolicked,  void  of 
fear, — 

While  bold  blackbird  piped  that  all  might 
hear — 

“Little  Bell,”  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern — 
“Squirrel,  squirrel,  to  your  task  return — 
Bring  me  nuts,”  quoth  she. 

Up,  away  the  frisky  squirrel  hies — 

Golden  wood-lights  glancing  in  his  eyes — 
And  adown  the  tree, 

Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July  sun, 
In  the  little  lap  dropped  one  by  one — 
Hark,  how  blackbird  pipes  to  see  the  fun ! 
“  Happy  Bell,”  pipes  he. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the  glade — 
“  Squirrel,  squirrel,  if  you’re  not  afraid, 
Come  and  share  with  me !” 

Down  came  squirrel  eager  for  his  fare — 
Down  came  bonny  blackbird,  I  declare ; 
Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share — 
Ah  the  merry  three ! 

And  the  while  these  frolic  playmates  twain 
Piped  and  frisked  from  bough  to  bough 
again, 

’Neath  the  morning  skies, 

In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  out  in  happy  overflow 
From  her  blue,  bright  eyes. 

Bv  her  snow-white  cot  at  close  of  dav 

%  v 

Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms  to 
pray— 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


39 


Very  calm  and  clear 
Rose  the  praying  voice  to  where,  unseen, 
In  blue  heaven,  an  angel  shape  serene 
Paused  a  while  to  hear — 

“  What  good  child  is  this,”  the  angel  said, 
“  That  with  happy  heart,  beside  her  bed 
Prays  so  lovingly?” 

Low  and  soft,  oh !  wery  low  and  soft, 
Crooned  the  blackbird  in  the  orchard  croft, 
“  Bell,  dear  Bell !”  crooned  he. 

“  Whom  God’s  creatures  love,”  the  angel 
fair 

Murmured,  “  God  doth  bless  with  angels’ 
care ; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 
Folded  safe  from  harm  —  Love,  deep  and 
kind, 

Shall  watch  around  and  leave  good  gifts 
behind, 

Little  Bell,  for  thee !” 

Thomas  Westwood. 

- K>« - 

The  Reconciliation. 

As  thro’  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck’d  the  ripen’d  ears, 

We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 

We  fell  out — I  know  not  why — 

And  kiss’d  again  with  tears. 

And  blessings  on  the  falling-out 
That  all  the  more  endears, 

When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 
And  kiss  again  with  tears ! 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 
We  lost  in  other  years, 

There  above  the  little  grave, 

Oh  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss’d  again  with  tears. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

-  ■  - 

Golden-Tressed  Adelaide. 

A  Song  for  a  Child. 

Sing,  I  pray,  a  little  song, 

Mother  dear ! 

Neither  sad  nor  very  long: 

It  is  for  a  little  maid, 

Golden-tressed  Adelaide ! 

Therefore  let  it  suit  a  merry,  merry  ear, 
Mother  dear ! 


Let  it  be  a  merry  strain, 

Mother  dear ! 

Shunning  e’en  the  thought  of  pain : 

For  our  gentle  child  will  weep 
If  the  theme  be  dark  and  deep ; 

And  ive  will  not  draw  a  single,  single  tear, 
Mother  dear ! 

Childhood  should  be  all  divine, 

Mother  dear ! 

And  like  an  endless  summer  shine ; 

Gay  as  Edward’s  shouts  and  cries, 

Bright  as  Agnes’  azure  eyes : 

Therefore  bid  thy  song  be  merry : — dost 
thou  hear, 

Mother  dear? 

Bryan  Waller  Procter. 
- *<>• - 

Casa  Wappy. 

And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home, 
Our  fond,  dear  boy — 

The  realms  where  sorrow  dare  not  come, 
Where  life  is  joy? 

Pure  at  thy  death,  as  at  thy  birth, 

Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth  ; 
Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  dearth, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell, 

As  closed  thine  eye ; 

Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 
When  thou  didst  die ; 

Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee; 
Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  our  unfathom’d  agony  ! 

Casa  W appy ! 

Thou  wert  a  vision  of  delight, 

To  bless  us  given  ; 

Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight — 

A  type  of  heaven  ! 

So  dear  to  us  thou  wert,  thou  art 
Even  less  thine  own  self,  than  a  part 
Of  mine,  and  of  thy  mother’s  heart, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Thy  bright,  brief  day  knew  no  decline— 
’Twas  cloudless  joy  ; 

Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine, 
Beloved  boy ! 

This  morn  beheld  thee  blythe  and  gay ; 
That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay  ; 

And  ere  a  third  shone,  clay  was  clay, 

Casa  Wappy ! 


40 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Gem  of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride, 
Earth’s  undefiled, 

Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst  not  died, 
Our  dear,  sweet  child  ! 

Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate’s  decree  ; 

Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  should  see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Do  what  I  may,  go  where  I  will, 

Thou  meet’st  my  sight ; 

There  dost  thou  glide  before  me  still — 

A  form  of  light ! 

I  feel  thy  breath  upon  my  cheek — 

I  see  thee  smile,  I  hear  thee  speak — 

Till  oh !  my  heart  is  like  to  break, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Methinks  thou  smil’st  before  me  now, 
With  glance  of  stealth  ; 

The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full  brow 
In  buoyant  health ; 

I  see  thine  eyes’  deep  violet  light — 

Thy  dimpled  cheek  carnation’d  bright — 
Thy  clasping  arms  so  round  and  white — 
Casa  Wappy ! 

The  nursery  shows  thy  pictured  wall, 

Thy  bat — thy  bow — 

Thy  cloak  and  bonnet — club  and  ball; 

But  where  art  thou  ? 

A  corner  holds  thine  empty  chair; 

Thy  playthings,  idly  scatter’d  there, 

But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Even  to  the  last,  thy  every  word — 

To  glad — to  grieve — 

Was  sweet,  as  sweetest  song  of  bird 
On  summer’s  eve ; 

In  outward  beauty  undecay’d, 

Death  o’er  thy  spirit  cast  no  shade, 

And,  like  the  rainbow,  thou  didst  fade, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

We  mourn  for  thee,  when  blind,  blank 
night 

The  chamber  fills ; 

We  pine  for  thee,  when  morn’s  first  light 
Reddens  the  hills; 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 

All — to  the  wall-flower  and  wild-pea — 

Are  changed  ;  we  saw  the  world  thro’  thee, 
Casa  W appy ! 


And  though,  perchance,  a  smile  may 
gleam 

Of  casual  mirth, 

It  doth  not  own,  whate’er  may  seem, 

An  inward  birth  ; 

W e  miss  thy  small  stej)  on  the  stair ; — 

We  miss  thee  at  thine  evening  prayer; 

All  day  we  miss  thee — everywhere — 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst  go, 
In  life’s  spring-bloom, 

Down  to  the  appointed  house  below — 

The  silent  tomb. 

But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 

The  cuckoo  and  “  the  busy  bee,” 

Return,  but  with  them  bring  not  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

’Tis  so ;  but  can  it  be — while  flowers 
Revive  again — 

Man’s  doom,  in  death  that  we  and  ours 
F or  aye  remain  ? 

Oh  can  it  be,  that,  o’er  the  grave, 

The  grass  renew’d  should  yearly  wave. 

Yet  God  forget  our  child  to  save? 

Casa  W  appy ! 

It  cannot  be ;  for  were  it  so 
Thus  man  could  die, 

Life  were  a  mockery — thought  were  woe-  * 
And  truth  a  lie ; 

Heaven  were  a  coinage  of  the  brain — 
Religion  frenzy — virtue  vain — 

And  all  our  hopes  to  meet  again, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Then  be  to  us,  O  dear  lost  child ! 

With  beam  of  love, 

A  star,  death’s  uncongenial  wild 
Smiling  above ! 

Soon,  soon  thy  little  feet  have  trod 
The  skyward  path,  the  seraph’s  road. 

That  led  thee  back  from  man  to  God, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Yet,  ’tis  sweet  balm  to  our  despair, 

Fond,  fairest  boy, 

That  heaven  is  God’s,  and  thou  art  there, 
With  him  in  joy; 

There  past  are  death  and  all  its  woes ; 
There  beauty’s  stream  for  ever  flows ; 

And  pleasure’s  day  no  sunset  knows, 

Casa  Wappy! 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


41 


Farewell,  then — for  a  while,  farewell — 
Pride  of  my  heart ! 

It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell 
Thus  torn  apart. 

Time’s  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee ; 

And,  dark  howe’er  life’s  night  may  be, 

Beyond  the  grave  I’ll  meet  with  thee, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

David  Macbeth  Moir. 

- *o* - 

Willie  Winkie. 

Wee  Willie  AVinkie  rins  through  the  town, 

Up  stairs  and  doon  stairs,  in  his  nicht  gown, 

Tirlin’  at  the  window,  cryin’  at  the  lock, 

“Are  the  weans  in  their  bed? — for  it’s  now 
ten  o’clock.” 

Hey,  Willie  AVinkie!  are  ye  cornin’  ben? 

The  cat’s  singin’  gay  thrums  to  the  sleepin’ 
hen, 

The  doug’s  speldered  on  the  floor,  and  disna 
gie  a  cheep ; 

But  here’s  a  waukrife  laddie  that  winna  fa’ 
asleep. 

Onything  but  sleep,  ye  rogue ! — glowerin’ 
like  the  moon, 

Rattlin’  in  an  airn  jug  wi’  an  airn  spoon, 

Rumblin’,  tumblin’  roun’  about,  crawin’ 
like  a  cock, 

Skirlin’  like  a  kenna-what  —  wauknin’ 
sleepin’  folk. 

Hey,  AVillie  AVinkie  !  the  wean’s  in  a  creel ! 

AVaumblin’  aff  a  bodie’s  knee  like  a  vera 
eel, 

Ruggin’  at  the  cat’s  lug,  and  ravellin’  a’  her 
thrums : 

Hey,  AVillie  AVinkie ! — See,  there  he  comes ! 

Weary  is  the  mither  that  has  a  storie  wean, 

A  wee  stumpie  stoussie,  that  canna  rin  his 
lane, 

That  has  a  battle  aye  wi’  sleep  before  he’ll 
close  an  ee; 

But  a  kiss  frae  aff  his  rosy  lips  gies  strength 
anew  to  me. 

William  Miller. 

■  ■■  •<>♦ - 

The  Bab ie. 

Nae  shoon  to  hide  her  tiny  taes, 

Nae  stockin’  on  her  feet; 

Her  supple  ankles  white  as  snaw, 

Or  early  blossoms  sweet. 


Her  simple  dress  o’  sprinkled  pink, 

Her  double,  dimplit  chin, 

Her  puckered  lips  and  balmy  mou’ 

AVith  na  ane  tooth  within. 

Her  een  sae  like  her  mither’s  een, 

Twa  gentle,  liquid  things ; 

Her  face  is  like  an  angel’s  face : 

We’re  glad  she  has  nae  wings. 

She  is  the  buddin’  o’  our  luve, 

A  giftie  God  gied  us : 

AVe  maun  na  luve  the  gift  owre  weel ; 
’Twad  be  na  blessin’  thus. 

AVe  still  maun  lo’e  the  Giver  mair, 

An’  see  Him  in  the  given ; 

An’  sae  she’ll  lead  us  up  to  Him, 

Our  babie  straight  frae  heaven. 

J.  E.  Kankin. 

- •<>• - 

The  Dumb  Child. 

She  is  my  only  girl : 

I  ask’d  for  her  as  some  most  precious  thing, 
For  all  unfinish’d  was  love’s  je well’d  ring 
Till  set  with  this  soft  pearl : 

The  shade  that  time  brought  forth  I  could 
not  see ; 

How  pure,  how  perfect,  seem’d  the  gift  to 
me ! 

Oh,  many  a  soft  old  tune 
I  used  to  sing  unto  that  deaden’d  ear, 

And  suffer’d  not  the  lightest  footstep  near, 
Lest  she  might  wake  too  soon, 

And  hush’d  her  brothers’  laughter  while 
she  lay — 

Ah,  needless  care !  I  might  have  let  them 
play ! 

’Twas  long  ere  I  believed 
That  this  one  daughter  might  not  speak  to 
me  : 

Waited  and  watch’d.  God  knows  how 
patiently ! 

How  willingly  deceived ! 

Vain  Love  was  long  the  untiring  nurse  of 
Faith, 

And  tended  Hope  until  it  starved  to  death 

Oh  if  she  could  but  hear 
For  one  short  hour,  till  I  her  tongue  might 
teach 

To  call  me  mother,  in  the  broken  speech 
That  thrills  the  mother’s  ear  ! 

Alas !  those  seal’d  lips  never  may  be  stirr’d 
To  the  deep  music  of  that  lovely  word. 


42 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


My  heart  it  sorely  tries 
To  see  her  kneel,  with  such  a  reverent  air, 
Beside  her  brothers,  at  their  evening 
prayer ; 

Or  lift  those  earnest  eyes 
To  watch  our  lips,  as  though  our  words 
she  knew, — 

Then  move  her  own,  as  she  were  speaking 
too. 

I’ve  watch’d  her  looking  up 
To  the  bright  wonder  of  a  sunset  sky, 

With  such  a  depth  of  meaning  in  her  eye, 

That  I  could  almost  hope 
The  struggling  soul  would  burst  its  bind¬ 
ing  cords, 

And  the  long  pent-up  thoughts  flow  forth 
in  words. 

The  song  of  bird  and  bee, 

The  chorus  of  the  breezes,  streams,  and 
groves, 

All  the  grand  music  to  which  Nature 
moves, 

Are  wasted  melody 

To  her;  the  world  of  sound  a  nameless 
void, 

While  even  Silence  hath  its  charms  de¬ 
stroy’d. 

Her  face  is  very  fair : 

Her  blue  eye  beautiful :  of  finest  mould 
The  soft,  white  brow,  o’er  which  in  waves 
of  gold 

Hippies  her  shining  hair. 

Alas  !  this  lovely  temple  closed  must  be  ; 
For  He  who  made  it  keeps  the  master- 
key. 

Wills  He  the  mind  within 
Should  from  earth’s  Babel-clamor  be  kept 
free, 

E’en  that  His  still  small  voice  and  step  j 
might  be 

Heard  at  its  inner  shrine, 

Through  that  deep  hush  of  soul,  with 
clearer  thrill  ? 

Then  should  I  grieve?  O  murmuring 
heart,  be  still ! 

She  seems  to  have  a  sense 
Of  quiet  gladness  in  her  noiseless  play. 

She  hath  a  pleasant  smile,  a  gentle  way, 

Whose  voiceless  eloquence 


Touches  all  hearts,  though  I  had  once  the 
fear 

That  even  her  father  would  not  care  for 
her. 

Thank  God  it  is  not  so  ! 

And  when  his  sons  are  playing  merrily, 
She  comes  and  leans  her  head  upon  his 
knee. 

Oh,  at  such  times  I  know, 

By  his  full  eye  and  tones  subdued  and 
mild, 

How  his  heart  yearns  over  his  silent  child. 

Not  of  all  gifts  bereft, 

Even  now.  How  could  I  say  she  did  not 
speak  ? 

What  real  language  lights  her  eye  and 
cheek, 

And  renders  thanks  to  Him  who  left 
Unto  her  soul  yet  open,  avenues 
For  joy  to  enter,  and  for  love  to  use  ! 

And  God  in  love  doth  give 
To  her  defect  a  beauty  of  its  own  : 

And  we  a  deeper  tenderness  have  known, 

Through  that  for  which  we  grieve. 

Yet  shall  the  seal  be  melted  from  her 
ear, 

Yes,  and  my  voice  shall  fill  it— but  not 
here  ! 

When  that  new  sense  is  given, 

What  rapture  will  its  first  experience  be. 
That  never  woke  to  meaner  melodv 

Than  the  rich  songs  of  Heaven — 

To  hear  the  full-toned  anthem  swelling 
round, 

While  angels  teach  the  ecstasies  of 
sound  ! 

Author  Unknown. 


O* 


The  Wonderfit  Wean. 

Our  wean’s  the  most  wonderfu’  wean  e’er 
I  saw  ; 

It  would  tak  me  a  lang  simmer  day  to 
tell  a’ 

His  pranks,  frae  the  mornin’  till  night 
shuts  his  ee, 

When  he  sleeps  like  a  peerie,  ’tween  father 
and  me ; 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


43 


For  in  liis  quite  turns  siccan  questions 
he’ll  spier ! 

How  the  moon  can  stick  up  in  the  sky 
that’s  sae  clear? 

What  gars  the  wind  blaw  ?  and  whar  frae 
comes  the  rain  ? 

He’s  a  perfec’  divirt — he’s  a  wonderfu’ 
wean ! 

Or  wha  was  the  first  bodie’s  father  ?  and 
wha 

Made  the  vera  first  snaw-shooer  that  ever 
did  fa’? 

And  wha  made  the  first  bird  that  sang  on 
a  tree? 

And  the  water  that  sooms  a’  the  ships  in 
the  sea? 

But  after  I’ve  told  him  as  weel  as  I  ken, 

Again  he  begins  wi’  his  wha  and  his 
when ; 

And  he  looks  aye  sae  wistfu’  the  whiles  I 
explain : 

He’s  as  auld  as  the  hills — he’s  an  auld- 
farrant  wean. 

And  folk  wha  hae  skill  o’  the  lumps  on  the 
head 

Hint  there’s  mae  ways  than  toilin’  o’  win- 
nin’  ane’s  bread ; 

How  he’ll  be  a  rich  man,  and  hae  men  to 
work  for  him, 

Wi’  a  kvte  like  a  baillie’s,  shug-shuggin’ 
afore  him  ; 

Wi’  a  face  like  the  moon — sober,  sonsy,  and 
douce — 

And  a  back,  for  its  breadth,  like  the  side 
o’  a  house. 

’Tweel !  I’m  unco  ta’en  up  wi’t — they  mak 
a’  sae  plain. 

He’s  just  a  town’s  talk  ;  he’s  a  by-ord’nar 
wean ! 

I  ne’er  can  forget  sic  a  laugh  as  I  gat, 

To  see  him  put  on  father’s  waistcoat  and 
hat ; 

Then  the  lang-leggit  boots  gaed  sae  far 
owre  his  knees 

The  tap-loops  wi’  his  fingers  he  grippit  wi’ 
ease ; 

Then  he  march’d  through  the  house,  he 
march’d  but,  he  march’d  ben, 

Like  owre  mony  mae  o’  our  great  little 
men, 


That  I  leucli  clean  outright,  for  I  cou'dna 
contain : 

He  was  sic  a  conceit — sic  an  ancient-like 
wean ! 

But  ’mid  a’  his  daffin  sic  kindness  he  shows, 

That  he’s  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  dew  to 
the  rose ; 

And  the  unclouded  hinny-beam  aye  in 
his  ee 

Maks  him  every  day  dearer  and  dearer 
to  me. 

Though  Fortune  be  saucy,  and  dorty,  and 
dour, 

!  And  gloom  through  her  fingers  like  hills 
through  a  shooer, 

When  bodies  hae  gat  a  bit  bit  bairn  o’ 
their  ain, 

How  he  cheers  up  their  hearts ! — he’s  a 
wonderfu’  wean ! 

William  Miller. 

- frO* - 

James  Melville' s  Child. 

One  time  my  soul  was  pierced  as  with  a 
sword, 

Contending  still  with  men  untaught  and 
wild, 

When  He  who  to  the  prophet  lent  his 
gourd 

Gave  me  the  solace  of  a  pleasant  child. 

j  A  summer  gift  my  precious  flower  was 
given, 

A  very  summer  fragrance  was  its  life ; 

Its  clear  eyes  soothed  me  as  the  blue  of 
heaven, 

When  home  I  turn’d,  a  weary  man  of 
strife. 

With  unform’d  laughter,  musically  sweet, 

How  soon  the  wakening  babe  would 
meet  my  kiss : 

With  outstretch’d  arms  its  care-wrought 
father  greet ! 

Oh,  in  the  desert,  what  a  spring  was  this  ! 

i  A  few  short  months  it  blossom’d  near  my 
heart : 

A  few  short  months,  else  toilsome  all, 
and  sad ; 

But  that  home-solace  nerved  me  for  my 
part, 

And  of  the  babe  I  was  exceeding  glad. 


44 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Alas !  my  pretty  bud,  scarce  form’d,  was 
dying 

(The  prophet’s  gourd,  it  wither’d  in  a 
night) ; 

And  He  who  gave  me  all,  my  heart’s  pulse 
trying, 

Took  gently  home  the  child  of  my  de¬ 
light. 

Not  rudely  cull’d,  not  suddenly  it  perish’d, 
But  gradual  faded  from  our  love  away : 

As  if,  still,  secret  dews,  its  life  that  cherish’d, 
Were  drop  by  drop  withheld,  and  day 
by  day. 

My  blessed  Master  saved  me  from  repining, 
So  tenderly  He  sued  me  for  His  own ; 

So  beautiful  He  made  my  babe’s  declining, 
Its  dying  bless’d  me  as  its  birth  had  done. 

And  daily  to  my  board  at  noon  and  even 
Our  fading  flower  I  bade  his  mother 
bring, 

That  we  might  commune  of  our  rest  in 
Heaven, 

Gazing  the  while  on  death,  without  its 
sting. 

And  of  the  ransom  for  that  baby  paid 
So  very  sweet  at  times  our  converse 
seem’d, 

That  the  sure  truth  of  grief  a  gladness 
made : 

Our  little  lamb  by  God’s  own  Lamb  re¬ 
deem’d  ! 

There  were  two  milk-white  doves  my  wife 
had  nourish’d ; 

And  I  too  loved,  erewhile,  at  times  to 
stand 

Marking  how  each  the  other  fondly  cher¬ 
ish’d, 

And  fed  them  from  my  baby’s  dimpled 
hand ! 

So  tame  they  grew  that,  to  his  cradle  flying, 
Full  oft  they  coo’d  him  to  his  noontide 
rest ; 

And  to  the  murmurs  of  his  sleep  replying, 
Crept  gently  in  and  nestled  in  his  breast. 

’Twas  a  fair  sight:  the  snow-pale  infant 
sleeping, 

So  fondly  guardian’d  by  those  creatures 
mild, 


Watch  o’er  his  closed  eyes  their  bright 
eyes  keeping: 

Wondrous  the  love  betwixt  the  birds 
and  child ! 

Still  as  he  sicken’d  seem’d  the  doves  too 
dwining, 

Forsook  their  food,  and  loathed  their 
pretty  play ; 

And  on  the  day  he  died,  with  sad  note 
pining, 

One  gentle  bird  would  not  be  fray’d 
away. 

His  mother  found  it,  when  she  rose,  sad- 
hearted, 

At  early  dawn,  with  sense  of  nearing  ill  • 

And  when,  at  last,  the  little  spirit  parted, 

The  dove  died  too,  as  if  of  its  heart-chill. 

The  other  flew  to  meet  my  sad  home¬ 
riding, 

As  with  a  human  sorrow  in  its  coo ; 

To  my  dear  child  and  its  dead  mate  then 
guiding, 

Most  pitifully  plain’d — and  parted  too. 

’Twas  my  first  hansel  and  propine  to 
Heaven  ; 

And  as  I  laid  my  darling  ’neath  the  sod, 

Precious  His  comforts — once  an  infant 
given, 

And  offer’d  with  two  turtle-doves  to 
God! 

Mrs.  A.  Stuart  Menteath 
- +o* - 

A  Child's  Thought  of  God. 

They  say  that  God  lives  very  high. 

But  if  you  look  above  the  pines 

You  cannot  see  our  God;  and  why? 

And  if  you  dig  down  in  the  mines, 

You  never  see  Him  in  the  gold, 

Though  from  Him  all  that’s  glory  shines. 

God  is  so  good,  He  wears  a  fold 

Of  heaven  and  earth  across  His  face, 

Like  secrets  kept  for  love  untold. 

But  still  I  feel  that  His  embrace 

Slides  down  by  thrills  through  all  things 
made, 

Through  sight  and  sound  of  every  place. 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


45 


As  if  my  tender  mother  laid 
On  my  shut  lids  her  kisses’  pressure, 
Half  waking  me  at  night, #and  said, 

“  Who  kissed  you  through  the  dark,  dear 
guesser  ?” 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

- K>« - 

The  Sleeping  Babe. 

The  baby  wept  ; 

The  mother  took  it  from  the  nurse’s  arms, 
And  soothed  its  griefs,  and  stilled  its  vain 
alarms, 

And  baby  slept. 

Again  it  weeps, 

And  God  doth  take  it  from  the  mother’s 
arms, 

From  present  pain  and  future  unknown 
harms, 

And  baby  sleeps. 

Samuel  Hinds. 

• - •<>• - 

Which  Shall  it  be? 

“  Which  shall  it  be  ?  Which  shall  it  be?” 
I  look’d  at  John — John  look’d  at  me 
(Dear,  patient  John,  who  loves  me  yet 
As  well  as  though  my  locks  were  jet) ; 

And  when  I  found  that  I  must  speak, 

My  voice  seem’d  strangely  low  and  weak : 

“  Tell  me  again  what  Robert  said.” 

And  then  I,  listening,  bent  my  head. 

“  This  is  his  letter :  ‘  I  will  give 
A  house  and  land  while  vou  shall  live, 

If,  in  return,  from  out  your  seven, 

One  child  to  me  for  aye  is  given.’  ” 

I  look’d  at  John’s  old  garments  worn, 

I  thought  of  all  that  John  had  borne 
Of  poverty  and  work  and  care, 

Which  I,  though  willing,  could  not  share ; 
I  thought  of  seven  mouths  to  feed, 

Of  seven  little  children’s  need, 

And  then  of  this.  “Come,  John,”  said  I, 
“We’ll  choose  among  them  as  they  lie 
Asleep  so,  walking  hand  in  hand, 

Dear  John  and  I  survey’d  our  band. 

First  to  the  cradle  lightly  stepp’d, 

Where  the  new  nameless  baby  slept. 

“Shall  it  be  Baby?”  whispered  John. 

I  took  his  hand,  and  hurried  on 
To  Lily’s  crib.  Her  sleeping  grasp 
Held  her  old  dol\  within  its  clasp ; 

Her  dark  curls  lay  like  gold  alight, 

A  glory  ’gainst  the  pillow  white. 


Softl}r  her  father  stoop’d  to  lay 
His  rough  hand  down  in  loving  way, 
When  dream  or  whisper  made  her  stir, 
Then  huskily  said  John, “  Not  her,  not  her!” 
We  stopp’d  beside  the  trundle-bed, 

And  one  long  ray  of  lamplight  shed 
Athwart  the  boyish  faces  there, 

In  sleep  so  pitiful  and  fair ; 

I  saw  on  Jamie’s  rough,  red  cheek 
A  tear  undried.  Ere  John  could  speak, 
“He’s  but  a  baby,  too,”  said  I, 

And  kiss’d  him  as  we  hurried  by. 

Pale,  patient  Robbie’s  angel  face 
Still  in  his  sleep  bore  suffering’s  trace. 
“No,  for  a  thousand  crowns,  not  him !” 
We  whisper’d,  while  our  eyes  were  dim. 
Poor  Dick  !  bad  Dick  !  our  wayward  son, 
Turbulent,  reckless,  idle  one — 

Could  he  be  spared?  Nay ;  He  who  gave 
Bids  us  befriend  him  to  his  grave ; 

Only  a  mother’s  heart  can  be 
Patient  enough  for  such  as  he ; 

“And  so,”  said  John,  “I  would  not  dare 
To  send  him  from  her  bedside  prayer.” 
Then  stole  we  softly  up  above 
And  knelt  by  Mary,  child  of  love. 
“Perhaps  for  her  ’twould  better  be,” 

I  said  to  John.  Quite  silently 
He  lifted  up  a  curl  astray 
Across  her  cheek  in  wilful  way, 

And  shook  his  head :  “  Nay,  love ;  not  thee,” 
The  while  my  heart  beat  audibly. 

Only  one  more,  our  eldest  lad, 

Trusty  and  truthful,  good  and  glad — • 

So  like  his  father.  “No,  John,  no — • 

I  cannot,  will  not,  let  him  go.” 

And  so  we  wrote,  in  courteous  way, 

We  could  not  give  one  child  away ; 

And  afterward  toil  lighter  seem’d, 
Thinking  of  that  of  which  we  dream’d, 
Happy  in  truth  that  not  one  face 
We  miss’d  from  its  accustom’d  place ; 
Thankful  to  work  for  all  the  seven, 
Trusting  the  rest  to  One  in  heaven. 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers. 

»<>•  - 

The  Childrens  Hour. 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day’s  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children’s  Hour. 


46 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 
The  patter  of  little  feet, 

The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 

And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence : 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O’er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  ; 

They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 

Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine ! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  for  ever, 

Yes,  for  ever  and  a  day, 

Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

- K>« - 

The  Mitherless  Bairn. 

When  a’  ither  bairnies  are  hush’d  to  their 
hame 

By  aunty,  or  cousin,  or  frecky  grand-dame, 
Wha  stands  last  and  lanely,  an’  naebody 
carin’  ? 

’T  is  the  puir  doited  loonie, — the  mitherless 
bairn ! 


The  mitherless  bairn  gangs  to  his  lane 
bed ; 

Nane  covers  his  cauld  back  or  haps  his 
bare  head ; 

His  wee  liackit  heelies  are  hard  as  the 
airn, 

An’  litheless  the  lair  o’  the  mitherless 
bairn. 

Aneath  his  cauld  brow  siccan  dreams  hover 
there 

O’  hands  that  wont  kindly  to  kame  his  dark 
hair ; 

But  mornin’  brings  clutches,  a’  reckless  an5 
stern, 

That  lo’e  nae  the  locks  o’  the  mitherless 
bairn ! 

Yon  sister  that  sang  o’er  his  saftly-rock’d 
bed 

Now  rests  in  the  mools  where  her  mammie 
is  laid ; 

The  father  toils  sair  their  wee  bannock  to 
earn, 

An’  kens  na  the  wrangs  o’  his  mitherless 
bairn. 

Her  spirit,  that  passed  in  yon  hour  o’  his 
birth, 

Still  watches  his  wearisome  wanderings  on 
earth ; 

Recording  in  heaven  the  blessings  they 
earn 

Wha  couthilie  deal  wi’  the  mitherless 
bairn ! 

Oh,  speak  him  na  harshly, — he  trembles  the 
while, 

He  bends  to  your  bidding,  and  blesses  your 
smile ; 

In  their  dark  hour  o’  anguish  the  heartless 
shall  learn 

That  God  deals  the  blow  for  the  mitherless 
bairn ! 

William  Thom. 

- 

The  Orphan  Boys  Tale. 

I 

Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy’s  sake, 

And  hear  a  helpless  orphan’s  tale ; 

Ah,  sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake, — 

’Tis  want  that  makes  my  cheek  so  pale; 

Yet  I  was  once  a  mother’s  pride, 

And  my  brave  father’s  hope  and  joy; 


FOETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


47 


But  in  the  Nile’s  proud  fight  he  died, 

And  I  am  now  an  orphan  boy ! 

Poor,  foolish  child !  how  pleased  was  I, 
When  news  of  Nelson’s  victory  came, 

Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly, 

To  see  the  lighted  windows  flame ! 

To  force  me  home  my  mother  sought, — 
She  could  not  bear  to  hear  my  joy ; 

For  with  my  father’s  life  ’twas  bought, — 
And  made  me  a  poor  orphan  boy ! 

The  people’s  shouts  were  long  and  loud ; 
My  mother,  shuddering,  closed  her  ears; 

“  Rejoice  !  rejoice  !”  still  cried  the  crowd, — 
My  mother  answer’d  with  her  tears  ! 

“  Oh  why  do  tears  steal  down  your  cheek,” 
Cried  I,  “  while  others  shout  for  joy?” 

She  kiss’d  me ;  and  in  accents  weak, 

She  call’d  me  her  poor  orphan  boy  ! 

“  What  is  an  orphan  boy?”  I  said  ; 

When  suddenly  she  gasp’d  for  breath, 

And  her  eyes  closed !  I  shriek’d  for  aid, 
But  ah !  her  eyes  were  closed  in  death. 

My  hardships  since  I  will  not  tell  ; 

But  now,  no  more  a  parent’s  joy, 

Ah,  lady,  I  have  learn’d  too  well 
What  ’tis  to  be  an  orphan  boy ! 

Oh,  were  I  by  your  bounty  fed  ! — 

Nay,  gentle  lady,  do  not  chide ; 

Trust  me,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread, — 

The  sailor’s  orphan  boy  has  pride. 

Lady,  you  weep  ;  what  is’t  you  say  ? 
You’ll  give  me  clothing,  food,  employ? 

Look  down,  dear  parents !  look  and  see 
Your  happy,  happy  orphan  boy  ! 

Amelia  Opie. 

- - 

Romance  of  the  Swan's  Nest. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone 
’Mid  the  beeches  of  a  meadow, 

By  a  stream-side  on  the  grass, 

And  the  trees  are  showering  down 
Doubles  of  their  leaves  in  shadow 
On  her  shining  hair  and  face. 

She  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by, 

And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 
In  the  shallow  water’s  flow. 

Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 
In  her  hands,  all  sleek  and  dripping, 
While  she  rocketh  to  and  fro. 


Little  Ellie  sits  alone, 

And  the  smile  she  softly  uses 
Filks  the  silence  like  a  speech, 

While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done, — 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooses 
For  her  future  within  reach. 

Little  Ellie,  in  her  smile, 

Chooses,  .  .  .  “I  will  have  a  lover, 
Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds ! 

He  shall  love  me  without  guile, 

And  to  him  I  will  discover 

The  swan’s  nest  among  the  reeds. 

“And  the  steed  shall  be  red-roan, 

And  the  lover  shall  be  noble, 

With  an  eye  that  takes  the  breath  ; 
And  the  lute  he  plays  upon 
Shall  strike  ladies  into  trouble, 

As  his  sword  strikes  men  to  death. 

“And  the  steed  it  shall  be  shod 
All  in  silver,  housed  in  azure, 

And  the  mane  shall  swim  the  wind  , 
And  the  hoofs  along  the  sod 
Shall  flash  onward  and  keep  measure, 
Till  the  shepherds  look  behind. 

“But  my  lover  will  not  prize 
All  the  glory  that  he  rides  in, 

When  he  gazes  in  my  face. 

He  will  say,  ‘O  Love,  thine  eyes 
Build  the  shrine  my  soul  abides  in, 

And  I  kneel  here  for  thy  grace.’ 

“Then,  ay,  then — he  shall  kneel  low, 
With  the  red-roan  steed  a-near  him, 
Which  shall  seem  to  understand, — 
Till  I  answer,  ‘  Rise  and  go ! 

For  the  world  must  love  and  fear  him 
Whom  I  gift  with  heart  and  hand.’ 

“Then  he  will  arise  so  pale, 

I  shall  feel  my  own  lips  tremble 
With  a  yes  I  must  not  say, 

Nathless  maiden  brave,  ‘Farewell/ 

I  will  utter,  and  dissemble — 

‘  Light  to-morrow  with  to-day.’ 

“Then  he’ll  ride  among  the  hills 
To  the  wide  world  past  the  river, 

There  to  put  away  all  wrong, 

To  make  straight  distorted  wills, 

And  to  empty  the  broad  quiver 
Which  the  wicked  bear  along. 


48 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“Three  times  shall  a  young  foot-page 
Swim  the  stream  and  climb  the  mountain 
And  kneel  down  beside  my  feel : 

‘  Lo,  my  master  sends  this  gage, 

Lady,  for  thy  pity’s  counting! 

What  wilt  thou  exchange  for  it?’ 

“  And  the  first  time  I  will  send 
A  white  rosebud  for  a  guerdon, — 

And  the  second  time,  a  glove; 

But  the  third  time  I  may  bend 
F rom  my  pride,  and  answer,  ‘  Pardon 
If  he  comes  to  take  my  love.’ 

“  Then  the  young  foot-page  will  run — 
Then  my  lover  will  ride  faster, 

Till  he  kneeleth  at  my  knee: 

4 1  am  a  duke’s  eldest  son! 

Thousand  serfs  do  call  me  master, — 

But,  0  Love,  I  love  but  thee /’ 

“He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then,  and  lead  me  as  a  lover 

Through  the  crowds  that  praise  his 
deeds : 

And,  when  soul-tied  by  one  troth, 
Unto  him  I  will  discover 

That  swan’s  nest  among  the  reeds.” 

Little  Ellie,  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gayly, 

Tied  the  bonnet,  donned  the  shoe, 

And  went  homeward,  round  a  mile, 
Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily, 

What  more  eggs  were  with  the  two. 

Pushing  through  the  elm-tree  copse, 
Winding  up  the  stream,  light-hearted, 
Where  the  osier  pathway  leads — 

Past  the  boughs  she  stoops — and  stops. 
Lo,  the  wild  swan  had  deserted — 

And  a  rat  had  gnawed  the  reeds. 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow. 

If  she  found  the  lover  ever, 

With  his  red-roan  steed  of  steeds, 
Sooth  I  know  not ;  but  I  know 
She  could  never  show  him — never 

That  swan’s  nest  among  the  reeds  ! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


My  Child. 

I  cannot  make  him  dead : 

His  fair  sunshiny  head 
s  ever  bounding  round  my  study-chair ; 


Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 
With  tears,  I  turn  to  him, 

The  vision  vanishes — he  is  not  there ! 

% 

I  walk  my  parlor  floor, 

And  through  the  open  door 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair ; 

I’m  stepping  toward  the  hall 
To  give  the  boy  a  call ; 

And  then  bethink  me  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  thread  the  crowded  street ; 

A  satcliell’d  lad  I  meet, 

With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  color’d 
hair  : 

And,  as  he’s  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 

Scarcely  believing  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  know  his  face  is  hid 
Under  the  coffin-lid ; 

Closed  are  his  eyes ;  cold  is  his  forehead  fair ; 
My  hand  that  marble  felt ; 

O’er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt ; 

Yet  my  heart  whispers  that — he  is  not 
there ! 

I  cannot  make  him  dead ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed, 

So  long  watch’d  over  with  parental  care, 
My  spirit  and  my  eye 
Seek  it  inquiringly, 

Before  the  thought  comes  that — he  is  not 
there ! 

When,  at  the  cool,  gray  break 
Of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake, 

With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 
My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy, 

Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not 
there ! 

When  at  the  day’s  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 

I’m  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer, 
Whate’er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am,  in  spirit,  praying 
For  our  boy’s  spirit,  though — he  is  not 
there ! 

Hot  there  !  Where,  then,  is  he? 

The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear; 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD 


49 


The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 
Upon  that  cast-off  dress, 

Is  but  his  wardrobe  lock’d ; — he  is  not 
there ! 

He  lives !  In  all  the  past 
He  lives ;  nor,  to  the  last, 

Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair ; 

In  dreams  I  see  him  now  ; 

And,  on  his  angel  brow, 

I  see  it  written,  “  Thou  shalt  see  me  there  l” 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God ! 

Father,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 
That,  in  the  spirit-land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 

’Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  that — he  is 

there  !  John  Pierpont. 

- 

LUCY. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 

A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 
And  very  few  to  love : 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eve ; 

Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucv  ceased  to  be ; 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me ! 

William  Wordsworth. 

•<>• - 

Three  Years  she  Grew. 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower ; 
Then  Nature  said,  “  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 

This  child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 

She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  lady  of  my  own. 

“  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse,  and  with  me 
The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 
To  kindle  or  restrain. 

“  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn, 

That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
4 


Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 

And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 

And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute,  insensate  things. 

“  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  : 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden’s  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

“  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 
In  many  a  secret  place, 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 
Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

“  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell.” 

Thus  Nature  spake ;  the  work  was  done  — 
How  soon  my  Lucy’s  race  was  run ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene, 

The  memorv  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 

William  Wordsworth. 

- »o< - 

The  Morning-Glory. 

We  wreathed  about  our  darling’s  head 
The  morning-glory  bright ; 

Her  little  face  looked  out  beneath, 

So  full  of  life  and  light, 

So  lit  as  with  a  sunrise, 

That  we  could  only  say, 

“  She  is  the  morning-glory  true, 

And  her  poor  types  are  they.” 

So  always  from  that  happy  time 
We  called  her  by  their  name, 

And  very  fitting  did  it  seem ; 

For  sure  as  morning  came, 

Behind  her  cradle-bars  she  smiled 
To  catch  the  first  faint  ray, 

As  from  the  trellis  smiles  the  flower 
And  opens  to  the  day. 

But  not  so  beautiful  they  rear 
Their  airy  cups  of  blue 


50 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


As  turned  her  sweet  eyes  to  the  light, 
Brimmed  with  sleep’s  tender  dew ; 

And  not  so  close  their  tendrils  fine 
Round  their  supports  are  thrown 
As  those  dear  arms  whose  outstretched 
plea 

Clasped  all  hearts  to  her  own. 

We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come, 

Even  as  comes  the  flower, 

The  last  and  perfect  added  gift 
To  crown  Love’s  morning  hour; 

And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth 
The  love  we  could  not  say, 

As  on  the  little  dewdrops  round 
Shines  back  the  heart  of  day. 

We  never  could  have  thought,  O  God, 
That  she  must  wither  up 
Almost  before  a  day  was  flown, 

Like  the  morning-glory’s  cup  ; 

We  never  thought  to  see  her  droop 
Her  fair  and  noble  head, 

Till  she  lay  stretched  before  our  eyes, 
Wilted,  and  cold,  and  dead  ! 

The  morning-glory’s  blossoming 
Will  soon  be  coming  round ; 

We  see  their  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves 
Upspringing  from  the  ground  ; 

The  tender  things  the  winter  killed 
Renew  again  their  birth, 

But  the  glory  of  our  morning 
Has  passed  away  from  earth. 

O  Earth  !  in  vain  our  aching  eyes 
Stretch  over  thy  green  plain  ! 

Too  harsh  thy  dews,  too  gross  thine  air, 
Her  spirit  to  sustain  ; 

But  up  in  groves  of  Paradise 
Full  surely  we  shall  see 
Our  morning-glory  beautiful 
Twine  round  our  dear  Lord’s  knee. 

Maria  White  Lowell. 
- »o»—  -■ 

The  Babe. 

Naked  on  parent’s  knees,  a  new-born 
child, 

Weeping  thou  sat’st  when  all  around  thee 
smiled : 

So  live,  that,  sinking  to  thy  last  long  sleep, 
Thou  then  mayst  smile  while  all  around 
thee  weep. 

Sir  William  Jones. 


w  The  Three  Sons. 

I  have  a  son,  a  little  son,  a  boy  just  five 
years  old, 

With  eyes  of  thoughtful  earnestness  and 
mind  of  gentle  mould. 

They  tell  me  that  unusual  grace  in  all  his 
ways  appears, 

That  my  child  is  grave  and  wise  of  heart 
beyond  his  childish  years. 

I  cannot  say  how  this  may  be ;  I  know  his 
face  is  fair — 

And  yet  his  chiefest  comeliness  is  his  sweet 
and  serious  air ; 

I  know  his  heart  is  kind  and  fond,  I  know 
he  loveth  me, 

But  loveth  yet  his  mother  more  with  grate¬ 
ful  fervency. 

But  that  which  others  most  admire  is  the 
thought  which  fills  his  mind — 

The  food  for  grave,  inquiring  speech  he 
everywhere  doth  find. 

Strange  questions  doth  he  ask  of  me  when 
we  together  walk ; 

He  scarcely  thinks  as  children  think,  or 
talks  as  children  talk  ; 

Nor  cares  he  much  for  childish  sports, 
dotes  not  on  bat  or  ball, 

But  looks  on  manhood’s  ways  and  works, 
and  aptly  mimics  all. 

His  little  heart  is  busy  still,  and  oftentimes 
perplext 

With  thoughts  about  this  world  of  ours, 
and  thoughts  about  the  next. 

He  kneels  at  his  dear  mother’s  knee ;  she 
teacheth  him  to  pray; 

And  strange  and  sweet  and  solemn  then 
are  the  words  which  he  will  say. 

Oh,  should  my  gentle  child  be  spared  to 
manhood’s  years,  like  me, 

A  holier  and  a  wiser  man  I  trust  that  he 
will  be ; 

And  when  I  look  into  his  eyes  and  stroke 
his  thoughtful  brow, 

I  dare  not  think  what  I  should  feel  were  i 
to  lose  him  now. 

I  have  a  son,  a  second  son,  a  simple  child 
of  three ; 

I’ll  not  declare  how  bright  and  fair  his 
little  features  be, 

How  silver  sweet  those  tones  of  his  when 
he  prattles  on  my  knee ; 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD 


51 


I  do  not  think  his  light-bine  eye  is,  like  | 
his  brother’s,  keen, 

Xor  his  brow  so  full  of  childish  thought 
as  his  hath  ever  been  ; 

But  his  little  heart’s  a  fountain  pure  of 
kind  and  tender  feeling, 

And  his  every  look’s  a  gleam  of  light,  rich 
depths  of  love  revealing. 

When  he  walks  with  me,  the  country  folk, 
who  pass  us  in  the  street, 

Will  shout  for  joy,  and  bless  my  boy,  he 
looks  so  mild  and  sweet. 

A  playfellow  is  he  to  all ;  and  yet,  with 
cheerful  tone, 

Will  sing  his  little  song  of  love  when  left 
to  sport  alone. 

His  presence  is  like  sunshine  sent  to  glad¬ 
den  home  and  hearth, 

To  comfort  us  in  all  our  griefs,  and  sweeten 
all  our  mirth. 

Should  he  grow  up  to  riper  years,  God 
grant  his  heart  may  prove 
As  sweet  a  home  for  heavenly  grace  as  now 
for  earthly  love ; 

And  if,  beside  his  grave,  the  tears  our 
aching  eyes  must  dim, 

God  comfort  us  for  all  the  love  which  we  | 
shall  lose  in  him. 

I  have  a  son,  a  third  sweet  son,  his  age  I 
cannot  tell, 

For  they  reckon  not  by  years  and  months 
where  he  is  gone  to  dwell. 

To  us,  for  fourteen  anxious  months,  his 
infant  smiles  were  given, 

And  then  he  bade  farewell  to  earth,  and 
went  to  live  in  heaven. 

I  cannot  tell  what  form  is  his,  what  looks 
he  weareth  now, 

Xor  guess  how  bright  a  glory  crowns  his 
shining  seraph  brow. 

The  thoughts  that  fill  his  sinless  soul,  the 
bliss  which  he  doth  feel, 

Are  number’d  with  the  secret  things  which 
God  will  not  reveal. 

But  I  know  (for  God  hath  told  me  this) 
that  he  is  now  at  rest, 

Where  other  blessed  infants  be — on  their 
Saviour’s  loving  breast. 

I  know  his  spirit  feels  no  more  this  weary 
load  of  flesh, 

But  his  sleep  is  bless’d  with  endless  dreams 
of  joy  for  ever  fresh. 


I  know  the  angels  fold  him  close  beneath 
their  glittering  wings, 

And  soothe  him  with  a  song  that  breathes 
of  heaven’s  divinest  things. 

I  know  that  we  shall  meet  our  babe  (his 
mother  dear  and  I) 

Where  God  for  aye  shall  wipe  away  all 
tears  from  every  eye. 

Whate’er  befalls  his  brethren  twain,  his 
bliss  can  never  cease  ; 

Their  lot  may  here  be  grief  and  fear,  but 
his  is  certain  peace. 

It  may  be  that  the  tempter’s  wiles  their 
souls  from  bliss  mav  sever ; 

But,  if  our  own  poor  faith  fail  not,  he 
must  be  ours  for  ever. 

When  we  think  of  what  our  darling  is, 
and  what  we  still  must  be — 

When  we  muse  on  that  world’s  perfect 
bliss  and  this  world’s  misery — 

When  we  groan  beneath  this  load  of  sin, 
and  feel  this  grief  and  pain — 

Oh,  we’d  rather  lose  our  other  two  than 
have  him  here  again  ! 

John  Moultrie. 

- »o« 

We  are  Seven. 

— A  simple  child, 

That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 

And  feels  its  life  in  everv  limb, 

%j  t 

What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl  ; 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said ; 

Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  cluster’d  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad  : 

Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair — 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

“  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be?” 

“  How  many  ?  Seven  in  all,”  she  said, 
And  wondering  look’d  at  me. 

“  And  where  are  they  ?  I  pray  you  tell.  ” 
She  answer’d,  “  Seven  are  we ; 

And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

7 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

“Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie. 

My  sister  and  my  brother ; 


\W 


52 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


And  in  the  churchyard  cottage  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother.” 

“  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 

Yet  ye  are  seven !  I  pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  he?” 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply : 

“Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we; 

Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree.” 

“  You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive ; 

If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five.” 

“  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be 
seen,” 

The  little  maid  replied, 

“  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother’s 
door, 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

“  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 

And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit — 

I  sit  and  sing  to  them. 

“  And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 

I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

“  The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 

Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain ; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

“  So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid  ; 

And  when  the  grass  was  dry, 

Together  round  her  grave  we  play’d, 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

‘  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with 
snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 

My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side.” 

'  How  many  are  you,  then,”  said  I, 

“  If  they  two  are  in  Heaven?” 

The  little  maiden  did  reply, 

“  Oh,  master,  we  are  seven  I” 


“  But  they  are  dead — those  two  are  dead. 
Their  spirits  are  in  Heaven  !” 

’Twas  throwing  words  away,  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will. 
And  said,  “  Nay,  we  are  seven  !” 

William  Wordsworth. 

—  ♦<>♦ - 

The  Mother's  Hope. 

Is  there,  where  the  winds  are  singing 
In  the  happy  summer-time, 

Where  the  raptured  air  is  ringing 
With  Earth’s  music  heavenward  springing 
Forest  chirp,  and  village  chime; 

Is  there,  of  the  sounds  that  float 

Minglingly,  a  single  note 

Half  so  sweet,  and  clear,  and  wild, 

As  the  laughter  of  a  child  ? 

Listen  ;  and  be  now  delighted. 

Morn  hath  touch’d  her  golden  strings, 
Earth  and  sky  their  vows  have  plighted, 
Life  and  light  are  reunited, 

Amid  countless  carollings ; 

Yet,  delicious  as  they  are, 

There’s  a  sound  that’s  sweeter  far — 

One  that  makes  the  heart  rejoice 
More  than  all, — the  human  voice  I 

Organ,  finer,  deeper,  clearer, 

Though  it  be  a  stranger’s  tone ; 

Than  the  winds  or  waters  dearer, 

More  enchanting  to  the  hearer, 

For  it  answereth  his  own. 

But  of  all  its  witching  words, 

Sweeter  than  the  songs  of  birds, 

Those  are  sweetest,  bubbling  wild 
Through  the  laughter  of  a  child. 

Harmonies  from  time-touch’d  towers, 
Haunted  strains  from  rivulets, 

Hum  of  bees  among  the  flowers, 

Rustling  leaves,  and  silver  showers, — 
These  ere  long  the  ear  forgets ; 

But  in  mine  there  is  a  sound 
Ringing  on  the  whole  year  round  ; 
Heart-deep  laughter  that  I  heard, 

Ere  my  child  could  speak  a  word. 

Ah  !  ’twas  heard  by  ear  far  purer, 
Fondlier  form’d  to  catch  the  strain— 
Ear  of  one  whose  love  is  surer ; 

Hers,  the  mother,  the  endurer 
Of  the  deepest  share  of  pain ; 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


53 


Hers  the  deepest  bliss,  to  treasure 
Memories  of  that  cry  ot  pleasure ; 

Hers  to  hoard,  a  lifetime  after, 

Echoes  of  that  infant  laughter. 

Yes,  a  mother’s  large  affection 
Hears  with  a  mysterious  sense ; 
Breathings  that  evade  detection, 

Whisper  faint,  and  fine  inflection, 

Thrill  in  her  with  power  intense. 
Childhood’s  honey’d  tones  untaught 
Heareth  she,  in  loving  thought ! 

Tones  that  never  thence  depart, 

For  she  listens — with  her  heart ! 

Laman  Blanchard. 

- K>« - 

The  Gambols  of  Children. 

Down  the  dimpled  green-sward  dancing, 
Bursts  a  flaxen -headed  bevy — 

Bud-lipt  boys  and  girls  advancing, 

Love’s  irregular  little  levy. 

Rows  of  liquid  eyes  in  laughter, 

How  they  glimmer,  how  they  quiver ! 
oparkling  one  another  after, 

Like  bright  ripples  on  a  river. 

Tipsy  band  of  rubious  faces, 

Flush’d  with  Joy’s  ethereal  spirit, 

Make  your  mocks  and  sly  grimaces 
At  Love’s  self,  and  do  not  fear  it. 

George  Darley. 

- K>« - 

Under  my  Window. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

All  in  the  Midsummer  weather, 

Three  little  girls  with  fluttering  curls 
Flit  to  and  fro  together : — 

There’s  Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver  green, 
And  Kate  with  her  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
Leaning  stealthily  over, 

Merry  and  clear,  the  voice  I  hear, 

Of  each  glad-hearted  rover. 

Ah  !  sly  little  Kate,  she  steals  my  roses  ; 
And  Maud  and  Bell  twine  wreaths  and 
posies, 

As  merry  as  bees  in  clover. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

In  the  blue  Midsummer  weather, 
Stealing* slow,  on  a  hush’d  tip-toe, 

I  catch  them  all  together : — 


Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 

And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 
And  Kate  with  the  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

And  off  through  the  orchard  closes ; 

While  Maud  she  flouts,  and  Bell  she  pouts. 

They  scamper  and  drop  their  posies ; 

But  dear  little  Kate  takes  naught  amiss, 

And  leaps  in  my  arms  with  a  loving  kiss, 

And  I  give  her  all  my  roses. 

Thomas  Westwood. 

- K>* - 

Boyhood. 

Ah  !  then  how  sweetly  closed  those  crowded 
days ! 

The  minutes  parting  one  by  one  like  rays, 
That  fade  upon  a  summer’s  eve. 

But  oh  !  what  charm,  or  magic  numbers 
Can  give  me  back  the  gentle  slumbers 
Those  weary,  happy  days  did  leave? 
When  by  my  bed  I  saw  my  mother  kneel, 
And  with  her  blessing  took  her  nightly  kiss; 
Whatever  Time  destroys,  he  cannot  this— 

E’en  now  that  nameless  kiss  I  feel. 

Washington  Allston. 
- »o« - 

The  Children  in  the  Wool. 

Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  deare, 

These  wordes,  which  I  shall  write  ; 

A  doleful  story  you  shall  heare, 

In  time  brought  forth  to  light : 

A  gentleman  of  good  account 
In  Norfolke  dwelt  of  late, 

Who  did  in  honor  far  surmount 
Most  men  of  his  estate. 

Sore  sicke  he  was,  and  like  to  dye, 

No  helpe  his  life  could  save  ; 

His  wife  by  him  as  sicke  did  lye, 

And  both  possest  one  grave. 

No  love  between  these  two  was  lost, 

Each  was  to  other  kinde  ; 

In  love  they  liv’d,  in  love  they  dyed. 

And  left  two  babes  beliinde  : 

The  one  a  fine  and  pretty  boy, 

Not  passing  three  yeares  olde  ; 

The  other  a  girl  more  young  than  he, 

And  fram’d  in  beautyes  moulde. 

The  father  left  his  little  son, 

As  plainlye  doth  appeare, 

When  he  to  perfect  age  should  come. 
Three  hundred  poundes  a  yeare. 


54 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  to  his  little  daughter  Jane 
Five  hundred  poundes  in  gold, 

To  be  paid  downe  on  marriage-day, 
Which  might  not  be  controll’d  ; 

But  if  the  children  chance  to  dye 
Ere  they  to  age  should  come, 

Their  uncle  should  possesse  their  wealth, 
For  so  the  wille  did  run. 

Now,  brother,  said  the  dying  man, 

Look  to  my  children  deare  ; 

Be  good  unto  my  boy  and  girl, 

No  friendes  else  have  they  here : 

To  God  and  you  I  recommend 
My  children  deare  this  dave  ; 

But  little  while  be  sure  we  have 
Within  this  world  to  staye. 

You  must  be  father  and  mother  both, 
And  uncle  all  in  one  ; 

God  knowes  what  will  become  of  them 
When  I  am  dead  and  gone. 

With  that  bespake  their  mother  deare, 
Oh  brother  kinde,  quoth  shee, 

You  are  the  man  must  bring  our  babes 
To  wealth  or  miserie: 

And  if  you  keep  them  carefully, 

Then  God  will  you  reward  ; 

But  if  vou  otherwise  should  deal, 

God  will  your  deedes  regard. 

With  lippes  as  cold  as  any  stone, 

They  kist  their  children  small : 

God  bless  you  both,  my  children  deare; 
With  that  the  teares  did  fall. 

These  speeches  then  their  brother  spake 
To  this  sicke  couple  there  : 

The  keeping  of  your  little  ones, 

Sweet  sister,  do  not  feare  : 

God  never  prosper  me  nor  mine, 

Nor  aught  else  that  I  have, 

If  I  do  wrong  your  children  deare, 

When  you  are  lavd  in  grave. 

The  parents  being  dead  and  gone, 

The  children  home  he  takes, 

And  bringes  them  straite  unto  his  house, 
Where  much  of  them  he  makes. 

He  had  not  kept  these  pretty  babes 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  dave, 

But,  for  their  wealth,  he  did  devise 
To  make  them  both  a  wave. 


He  bargain’d  with  two  ruffians  strong, 
Which  were  of  furious  mood, 

That  they  should  take  these  children  young, 
And  slave  them  in  a  wood. 

He  told  his  wife  an  artful  tale, 

He  would  the  children  send 
To  be  brought  up  in  faire  London, 

With  one  that  was  his  friend. 

Away  then  went  those  pretty  babes, 
Rejoycing  at  that  tide, 

Rejoycing  with  a  merry  minde, 

They  should  on  cock-horse  ride. 

They  prate  and  prattle  pleasantly, 

As  they  rode  on  the  wave, 

To  those  that  should  tlieir  butchers  be, 
And  work  their  lives  decaye : 

So  that  the  pretty  speeche  they  had, 

Made  Murder’s  heart  relent : 

And  they  that  undertooke  the  deed 
Full  sore  did  now  repent. 

Yet  one  of  them  more  hard  of  heart. 

Did  vowe  to  do  his  charge, 

Because  the  wretch,  that  hired  him, 

Had  paid  him  very  large. 

The  other  won’t  agree  thereto, 

So  here  they  fall  to  strife  ; 

With  one  another  they  did  fight, 

About  the  childrens  life  : 

And  he  that  was  of  mildest  mood, 

Did  slave  the  other  there, 

Within  an  unfrequented  wood  ; 

The  babes  did  quake  for  feare ! 

He  took  the  children  by  the  hand, 

Teares  standing  in  their  eye, 

And  bad  them  straitwaye  follow  him, 

And  look  they  did  not  crye ; 

And  two  long  miles  he  ledd  them  on, 
While  they  for  food  complaine  : 

Staye  here,  quoth  he,  I’ll  bring  you  bread, 
When  I  come  back  again e. 

These  pretty  babes,  with  hand  in  hand, 
Went  wandering  up  and  downe, 

But  never  more  could  see  the  man 
Approaching  from  the  towne : 

Their  prettye  lippes,  with  black-berries, 
Were  all  besmear’d  and  dyed,  . 

And,  when  they  sawe  the  darksome  night, 
Thev  sat  them  downe  and  crv’d. 

V  •/ 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


55 


Thus  wandered  these  poor  innocents, 

Till  deathe  did  end  their  grief ; 

In  one  an  others  arms  they  dyed, 

As  wanting  due  relief. 

No  burial  “  this  ”  pretty  “  pair  ” 

Of  any  man  receives, 

Till  Robin-red-breast  piously 
Did  cover  them  with  leaves. 

And  now  the  heavy  wrathe  of  God 
Upon  their  uncle  fell ; 

Yea,  fearfull  fiends  did  haunt  his  house, 
His  conscience  felt  an  hell. 

His  barnes  were  fir’d,  his  goodes  consum’d, 
His  landes  were  barren  made  ; 

His  cattle  dved  within  the  field, 

And  nothing  with  him  stayd. 

And  in  a  voyage  to  Portugal 
Two  of  his  sonnes  did  dye  ; 

And  to  conclude,  himselfe  was  brought 
To  want  and  misery e  : 

He  pawn’d  and  mortgaged  all  his  land 
Ere  seven  years  came  about. 

And  now  at  length  this  wicked  act 
Did  by  this  meanes  come  out  : 

The  fellowe,  that  did  take  in  hand 
These  children  for  to  kill, 

Was  for  a  robbery  judg’d  to  dye, 

Such  was  God’s  blessed  will : 

Who  did  confess  the  very  truth, 

As  here  hath  been  display’d  : 

Their  uncle  having  dyed  in  gaol, 

Where  he  for  debt  was  layd. 

You  that  executors  be  made, 

And  overseers  eke 

Of  children  that  be  fatherless, 

And  infants  mild  and  meek  ; 

Take  you  example  by  this  thing, 

And  yield  to  each  his  right, 

Lest  God,  with  such  like  miserye, 

Your  wicked  minds  requite. 

Author  Unknown. 


The  Child  and  the  Mourners. 

A  little  child,  beneath  a  tree, 

Sat  and  chanted  cheerily 
A  little  song,  a  pleasant  song, 

Which  was — she  sang  it  all  day  long — 

“  When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall ; 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all.” 


There  pass’d  a  lady  by  the  way, 

Moaning  in  the  face  of  day : 

There  were  tears  upon  her  cheek, 

Grief  in  her  heart  too  great  to  speak ; 

Her  husband  died  but  yester-morn, 

And  left  her  in  the  world  forlorn. 

She  stopp’d  and  listen’d  to  the  child 
That  look’d  to  heaven,  and,  singing, 
smiled ; 

And  saw  not,  for  her  own  despair, 

Another  lady,  young  and  fair, 

Who  also  passing,  stopp’d  to  hear 
The  infant’s  anthem  ringing  clear. 

For  she  but  few  sad  days  before 
Had  lost  the  little  babe  she  bore ; 

And  grief  was  heavy  at  her  soul 
As  that  sweet  memory  o’er  her  stole. 

And  show’d  how  bright  had  been  the  past, 
The  present  drear  and  overcast. 

And  as  they  stood  beneath  the  tree 
Listening,  soothed  and  placidly, 

A  youth  came  by,  whose  sunken  eyes* 
Spake  of  a  load  of  miseries ; 

And  he,  arrested  like  the  twain, 

Stopp’d  to  listen  to  the  strain. 

Death  had  bow’d  the  youthful  head 
Of  his  bride  beloved,  his  bride  unwed : 
Her  marriage  robes  were  fitted  on, 

Her  fair  voung  face  with  blushes  shone. 
When  the  destroyer  smote  her  low, 

And  changed  the  lover’s  bliss  to  woe. 

And  these  three  listen’d  to  the  song, 
Silver-toned,  and  sweet,  and  strong, 
Which  that  child,  the  livelong  day, 
Chanted  to  itself  in  play  : 

“  When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall  • 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all.” 

The  widow’s  lips  impulsive  moved ; 

The  mother’s  grief,  though  unreproved, 
Soften’d,  as  her  trembling  tongue 
Repeated  what  the  infant  sung ; 

And  the  sad  lover,  with  a  start, 

Conn’d  it  over  to  his  heart. 

And  though  the  child — if  child  it  were. 
And  not  a  seraph  sitting  there — 

Was  seen  no  more,  the  sorrowing  three 
Went  on  their  way  resignedly, 


56 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  song  still  ringing  in  their  ears — 

Was  it  music  of  the  spheres? 

Who  shall  tell?  They  did  not  know. 

But  in  the  midst  of  deepest  woe 
The  strain  recurr’d,  when  sorrow  grew, 

To  warn  them,  and  console  them  too  : 

“  When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall ; 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all.” 

Charles  Mackay. 

- *>♦ - 

LUCY  GRAY;  OR,  SOLITUDE. 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray ; 

And,  when  I  cross’d  the  wild,  • 

I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew ; 

She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, — 

The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door. 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 

The  hare  upon  the  green, 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  nevermore  be  seen. 

“  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night ; 

You  to  the  town  must  go, 

And  take  a  lantern,  child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow.” 

“  That,  father,  will  I  gladly  do  ; 

’Tis  scarcely  afternoon ; 

*/  * 

The  minster  clock  has  just  struck  two, 
And  yonder  is  the  moon.” 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 

And  snapp’d  a  fagot-band  ; 

He  plied  his  work  ;  and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe: 

With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time : 

She  wander’d  up  and  down, 

And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb, 

But  never  reach’d  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide, 


But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  daybreak  on  a  hill  they  stood 
That  overlook’d  the  moor, 

And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 
A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept,  and  turning  homeward,  cried, 
“  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet 
When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy’s  feet. 

Half  breathless,  from  the  steep  hill’s  edge 
They  track’d  the  foot-marks  small, 

And  through  the  broken  hawthorn-hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone  wall, 

And  then  an  open  field  they  cross’d : 

The  marks  were  still  the  same ; 

They  track’d  them  on,  nor  ever  lost, 

And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  follow’d  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  foot-marks  one  by  one, 

Into  the  middle  of  the  plank, 

And  further  there  were  none. 

Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child ; 

That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O’er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind  ; 

And  sings  a  solitary  song 

That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

William  Wordsworth. 

-  ■■  •<>« - 

The  Widow  and  Child. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead: 

She  nor  swoon’d,  nor  utter’d  cry : 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

“  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.” 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low. 
Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


p~  ** 

57 


Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  liis  child  upon  her  knee — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 

“  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee.” 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

♦o* - 

The  Schoolmistress. 

Ah  me!  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn, 

To  think  how  modest  worth  neglected 
lies  ; 

While  partial  fame  doth  with  her  blasts 
adorn 

Such  deeds  alone  as  pride  and  pomp 
disguise ; 

Deeds  of  ill  sort,  and  mischievous  em- 
prize : 

Lend  me  thy  clarion,  goddess !  let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  merit,  ere  it  dies  ; 

Such  as  I  oft  have  chanced  to  espy, 

Lost  in  the  dreary  shades  of  dull  obscurity. 

In  every  village  mark’d  with  little  spire, 
Embower’d  in  trees,  and  hardly  known 
to  fame, 

There  dwells  in  lowly  shed,  and  mean  at¬ 
tire, 

A  matron  old,  whom  we  schoolmistress 
name  ; 

Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch  to 
tame ; 

They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  durance  pent, 
Awed  by  the  pow’r  of  this  relentless 
dame ; 

And  oft-times,  on  vagaries  idly  bent, 

For  unkempt  hair,  or  task  unconn’d,  are 
sorely  shent. 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a  birchen  tree, 
Which  learning  near  her  little  dome  did 
stow ; 

Whilom  a  twig  of  small  regard  to  see, 

Tho’  now  so  wide  its  waving  branches 
flow  ; 

And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle  woe ; 

For  not  a  wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that 
blew, 

But  their  limbs  shudder’d  and  their  pulse 
beat  low  ; 

And  as  they  look’d  they  found  their  horror 
grew, 

And  shaped  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the 
view. 


So  have  I  seen  (who  has  not,  may  con¬ 
ceive) 

A  lifeless  phantom  near  a  garden  placed  ; 

So  doth  it  wanton  birds  of  peace  bereave, 

Of  sport,  of  song,  of  pleasure,  of  repast ; 

They  start,  they  stare,  they  wheel,  they 
look  aghast : 

Sad  servitude  !  such  comfortless  annoy 

May  no  bold  Briton’s  riper  age  e’er  taste  ! 

Ne  superstition  clog  his  dance  of  joy, 

Ne  vision  empty,  vain,  his  native  bliss 
destroy. 

Near  to  this  dome  is  found  a  patch  so 
green, 

On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do 
display ; 

•  And  at  the  door  impris’ning  board  is  seen, 

Lest  weakly  wights  of  smaller  size 
should  stray, 

Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day  ! 

The  noises  intermix’d,  which  thence  re¬ 
sound, 

Do  learning’s  little  tenement  betray  : 

Where  sits  the  dame,  disguised  in  look 
profound, 

And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her 
wheel  around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow, 

Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does 
yield ; 

Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,  as  blue,  I  trow, 

As  is  the  harebell  that  adorns  the 
field: 

And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does 
wield 

Tway  birchen  sprays ;  with  anxious  fear 
entwined, 

With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance 
fill’d ; 

And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction 
join’d, 

And  fury  uncontroll’d  and  chastisement 
unkind. 

Few  but  have  kenn’d,  in  semblance  meet 
portray’d, 

The  childish  faces  of  old  Eol’s  train  ; 

Libs,  Notus,  Auster ;  these  in  frowns  ar¬ 
ray’d, 

How  then  would  fare  or  earth,  or  sky, 
or  main. 


58 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Were  the  stern  god  to  give  his  slaves 
the  rein  ? 

And  were  not  she  rebellious  breasts  to 
quell, 

And  were  not  she  her  statutes  to  main¬ 
tain, 

The  cot  no  more,  I  ween,  were  deem’d  the 
cell, 

Where  comely  peace  of  mind  and  decent 
order  dwell. 

A  russet  stole  was  o’er  her  shoulders 
thrown  ; 

A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air ; 

’Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own  ; 

’Twas  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so 
fair ; 

’Twas  her  own  labor  did  the  fleece  pre¬ 
pare  ; 

And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  ranged 
around, 

Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing 
rare  ; 

For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 

And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest 
wight  on  ground. 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 

Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear ; 

Goody,  good  woman,  gossip,  n’  aunt,  for¬ 
sooth, 

Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did 
hear; 

Yet  these  she  challenged,  these  she  held 
right  dear : 

Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  be¬ 
hove, 

Who  should  not  honor’d  eld  with  these 
revere ; 

For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 

But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did  that 
title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 

The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame, 

Which  ever  and  anon,  impell’d  by  need, 

Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens, 
came ; 

Such  favor  did  her  past  deportment 
claim  ; 

And,  if  neglect  had  lavish’d  on  the 
ground 


Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect 
the  same, 

For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  ex¬ 
pound, 

What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest 
crumb  she  found. 

Herbs,  too,  she  knew,  and  well  of  each 
could  speak 

That  in  her  garden  sipp’d  the  silv’rv 
dew, 

Where  no  vain  flow’r  disclosed  a  gaudy 
streak ; 

But  herbs  for  use  and  physic,  not  a  few, 
Of  gray  renown,  within  those  borders 
grew : 

The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 
Fresh  balm,  and  marygold  of  cheerful 
hue, 

The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb  ; 

And  more  I  fain  would  sing,  disdaining 
here  to  rhyme. 

Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  unsung, 

That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues 
around ; 

And  pungent  radish,  biting  infant’s  tongue, 
And  plantain  ribb’d,  that  heals  the  reap¬ 
er’s  wound, 

And  marj’ram  sweet,  in  shepherd’s  posie 
found, 

And  lavender,  whose  spikes  of  azure  bloom 
Shall  beerewhile  in  arid  bundles  bound, 

To  lurk  amidst  the  labors  of  her  loom, 

And  crown  her  kerchiefs  clean  with  mickle 
rare  perfume. 

And  here  trim  rosemarine,  that  whilom 
crown’d 

The  daintiest  garden  of  the  proudest 
peer, 

Ere,  driven  from  its  envied  site,  it  found 
A  sacred  shelter  for  its  branches  here  ; 
Where,  edged  with  gold,  its  glitt’ring 
skirts  appear. 

Oh,  wassel  days!  oh,  customs  meet  and 
well ! 

Ere  this  was  banish’d  from  his  lofty 
sphere : 

Simplicity  then  sought  this  humble  cell, 

Nor  ever  would  she  more  with  thane  and 
lordling  dwell. 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


59 


Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath’s  decent 
eve, 

Hymned  such  psalms  as  Sternhold  forth 
did  mete ; 

If  winter  ’twere,  she  to  her  hearth  did 
cleave, 

But  in  her  garden  found  a  summer- 
seat: 

Sweet  melody  !  to  hear  her  then  repeat 

How  Israel’s  sons,  beneath  a  foreign  king, 

While  taunting  foemen  did  a  song  en¬ 
treat, 

All,  for  the  nonce,  untuning  ev’ry  string, 

Uphung  their  useless  lyres;  small  heart 
had  they  to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous 
lore, 

And  pass’d  much  time  in  truly  virtuous 
deed, 

And  in  those  elfins’  ears  would  oft  deplore 

The  times  when  truth  by  popish  rage 
did  bleed, 

And  tortuous  death  was  true  devotion’s 
meed, 

And  simple  faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn, 

That  nould  on  wooden  image  placed  her 
creed, 

And  lawny  saints  in  smould’ring  flames  did 
burn  ; 

Ah !  dearest  Lord,  forfend  thilk  days  should 
e’er  return ! 

In  elbow-chair,  like  that  of  Scottish  stem, 

By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cank’ring  eld  de¬ 
faced, 

In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem, 

Our  sov’reign  prince  and  liefest  liege  is 
placed, 

The  matron  sate;  and  some  with  rank 
she  graced 

(The  source  of  children’s  and  of  cour¬ 
tiers’  pride), 

Redress’d  affronts,  for  vile  affronts  there 
pass’d, 

And  warn’d  them  not  the  fretful  to  de¬ 
ride, 

But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them 
betide. 

Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry : 

To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to 
raise ; 


Some  with  vile  copper  prize  exalt  on  high, 
And  some  entice  with  pittance  small  of 
praise ; 

And  other  some  with  baneful  sprig  she 
’frays : 

Ev’n  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  doth 
hold, 

While  with  quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd 
she  sways 

Forewarn’d,  if  little  bird  their  pranks  be¬ 
hold, 

’Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene 
unfold. 

Lo  now  with  state  she  utters  the  command ! 
Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair ; 

Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in 
hand, 

Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are ; 
To  save  from  fingers  wet  the  letters  fair : 

The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 
St.  George’s  high  achievements  does  de¬ 
clare  ; 

On  which  thilk  wight  that  has  y-gazing  been, 

Kens  the  forthcoming  rod,  unpleasing  sight, 
I  ween ! 

Ah,  luckless  he,  and  born  beneath  the 
beam 

Of  evil  star  !  it  irks  me  whilst  I  write  ! 

As  erst  the  bard  by  Mulla’s  silver  stream, 
Oft,  as  he  told  of  deadly  dolorous  plight, 
Sigh’d  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears 
indite. 

For,  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 
To  loose  the  brogues,  the  stripling’s  late 
delight ! 

And  down  they  drop ;  appears  his  dainty 
skin, 

Fair  as  the  furry  coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

Oh,  ruthful  scene !  when  from  a  nook  ob¬ 
scure 

His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see : 

All  playful  as  she  sate,  she  grows  demure ; 

!  She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee , 
She  meditates  a  pray’r  to  set  him  free ; 

Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny 
(If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames 
agree) 

To  her  sad  grief  that  swells  in  either  eye, 

And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  sho 
could  die. 


00 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  com¬ 
mand  ; 

And  hardly  she  forbears,  through  awful 
fear, 

To  rushen  forth,  and,  with  presumptuous 
hand, 

To  stay  hard  justice  in  its  mid  career. 

On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee  her  parent 
dear ! 

(Ah !  too  remote  to  ward  the  shameful 
blow ! ) 

She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near, 

And  soon  a  flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow ; 

And  gives  a  loose  at  last  to  unavailing 
woe. 

But,  ah !  what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may 
trace? 

Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  ex¬ 
plain? 

The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face  ? 

The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks  amain? 

The  plenteous  shower  that  does  his  cheek 
disdain  ? 

When  he  in  abject- wise  implores  the 
dame, 

Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to 
gain; 

Or  when  from  high  she  levels  well  her 
aim,  • 

And,  through  the  thatch,  his  cries  each 
falling  stroke  proclaim. 

The  other  tribe  aghast,  with  sore  dismay, 

Attend,  and  con  their  tasks  with  mickle 
care : 

By  turns,  astonied,  ev’ry  twig  survey, 

And,  from  their  fellow’s  hateful  wounds, 
beware ; 

Knowing,  I  wist,  how  each  the  same 
may  share ; 

Till  fear  has  taught  them  a  performance 
meet, 

And  to  the  well-known  chest  the  dame 
repair ; 

Whence  oft  with  sugar’d  cates  she  doth  ’em 
greet, 

And  ginger-bread  y-rare ;  now,  certes, 
doubly  sweet! 

See  to  their  seats  they  hie  with  merry 
glee, 

And  in  beseemly  order  sitten  there ; 


All  but  the  wight  of  bum  y-galled  ;  he 

Abhorreth  bench,  and  stool,  and  form, 
and  chair 

(This  hand  in  mouth  y-fix’d,  that  rends 
his  hair) ; 

And  eke  with  snubs  profound,  and  heaving 
breast, 

Convulsions  intermitting !  does  declare 

His  grievous  wrongs;  his  dame’s  unjust 
behest, 

And  scorns  her  offer’d  love,  and  shuns  to 
be  caress’d. 

His  face  besprent  with  liquid  crystal  shines, 

His  blooming  face  that  seems  a  purple 
flow’r 

Which  low  to  earth  its  drooping  head  de¬ 
clines, 

All  smear’d  and  sullied  by  a  vernal 
show’r. 

Oh,  the  hard  bosoms  of  despotic  pow’r ! 

All,  all,  but  she,  the  author  of  his  shame, 

All,  all,  but  she,  regret  this  mournful 
hour : 

Yet  hence  the  youth,  and  hence  the  flow’r 
shall  claim, 

If  so  I  deem  aright,  transcending  worth 
and  fame. 

Behind  some  door,  in  melancholy  thought, 

Mindless  of  food,  he,  dreary  caitiff! 
pines; 

Ne  for  his  fellows’ joyaunce  careth  aught, 

But  to  the  wind  all  merriment  re¬ 
signs  ; 

And  deems  it  shame  if  he  to  peace  in¬ 
clines  ; 

And  many  a  sullen  look  askance  is  sent, 

Which  for  his  dame’s  annoyance  he 
designs ; 

And  still  the  more  to  pleasure  him  she’s 
bent, 

The  more  doth  he,  perverse,  her  ’liavior 
past  resent. 

Ah,  me !  how  much  I  fear  lest  pride  it 
be ! 

But  if  that  pride  it  be,  which  thus  in¬ 
spires, 

Beware,  ye  dames,  with  nice  discernment 
see 

Ye  quench  not  too  the  sparks  of  nobler 
fires : 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD, 


61 


Ah,  better  far  than  all  the  muses’  lyres, 

All  coward  arts,  is  valor’s  gen’rous  heat  ; 

The  firm  fixt  breast  which  fit  and  right 
requires, 

Like  Vernon’s  patriot  soul ;  more  justly 
great 

Than  craft  that  pimps  for  ill,  or  flow’ry 
false  deceit. 

Yet,  nursed  with  skill,  what  dazzling  fruits 
appear ! 

Ev’n  now  sagacious  foresight  points  to 
show 

A  little  bench  of  heedless  bishops  here ! 

And  there  a  chancellor  in  embryo, 

Or  bard  sublime,  if  bard  may  e’er  be  so, 

As  Milton,  Shakespeare,  names  that  ne’er 
shall  die ! 

Though  now  he  crawl  along  the  ground 
so  low, 

Nor  weeting  how  the  muse  should  soar  on 
high, 

Wisheth,  poor  starv’ling  elf!  his  paper 
kite  may  fly. 

And  this  perhaps,  who  censuring  the 
design, 

Low  lays  the  house  which  that  of  cards 
doth  build, 

Shall  Dennis  be!  if  rigid  fates  incline, 

And  many  an  epic  to  his  rage  shall  yield ; 

And  many  a  poet  quit  th’  Aonian  field ; 

And,  sour’d  by  age,  profound  he  shall 
appear, 

As  he  who  now  with  ’sdainful  fury 
thrill’d, 

Surveys  mine  work ;  and  levels  many  a 
sneer, 

And  furls  his  wrinkly  front,  and  cries, 
“  What  stuff*  is  here  ?” 

But  now  Dan  Phoebus  gains  the  middle  sky, 

And  liberty  unbars  her  prison-door ; 

And  like  a  rushing  torrent  out  they  fly, 

And  now  the  grassy  cirque  han  cover’d 
o’er 

With  boist’rous  revel-rout  and  wild 
uproar ; 

A  thousand  ways  in  wanton  rings  they  run, 

Heav’n  shield  their  short-lived  pastimes 
I  implore 

For  well  may  freedom,  erst  so  dearly  won, 

Appear  to  British  elf  more  gladsome  than 
the  sun 


Enjoy,  poor  imps !  enjoy  your  sportive 
trade, 

And  chase  gay  flies,  and  cull  the  fairest 
flow’rs  ; 

For  when  my  bones  in  grass-green  sods 
are  laid ; 

For  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless 
hours 

In  knightly  castles,  or  in  ladies’  bow’rs. 

Oh,  vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  thing ! 

But  most  in  courts  where  proud  ambi¬ 
tion  tow’rs ; 

Deluded  wight,  who  weens  fair  peace  can 
spring 

Beneath  the  pompous  dome  of  kesar  or  of 
king. 

See  in  each  sprite  some  various  bent  appear ! 

These  rudely  carol  most  incondite  lay  ; 

Those  sauntering  on  the  green,  with  jocund 
leer 

Salute  the  stranger  passing  on  his  way ; 

Some  builden  fragile  tenements  of  clay ; 

Some  to  the  standing  lake  their  courses 
bend, 

With  pebbles  smooth  at  duck  and  drake 
to  play ; 

Thilk  to  the  huxter’s  sav’ry  cottage  tend, 

In  pastry  kings  and  queens  tli’  allotted 
mite  to  spend. 

Here,  as  each  season  yields  a  different 
store, 

Each  season’s  stores  in  order  ranged 
been ; 

Apples  with  cabbage-net  y-cover’d  o’er, 

Galling  full  sore  th’  unmoney’d  wight, 
are  seen ; 

And  goose-b’rie  clad  in  liv’ry  red  or 
green ; 

And  here  of  lovely  dye,  the  cath’rine  pear. 

Fine  pear  !  as  lovely  for  thy  juice  I  ween. 

Oh,  may  no  wight  e’er  penniless  come 
there, 

Lest  smit  with  ardent  love  he  pine  with 
hopeless  care ! 

See  !  cherries  here,  ere  cherries  yet  abound, 

With  thread  so  white  in  tempting  posies 
tied, 

Scattering  like  blooming  maid  their  glances 
round, 

With  pamper’d  look  draw  little  eyes 
aside ; 


62 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  must  be  bought,  though  penury 
betide. 

The  plum  all  azure,  and  the  nut  all 
brown, 

And  here  each  season  do  those  cakes 
abide, 

Whose  honor’d  names  th’  inventive  city 
own, 

Rend’ring  through  Britain’s  isle  Salopia’s 
praises  known. 

Admired  Salopia !  that  with  venial  pride 
Eyes  her  bright  form  in  Severn’s  ambient 
wave, 

Famed  for  her  loyal  cares  in  perils  tried, 
Her  daughters  lovely  and  her  striplings 
brave : 

Ah !  midst  the  rest,  may  flowers  adorn 
his  grave, 

Whose  art  did  first  these  dulcet  cates  dis¬ 
play  ! 

A  motive  fair  to  learning’s  imps  he 
gave, 

Who  cheerless  o’er  her  darkling  region 
stray ; 

Till  reason’s  morn  arise,  and  light  them  on 
their  way. 

William  Shenstone. 
- »o* - 

The  Children. 

When-  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 
And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dismiss’d, 

The  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kiss’d : 

Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 
My  neck  in  their  tender  embrace ! 

Oh  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven, 
Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face  ! 

And  when  they  are  gone  I  sit  dreaming 
Of  my  childhood,  too  lovely  to  last : 

Of  joy  that  my  heart  will  remember 
While  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the  past, 

Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  me 
A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin  ; 

When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me, 
And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

All  my  heart  grows  as  weak  as  a  woman’s, 
And  the  fountains  of  feeling  will  flow, 

When  I  think  of  the  paths  steep  and'stony, 
Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go ; 


Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o’er 
them, 

Of  the  tempest  of  Fate  blowing  wild ; 
Oh,  there’s  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy 
As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child ! 

They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households ; 

They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise ; 

His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses, 

His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes. 
Those  truants  from  home  and  from 
heaven, 

They  have  made  me  more  manlv  and 
mild, 

And  I  know  now  how  Jesus  could  liken 
The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child. 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones, 

All  radiant,  as  others  have  done, 

But  that  life  may  have  just  enough  shadow 
To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun  : 

I  would  pray  God  to  guard  them  from  evil, 
But  my  prayer  would  bound  back  to 
myself ; 

Ah  !  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner, 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  banish’d  the  rule  and  the  rod  ; 

I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  know¬ 
ledge, 

They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of 
God ; 

My  heart  is  the  dungeon  of  darkness, 
Where  I  shut  them  for  breaking  a 
rule ; 

My  frown  is  sufficient  correction  ; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 

I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  autumn, 
To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more; 

Ah  !  how  I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones 
That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door ! 

I  shall  miss  the  “  good-nights  ”  and  th*' 
kisses, 

And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee, 
The  group  on  the  green,  and  the  flowers 
That  are  brought  every  morning  for  me. 

I  shall  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  even, 
Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street; 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 
And  the  tread  of  their  delicate  feet. 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


63 


When  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended, 

And  Death  says,  “The  school  is  dis¬ 
miss’d  !” 

May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good-night,  and  be  kiss’d  ! 

Charles  M.  Dickinson. 

- K>« - 

The  Cry  of  the  Children. 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my 
brothers, 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 

They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against 
their  mothers, 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 

The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the 
meadows, 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the 
nest, 

The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the 
shadows, 

The  young  flowers  are  blowing  toward 
the  west — 

But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my 
brothers, 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  ! 

They  are  weepfng  in  the  playtime  of  the 
others, 

In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in 
their  sorrow 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 

The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow 

Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago  ; 

The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost, 

The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 
The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost : 

But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my 
brothers, 

Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 

Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their 
mothers, 

In  our  happy  Fatherland  ? 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 
faces, 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 

For  the  man’s  hoary  anguish  draws  and 
presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy  ; 


“Your  old  earth,”  they  say,  “is  very 
dreary, 

Our  young  feet,”  they  say,  “are  very 
weak ; 

Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek  : 

Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the 
children, 

For  the  outside  earth  is  cold, 

And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our 
bewildering, 

And  the  graves  are  for  the  old. 

“  True,”  say  the  children,  “  it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time : 

Little  Alice  died  last  year,  her  grave  is 
shapen 

Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime. 

W e  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take  her : 

Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close 
clay ! 

From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will 
wake  her, 

Crying,  1  Get  up  little  Alice !  it  is  day.’ 

If  you  listen  by  that  grave,  in  sun  and 
shower, 

With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never 
cries ; 

Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should 
not  know  her, 

For  the  smile  has  time  for  growing  in 
her  eyes : 

And  merry  go  her  moments,  lull’d  and 
still’d  in 

The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime. 

It  is  good  when  it  happens,”  say  the 
children, 

“  That  we  die  before  our  time.” 

Alas,  alas,  the  children  !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have : 

They  are  binding  up  their  hearts  away 
from  breaking, 

With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 

Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from 
the  city, 

Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes 
do ; 

Pluck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow-cov  - 
slips  pretty, 

Laugh  aloud,  to  feel  your  fingers  let 
them  through ! 


64 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  they  answer,  “Are  your  cowslips  of 
the  meadows 

Like  our  weeds  a-near  the  mine? 

Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  the  coal- 
shadows, 

From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine! 

“  For  oh,”  say  the  children,  “  we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap ; 

If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were 
merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 

Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping, 

We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go; 

And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  droop¬ 
ing, 

The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale  as 
snow. 

For  all  day  we  drag  our  burden  tiring 

Through  the  coal-dark,  underground ; 

Or  all  day  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 

In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

“  For  all  day  the  wheels  are  droning,  turn¬ 
ing  ; 

Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces, 

Till  our  hearts  turn,  our  heads  with  pulses 
burning, 

And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places  : 

Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank 
and  reeling, 

Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown 
the  wall, 

Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the 
ceiling, 

All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we  with 
all. 

And  all  day  the  iron  wheels  are  droning, 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 

‘  O  ye  wheels  ’  (breaking  out  in  a  mad 
moaning) 

‘  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  ¥  ” 

Av,  be  silent !  Let  them  hear  each  other 
breathing 

For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth  ! 

Let  them  touch  each  other’s  hands,  in  a 
fresh  wreathing 

Of  their  tender  human  youth  ! 

Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  mo¬ 
tion 

Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  or  re¬ 
veals  ; 


Let  them  prove  their  living  souls  against 
the  notion 

That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  0 
wheels ! 

Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark  ; 

And  the  children’s  souls,  which  God  is 
calling  sunward, 

Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O  my 
brothers, 

To  look  up  to  Him  and  pray ; 

So  the  blessed  One  who  blesseth  all  the 
others, 

Will  bless  them  another  day. 

They  answer,  “  Who  is  God,  that  He  should 
hear  us, 

While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is 
stirr’d  ? 

When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures 
near  us 

Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a 
word. 

And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their 
resounding)  ^ 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door  : 

Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round 
Him, 

Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 

“Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  re¬ 
member, 

And  at  midnight’s  hour  of  harm, 

‘  Our  Father,’  looking  upward  in  the  cham¬ 
ber, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 

We  know  no  other  words  except  ‘Our 
Father,’ 

And  we  think  that,  in  some  pause  of 
angels’  song, 

God  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence 
sweet  to  gather, 

And  hold  both  within  His  right  hand 
which  is  strong. 

‘  Our  Father  !’  If  He  heard  us  He  would 
surely 

(For  they  call  Him  good  and  mild) 

Answer,  smiling  down  the  steep  world  very 
purely, 

‘  Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child.’ 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


65 


“But  no!”  say  the  children,  weeping 
faster, 

“  He  is  speechless  as  a  stone  : 

And  they  tell  us  of  His  image  is  the  master, 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 

Go  to!”  say  the  children, — “  up  in  heaven, 

Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all 
we  find. 

Do  not  mock  us  ;  grief  has  made  us  un¬ 
believing  : 

We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have 
made  us  blind.” 

Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and 
disproving, 

0  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 

For  God’s  possible  is  taught  by  His  world’s 
loving, 

And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  you ! 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run  ; 

Thev  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the 
glory 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun. 

They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  its 
wisdom  ; 

They  sink  in  man’s  despair,  without  its 
calm ; 

Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christ- 
dom, 

Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without  the 
palm  : 

Are  worn  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 

The  harvest  of  its  memories  cannot 
reap, — 

Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heav¬ 
enly. 

Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep  ! 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 
faces, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see, 

For  they  ’mind  you  of  their  angels  in  high 
places, 

With  eyes  turned  on  Deity. 

“  How  long,”  they  say,  “how  long,  O  cruel 
nation, 

Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a 
child’s  heart, — 

Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its  palpita¬ 
tion, 

And  tread  onward  to  vour  throne  amid 

•/ 

the  mart? 

5 


Our  blood  splashes  upward,  O  gold- 
heaper, 

And  your  purple  shows  your  path  ! 
But  the  child’s  sob  in  the  silence  curses 
deeper 

Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath.” 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

- K>« - - 

To  a  Highland  Girl. 

(At  Inversneyde,  upon  Loch  Lomond.) 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 
Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower  ! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 
Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 

And,  these  gray  Rocks ;  this  household 
Lawn  ; 

These  Trees,  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn ; 
This  fall  of  water,  that  doth  make 
A  murmur  near  the  silent  Lake  ; 

This  little  Bay,  a  quiet  Road 
That  holds  in  shelter  thy  Abode  ; 

In  truth,  together  do  ye  seem 
Like  something  fashion’d  in  a  dream  ; 
Such  Forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 

Yet,  dream  and  vision  as  thou  art, 

I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart : 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years  ! 

I  neither  know  thee  nor  thy  peers  ; 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  fill’d  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away  : 

For  never  saw  I  mien  or  face, 

In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 

Here  scatter’d  like  a  random  seed, 

Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrass’d  look  of  shy  distress, 

And  maidenly  shamefacedness : 

Thou  wear’st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  Mountaineer : 

A  face  with  gladness  overspread  ! 

Soft  smiles  by  human  kindness  bred  ! 

And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays  : 

With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech : 


66 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


A  bondage  sweetly  brook’d,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  ! 

So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 

Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind, 

Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 

Oh  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ; 

Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress, 

A  Shepherd,  thou  a  Shepherdess  ! 

But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality  : 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 
Of  the  wild  sea  :  and  I  would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighborhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see ! 

Thy  elder  Brother  I  would  be, 

Thy  Father,  anything  to  thee  ! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 

Joy  have  I  had  ;  and  going  hence 
I  bear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  Memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes  : 
Then,  why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir  ? 

I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her ; 

To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  I  loth,  though  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  Girl !  from  thee  to  part ; 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old, 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold, 

As  I  do  now,  the  Cabin  small, 

The  Lake,  the  Bay,  the  Waterfall ; 

And  thee,  the  Spirit  of  them  all ! 

William  Wordsworth. 

- •<>+ - 

Maidenhood. 

Maiden  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 

In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreath’d  in  one, 

As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 

Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 


Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 

On  the  brooklet’s  swift  advance. 

On  the  river’s  broad  expanse '! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 

As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 

When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 

As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 

Sees  the  falcon’s  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 

That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 

Deafen’d  by  the  cataract’s  roar? 

O  thou  child  of  many  prayers ! 

Life  hath  quicksands, — life  hath  snares ! 
Care  and  age  come  unawares. 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 

May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumber’d 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-number’d  : — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumber’d. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 

To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 
One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 

In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 

On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

Oh,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 

Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 

For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

»o» 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


67 


THE  BLIND  Boy. 

Oh,  say  what  is  that  thing  call’d  Light, 
Which  I  must  ne’er  enjoy? 

What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight, 

Oh,  tell  your  poor  blind  boy ! 

You  talk  of  wondrous  things  you  see, 
You  say  the  sun  shines  bright; 

I  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 
Or  make  it  day  or  night? 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make 
Whene’er  I  sleep  or  play; 

And  could  I  ever  keep  awake 
With  me  ’twere  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
You  mourn  my  hapless  woe ; 

But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  loss  I  ne’er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 
My  cheer  of  mind  destroy  ; 

Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 

Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 

Colley  Cibber. 

- K>« - 

Hows  3i y  Boy ? 

u  Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea ! 

How’s  my  boy — my  boy  ?” 

“  What’s  your  boy’s  name,  good  wife, 

And  in  what  good  ship  sailed  he  ?” 

“  My  boy  John — 

He  that  went  to  sea — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor? 

My  boy’s  my  boy  to  me. 

“  You  come  back  from  sea, 

And  not  know  my  John? 

I  might  as  well  have  ask’d  some  lands¬ 
man 

Yonder  down  in  the  town. 

There’s  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 
But  knows  my  John 

“  How’s  my  boy — my  boy? 

And  unless  you  let  me  know, 

I’ll  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 

Bluejacket  or  no, 

Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor, 

Anchor  and  crown  or  no! 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  ‘Jolly  Briton’” — 

‘  Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low !” 


“  And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 
About  my  own  boy  John? 

If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud 
I’d  sing  him  over  the  town ! 

Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor?” 

“That  good  ship  went  down.” 

“  How’s  my  boy — my  boy? 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor, 

I  was  never  aboard  her  ? 

Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground, 

Sinking  or  swimming,  I’ll  be  bound 
Her  owners  can  afford  her ! 

I  say,  how’s  my  John?” 

“  Every  man  on  board  went  down, 

Every  man  aboard  her.” 

“  How’s  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor? 

I’m  not  their  mother — 

How’s  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other ! 

How’s  my  boy — my  boy?” 

Sydney  Dobell. 

- •<>• - 

The  Night  Before  Christ3ias. 

’Twas  the  night  before  Christmas,  when 
all  through  the  house 

Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a 
mouse ; 

The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney 
with  care, 

In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be 
there ; 

The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their 
beds, 

While  visions  of  sugar -plums  danced 
through  their  heads ; 

And  mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my 
cap, 

Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  win¬ 
ter’s  nap, 

When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a 
clatter, 

I  sprang  from  my  bed  to  see  what  was  the 
matter. 

Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 

Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the 
sash. 

The  moon,  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen 
snow, 

Gave  a  lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below  : 


68 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


When  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should 
appear, 

But  a  miniature  sleigh,  and  eight  tiny 
reindeer, 

With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and 
quick, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they 
came, 

And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  call’d 
them  by  name  : 

“Now,  Dasher!  now,  Dancer!  now,  Pran- 
cer !  now,  Vixen  ! 

On,  Comet!  on,  Cupid!  on,  Donder  and 
Blitzen ! — 

To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the 
wall ! 

Now,  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all !” 

As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurri¬ 
cane  flv, 

When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount 
to  the  sky, 

So,  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they 
flew, 

With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys,  and  St.  Nich¬ 
olas  too. 

And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof 

The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little 
hoof. 

As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning 
around, 

Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with 
a  bound. 

He  was  dress’d  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to 
his  foot, 

And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnish’d  with 
ashes  and  soot ; 

A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 

And  he  look’d  like  a  peddler  just  opening 
his  pack. 

His  eyes  how  they  twinkled !  his  dimples 
how  merry ! 

His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a 
cherry, 

His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a 
bow, 

And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as 
the  snow. 

The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his 
teeth, 

A.nd  the  smoke,  it  encircled  his  head  like 
a  wreath. 


He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round 
belly 

That  shook,  when  he  laugh’d,  like  a  bowl 
full  of  jelly. 

He  was  chubby  and  plump — a  right  jolly 
old  elf — 

And  I  laugh’d  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite 
of  myself. 

A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 

Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to 
dread. 

He  spake  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to 
his  work, 

And  filled  all  the  stockings ;  then  turn’d 
with  a  jerk, 

And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 

And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 

He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave 
a  whistle, 

And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a 
thistle ; 

But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out 
of  sight, 

“  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a 
good-night !” 

Clement  C.  Moore. 
- •<>« - 

Introduction  to  11  Songs  of 
Innocence.” 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 

Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 

On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he  laughing  said  to  me : 

“  Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb  !” 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 

“ Piper,  pipe  that  song  again;” 

So  I  piped ;  he  wept  to  hear. 

“  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe  ; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer  !” 

So  I  sang  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

“  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read.” 

So  he  vanish’d  from  my  sight ; 

And  I  pluck’d  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stain’d  the  water  clear. 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

William  Blake. 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


69 


The  May  Queen. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me 
early,  mother  dear ; 

To-morrow  ’ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all 
the  glad  New-year ; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the 
maddest,  merriest  day  ; 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

There’s  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say, 
but  none  so  bright  as  mine  ; 

There’s  Margaret  and  Mary,  there’s  Kate 
and  Caroline  : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the 
land,  they  say, 

So  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I 
shall  never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud,  wdien  the  day 
begins  to  break  : 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and 
buds  and  garlands  gay, 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  of  the  May. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley,  whom  think  ye 
should  I  see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath 
the  hazel  tree  ? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I 
gave  him  yesterday — 

But  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  Mnv. 


I  Little  Effle  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to 
the  green, 

And  you’ll  be  there  too,  mother,  to  see  me 
made  the  queen  ; 

For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  ’ill 
come  from  far  away, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has 
wov’n  its  wavy  bowers, 

And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the 
faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 

And  the  wild  marsli-marigold  shines  like 
fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 


The  night  winds  come  and  go,  mother, 
upon  the  meadow  grass, 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to 
brighten  as  they  pass  ; 

There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole 
of  the  livelong  day, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 


All  the  valley,  mother,  ’ill  be  fresh  and 
green  and  still, 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over 
all  the  hill, 

!  And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  ’ill 
merrily  glance  and  play, 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 


He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I 
was  all  in  white, 

And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like 
a  flash  of  light. 

They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not 
what  they  say, 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 


So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call 
me  early,  mother  dear, 

To-morrow  ’ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all 
the  glad  New-year : 

To-morrow  ’ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  mad¬ 
dest,  merriest  day, 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 


They  say  he’s  dying  all  for  love,  but  that 
can  never  be : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother — 
what  is  that  to  me  ? 

There’s  many  a  bolder  lad  ’ill  woo  me  any 
summer  day, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 


New-Year’s  Eve. 

If  you’re  waking  call  me  early,  call  me 
early,  mother  dear, 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad 
New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-vear  that  I  shall  ever  see, 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i’  the  mould  and 
think  no  more  of  me. 


70 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


To  night  I  saw  the  sun  set:  he  set  and  left 
behind 

The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and 
all  my  peace  of  mind ; 

And  the  New-year’s  coming  up,  mother, 
but  I  shall  never  see 

The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf 
upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers :  we 
had  a  merry  day  ; 

Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they 
made  me  Queen  of  May ; 

And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in 
the  hazel  copse, 

Till  Charles’s  Wain  came  out  above  the 
tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There’s  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills :  the 
frost  is  on  the  pane : 

I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snow-drops  come 
again : 

I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun 
come  out  on  high  : 

I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I 
die. 

The  building  rook  ’ill  caw  from  the  windy 
tall  elm  tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow 
lea, 

And  the  swallow  ’ill  come  back  again  with 
summer  o’er  the  wave, 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the 
mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that 
grave  of  mine, 

In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer 
sun  ’ill  shine, 

Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm 
upon  the  hill, 

When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and 
all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother, 
beneath  the  waning  light 

You’ll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray 
fields  at  night ; 

When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer 
airs  blow  cool 

On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and 
the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 


You’ll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath 
the  hawthorn  shade, 

And  you’ll  come  sometimes  and  see  me 
where  I  am  lowly  laid. 

I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother ;  I  shall  hear 
you  when  you  pass, 

With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long 
and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you’ll 
forgive  me  now ; 

You’ll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive 
me  ere  I  go ; 

Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your 
grief  be  wild, 

You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you 
have  another  child. 

If  I  can  I’ll  come  again,  mother,  from  out 
my  resting-place ; 

Tho’  you’ll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look 
upon  your  face ; 

Tho’  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken 
what  you  say, 

And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you 
think  I’m  far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I  have  said 
good-night  for  evermore, 

And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the 
threshold  of  the  door ; 

Don’t  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave 
be  growing  green : 

She’ll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I 
have  been. 

She’ll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  gran¬ 
ary  floor : 

Let  her  take  ’em :  they  are  hers :  I  shall 
never  garden  more : 

But  tell  her,  when  I’m  gone,  to  train  the 
rose-bush  that  I  set 

About  the  parlor-window,  and  the  box  of 
mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother :  call  me  before 
the  day  is  born. 

All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at 
morn ; 

But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad 
New-vear, 

So,  if  you’re  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early, 
mother  dear. 


POETRY  OF  INFANCY  AND  CHILDHOOD. 


71 


Conclusion. 

I  thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet 
alive  I  am ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the 
bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning 
of  the  year ! 

To  die  before  the  snow-drop  came,  and  now 
the  violet’s  here. 

Oh,  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  be¬ 
neath  the  skies, 

And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb’s  voice  to 
me  that  cannot  rise, 

And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all 
the  flowers  that  blow, 

And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me 
that  long  to  go. 

It  seem’d  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave 
the  blessed  sun, 

And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay ;  and  yet, 
His  will  be  done ! 

But  still  I  think  it  can’t  be  long  before  I 
find  release; 

And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has 
told  me  words  of  peace. 

Oh,  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his 
silver  hair, 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until 
he  meet  me  there ! 

Oh,  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his 
silver  head ! 

A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt 
beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show’d 
me  all  the  sin. 

Now,  tho’  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there’s 
One  will  let  me  in ; 

Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again, 
if  that  could  be, 

For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that 
died  for  me. 

I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the 
death-watch  beat, 

There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night 
and  morning  meet; 

But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put 
your  hand  in  mine, 

And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell 
the  sign. 


All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard 
the  angels  call ; 

It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the 
dark  was  over  all ; 

The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind 
began  to  roll, 

And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard 
them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you 
and  Effie  dear ; 

I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no 
longer  here ; 

With  all  my  strength  I  pray’d  for  both, 
and  so  I  felt  resign’d, 

And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music 
on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen’d 
in  my  bed, 

And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I 
know  not  what  was  said, 

For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took 
hold  of  all  my  mind, 

And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music 
on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping,  and  I  said,  “  It’s 
not  for  them,  it’s  mine ;” 

And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I 
take  it  for  a  sign. 

And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside 
the  window-bars, 

Then  seem’d  to  go  right  up  to  heaven  and 
die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.  I  trust 
it  is.  I  know 

The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul 
will  have  to  go. 

And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go 
to-day, 

But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I 
am  pass’d  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell 
him  not  to  fret ; 

There’s  many  a  worthier  than  I  would 
make  him  happy  yet. 

If  I  had  lived — I  cannot  tell — I  might 
have  been  his  wife, 

But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with 
my  desire  of  life. 


72 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Oh,  look !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heav¬ 
ens  are  in  a  glow  ; 

He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all 
of  them  I  know. 

And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and 
there  his  light  may  shine — 

Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands 
than  mine. 

Oh,  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that 
ere  this  day  is  done 

The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be 
bevond  the  sun, 

For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls 
and  true ; 

And  what  is  life  that  we  should  moan  ? 
why  make  we  such  ado  ? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a  blessed 
home, 

And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  vou 

* 

and  Effie  come, 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie 
upon  your  breast, 


And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and 
the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


A  Farewell. 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give 
you ; 

No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and 
.  gray; 

Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave 
you 

For  every  day. 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be 
clever  ; 

Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all 
day  long ; 

And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  for¬ 
ever 

One  grand,  sweet  song. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


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Poems 


OF 

Memory  and  Retrospection. 


I  Remember,  I  Remember. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn  : 

He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 

But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  roses,  red  and  white  ; 

The  violets  and  the  lily-cups, 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 

The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 

The  laburnum  on  his  birthday, — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing ; 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 
To  swallows  on  the  wing : 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 
The  fever  on  my  brow ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
Were  close  against  the  sky  : 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  His  little  joy  . 

To  know  I’m  farther  off  from  heaven 
Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Thomas  Hood. 


The  Old  Arm-Chair. 

I  love  it,  I  love  it ;  and  who  shall  dare 
To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair  ? 
I’ve  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize ; 
I’ve  bedew’d  it  with  tears,  and  embalm’d 
it  with  sighs. 

’Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my 
heart ; 

Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 
Would  ye  learn  the  spell? — a  mother  sat 
there ; 

And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood’s  hour  I  linger’d  near 
The  hallow’d  seat  with  listening  ear ; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give 
To  fit  me  to  die,  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide, 
With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  mv 
guide ; 

She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer, 
As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat  and  watch’d  her  many  a  day, 

When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her  locks 
were  gray : 

And  I  almost  worshipp’d  her  when  she 
smiled, 

And  turn’d  from  her  Bible,  to  bless  her 
child. 

Years  roll’d  on :  but  the  last  one  sped — 
My  idol  was  shatter’d  ;  my  earth-star  fled  : 
I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 
When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-chair. 

’Tis  past,  ’tis  past,  but  I  gaze  on  it  now 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing 
brow : 


73 


74 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


’Twas  there  she  nursed  me;  ’twas  there 
she  died : 

And  Memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 

Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak, 

While  the  scalding  drops  start  down  my 
cheek ; 

But  I  love  it,  I  love  it ;  and  cannot  tear 

My  soul  from  a  mother’s  old  arm-chair. 

Eliza  Cook. 


Rock  me  to  Sleep. 

Backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in 
your  flight, 

Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to-night ! 

Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 

Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore ; 

Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 

Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my 
hair  ; 

Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  wratch 
keep  ; — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to 
sleep ! 

Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of  the 
years  ! 

I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears, — 

Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in 
vain, — 

Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood 
again  ! 

I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, — 

Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealtli  away ; 

Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap  ; — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to 
sleep  ! 


None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 

From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary 
brain. 

Slumber’s  soft  calms  o’er  my  heavy  lids 
creep  ; — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to 
sleep  ! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted 
with  gold, 

Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old  ; 

Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 

Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light  ; 

For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once 
more 

Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of 
yore; 

Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep ; — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to 
sleep ! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  been 
long 

Since  I  last  listen’d  your  lullaby  song  : 

Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 

Womanhood’s  years  have  been  only  a 
dream. 

Clasp’d  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace, 

With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my 
face, 

Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep  ; — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to 
sleep ! 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 

- - 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket. 


Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue, 
Mother !  O  mother !  my  heart  calls  for  you  ! 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossom’d,  and  faded  our  faces  between, 
Yet  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate 
pain 

Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so 
deep  ; — 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to 
sleep  ! 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  davs  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours : 


How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of 
my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them 
to  view  ! 

The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled 
wild  wood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy 
knew ; 

The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill 
which  stood  by  it, 

The  bridge  and  the  rock  where  the  cat¬ 
aract  fell; 

The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh 
it, 

And  e’en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung 
in  the  well : 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION. 


75 


The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 
bucket, 

The  moss-cover’d  bucket,  which  hung  in 
the  well. 

That  moss-cover’d  vessel  I  hail  as  a 
treasure ; 

For  often,  at  noon,  when  return’d  from 
the  field, 

I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite 
pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  Nature  can 
yield. 

How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that 
were  glowing ! 

And  quick  to  the  wliite-pebbled  bottom 
it  fell ; 

Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  over¬ 
flowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from 
the  well : 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 
bucket, 

The  moss-cover’d  bucket  arose  from  the 
well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to 
receive  it, 

As  poised  on  the  curb  it  inclined  to  my 
lips  ! 

Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me 
to  leave  it, 

Though  fill’d  with  the  nectar  that  Jupi¬ 
ter  sips. 

And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved 
situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 

As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father’s  planta¬ 
tion, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs 
in  the  well : 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 
bucket, 

The  moss-cover’d  bucket,  which  hangs  in 
the  well. 

Samuel  Woodwoktii. 
- •<>♦— — 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree! 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough  ! 

In  youth  it  shelteiM  me, 

And  I’ll  protect  it  now. 


’Twas  my  forefather’s  hand 
That  placed  it  near  his  cot : 

There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not ! 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o’er  land  and  sea — 

And  would’st  thou  hew  it  down? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties ; 

Oh,  spare  that  ag&d  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies! 

When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade ; 

In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here,  too,  my  sisters  play’d. 

My  mother  kiss’d  me  here ; 

My  father  press’d  my  hand — 

Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand ! 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend ! 

Here  shall  the  wild  bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 

Old  tree !  the  storm  still  brave  ! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot; 

While  I’ve  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not ! 

George  P.  Mokkis. 

- - 

The  Stranger  on  the  Sill. 

Between  the  broad  fields  of  wheat  and 
corn 

Is  the  lowly  home  where  I  was  born  ; 

The  peach  tree  leans  against  the  wall, 

And  the  woodbine  wanders  over  all ; 

There  is  the  shaded  doorway  still, 

But  a  stranger’s  foot  has  cross’d  the  sill. 

There  is  the  barn,  and,  as  of  yore, 

I  can  smell  the  hay  from  the  open  door, 
And  see  the  busy  swallows  throng, 

And  hear  the  pewee’s  mournful  song ; 

But  the  stranger  comes  —  oh,  painful 
proof! — 

His  sheaves  are  piled  to  the  heated  roof. 

There  is  the  orchard — the  very  trees 
Where  my  childhood  knew  long  hours  of 
ease, 


76 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  watch’d  the  shadowy  moments  run 
Till  my  life  imbibed  more  shade  than  sun : 
The  swing  from  the  bough  still  sweeps  the 
air, 

But  the  stranger’s  children  are  swinging 
there. 

There  bubbles  the  shady  spring  below, 
With  its  bulrush  brook  where  the  hazels 
grow ; 

’Twas  there  I  found  the  calamus  root, 

And  watched  the  minnows  poise  and  shoot, 
And  heard  the  robin  lave  his  wing  : — 

But  the  stranger’s  bucket  is  at  the  spring. 

O  ye  who  daily  cross  the  sill, 

Step  lightly,  for  I  love  it  still ; 

And  when  you  crowd  the  old  barn  eaves, 
Then  think  what  countless  harvest  sheaves 
Have  pass’d  within  that  scented  door 
To  gladden  eyes  that  are  no  more. 

Deal  kindly  with  these  orchard  trees  ; 

And  when  your  children  crowd  your  knees, 
Their  sweetest  fruit  they  shall  impart, 

As  if  old  memories  stirr’d  their  heart : 

To  youthful  sport  still  leave  the  swing, 
And  in  sweet  reverence  hold  the  spring. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Bead. 

- - 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs. 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashion’d  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw  : 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all, — 

“  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !” 

Halfway  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 

And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 

Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass, — 

“  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !” 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 

Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep’s  fall, 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 


Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door, — 
“  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !” 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 

It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe, — 

“  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !” 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality  ; 

His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roar’d  ; 

The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 

But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 

That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased, — 

“  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !” 

There  groups  of  merry  children  play’d, 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming 
stray’d  ; 

O  precious  hours  !  O  golden  prime, 

And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 

Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told, — 
“  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !” 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 

The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding- 
night  ; 

There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 

The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow  ; 

And  in  the  hush  that  follow’d  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 

“  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !” 

All  are  scatter’d  now  and  fled, 

Some  are  married,  some  are  dead  ; 

And  when  I  ask  with  throbs  of  pain, 

“  Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again, 

As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by?” 

The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply, — 

“  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !” 

Never  here,  forever  there, 

Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION . 


Mf-r 


And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear, — 

Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 

The  horologe  of  Eternity 

Sayeth  this  incessantly, — 

“  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !” 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

- K>« - 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces. 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  com¬ 
panions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful 
school-days ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carous¬ 
ing, 

Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom 
cronies  ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women  : 

Closed  are  her  doors  on  me;  I  must  not 
see  her ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no 
man ; 

Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  ab¬ 
ruptly  ; 

Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar 
faces. 

Gliost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of 
my  childhood  ; 

Earth  seem’d  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  trav¬ 
erse, 

Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a 
brother, 

Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father’s 
dwelling  ? 

So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar 
faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they 
have  left  me, 

And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are  de¬ 
parted, — 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

.  Charles  Lamb. 


Oft,  in  the  Stilly  Night. 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber’s  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me ; 

4/  f 

The  smiles,  the  tears, 

Of  boyhood’s  years, 

The  words  of  love  then  spoken  ; 

The  eyes  that  shone, 

Now  dimm’d  and  gone, 

The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber’s  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 
The  friends,  so  link’d  together, 

I’ve  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather ; 

I  feel  like  one, 

Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 

Whose  lights  are  fled, 

Whose  garlands  dead, 

And  all  but  he  departed  ! 

Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber’s  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

Thomas  Moore. 

■  ■  •<>• 

« 

Saturday  Afternoon. 

I  love  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 

And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 
And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray ; 

For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man’s 
heart, 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 

To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walk’d  the  world  for  fourscore 
years ; 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old, 

That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper, 
Death, 

And  my  years  are  wellnigh  told. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


It  is  very  true  ;  it  is  very  true  ; 

I’m  old,  and  I  “  bide  my  time 

But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like 
this, 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on,  play  on  ;  I  am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring ; 

I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 
And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 

I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  I  whoop  the  smother’d  call, 

And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 
And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall 
come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go ; 

For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low  ; 

But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 
In  treading  its  gloomy  way  ; 

And  it  wiles  niv  heart  from  its  dreariness, 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 

- K>« - 

Twenty  Years  Ago. 

I’ve  wander’d  to  the  village,  Tom,  I’ve  sat 
beneath  the  tree, 

Upon  the  school-house  play-ground,  which 
shelter’d  you  and  me ; 

But  none  were  there  to  greet  me,  Tom,  and 
few  were  left  to  know, 

That  play’d  with  us  upon  the  grass  some 
twenty  years  ago. 

The  grass  is  just  as  green,  Tom — barefooted 
boys  at  play, 

Were  sporting  just  as  we  did  then,  with 
spirits  just  as  gay; 

But  the  “master”  sleeps  upon  the  hill, 
which,  coated  o’er  with  snow, 

Afforded  us  a  sliding-place,  just  twenty 
years  ago. 

The  old  school-house  is  alter’d  some,  the 
benches  are  replaced 

By  new  ones,  very  like  the  same  our  pen¬ 
knives  had  defaced ; 

But  the  same  old  bricks  are  in  the  wall, 
the  bell  swings  to  and  fro, 

It’s  music,  just  the  same,  dear  Tom,  ’twas 
twenty  years  ago. 


The  boys  were  playing  some  old  game, 
beneath  the  same  old  tree — 

I  do  forget  the  name  just  now;  you’ve 
play’d  the  same  with  me 
On  that  same  spot ;  ’twas  play’d  with  knives, 
by  throwing  so  and  so, 

The  loser  had  a  task  to  do,  there,  just 
twenty  years  ago. 

The  river’s  running  just  as  still,  the  willows 
on  its  side 

Are  larger  than  they  were,  Tom,  the 
stream  appears  less  wide  ; 

But  the  grapevine  swing  is  ruin’d  now 
where  once  we  play’d  the  beau, 

And  swung  our  sweethearts — “  pretty  girls  ” 
— -just  twenty  years  ago. 

The  spring  that  bubbled  ’neatli  the  hill, 
close  by  the  spreading  beech, 

Is  very  low — ’twas  once  so  high  that  we 
could  almost  reach ; 

And  kneeling  down  to  get  a  drink,  dear 
Tom,  I  even  started  so  ! 

To  see  how  much  that  I  am  changed  since 
twenty  years  ago. 

Near  by  the  spring,  upon  an  elm,  you  know 
I  cut  your  name, 

Your  sweetheart’s  just  beneath  it,  Tom, 
and  you  did  mine  the  same — 

Some  heartless  wretch  had  peel’d  the  bark, 
’twas  dying  sure  but  slow, 

Just  as  the  one  whose  name  was  cut,  died 
twenty  years  ago. 

My  lids  have  long  been  dry,  Tom,  but  tears 
came  in  my  eyes, 

I  thought  of  her  I  loved  so  well — those 
early  broken  ties — 

I  visited  the  old  churchyard,  and  took 
some  flowers  to  strew 
Upon  the  graves  of  those  we  loved,  some 
twenty  years  ago. 

Some  are  in  the  churchyard  laid,  some 
sleep  beneath  the  sea, 

But  few  are  left  of  our  old  class,  except¬ 
ing  you  and  me, 

And  when  our  time  is  come,  Tom,  and  we 
are  call’d  to  go, 

I  hope  they’ll  lay  us  where  we  play’d,  just 
twenty  years  ago. 

Author  Unknown 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION. 


79 


School  and  School-fellows. 

“Floreat  Etona.” 

Twelve  years  ago  I  made  a  mock 
Of  filthy  trades  and  traffics : 

I  wonder’d  what  they  meant  by  stock ; 

I  wrote  delightful  sapphics  ; 

I  knew  the  streets  of  Rome  and  Troy, 

I  supp’d  with  Fates  and  Furies; 

Twelve  years  ago  I  was  a  boy, 

A  happy  boy  at  Drury’s. 

Twelve  years  ago  ! — how  many  a  thought 
Of  faded  pains  and  pleasures 

Those  whisper’d  syllables  have  brought 
From  Memory’s  hoarded  treasures! 

The  fields,  the  farms,  the  bats,  the  books, 
The  glories  and  disgraces, 

The  voices  of  dear  friends,  the  looks 
Of  old  familiar  faces ! 

Kind  Mater  smiles  again  to  me, 

As  bright  as  when  we  parted; 

I  seem  again  the  frank,  the  free, 
Stout-limb’d  and  simple-hearted ! 

Pursuing  every  idle  dream, 

And  shunning  every  warning : 

With  no  hard  work  but  Bovney  stream, 

No  chill  except  Long  Morning: 

Now  stopping  Harry  Vernon’s  ball 
That  rattled  like  a  rocket  ; 

Now  hearing  Wentworth’s  “Fourteen  all !” 
And  striking  for  the  pocket ; 

Now  feasting  on  a  cheese  and  flitch, — 
Now  drinking  from  the  pewter; 

Now  leaping  over  Chalvey  ditch, 

Now  laughing  at  my  tutor. 

Where  are  mv  friends?  I  am  alone ; 

No  playmate  shares  my  beaker : 

Some  lie  beneath  the  churchyard  stone, 
And  some — before  the  Speaker  ; 

And  some  compose  a  tragedy, 

And  some  compose  a  rondo  ; 

And  some  draw  sword  for  Liberty, 

And  some  draw  pleas  for  John  Doe. 

Tom  Mill  was  used  to  blacken  eyes 
Without  the  fear  of  sessions; 

Charles  Medlar  loath’d  false  quantities, 

As  much  as  false  professions ; 

Now  Mill  keeps  order  in  the  land, 

A  magistrate  pedantic ; 


1  And  Medlar’s  feet  repose  unscann’d 
Beneath  the  wide  Atlantic. 

Wild  Nick,  whose  oaths  made  such  a  din. 
Does  Dr.  Martext’s  duty ; 

And  Mullion,  with  that  monstrous  chin, 

Is  married  to  a  beauty ; 

And  Darrel  studies,  week  by  week, 

His  Mant,  and  not  his  Manton ; 

And  Ball,  who  was  but  poor  at  Greek, 

Is  very  rich  at  Canton. 

And  I  am  eight-and-twenty  now ; — 

The  world’s  cold  chains  have  bound  me: 

And  darker  shades  are  on  my  brow, 

And  sadder  scenes  around  me  : 

In  Parliament  I  fill  my  seat, 

With  many  other  noodles ; 

And  lay  my  head  in  Jermyn  street, 

And  sip  my  hock  at  Boodle’s. 

But  often,  when  the  cares  of  life 
Have  set  my  temples  aching, 

When  visions  haunt  me  of  a  wife, 

When  duns  await  my  waking, 

When  Lady  Jane  is  in  a  pet, 

Or  Hoby  in  a  hurry, 

When  Captain  Hazard  wins  a  bet, 

Or  Beaulieu  spoils  a  curry, — 

For  hours  and  hours  I  think  and  talk 
Of  each  remember’d  hobby ; 

I  long  to  lounge  in  Poets’  Walk, 

To  shiver  in  the  lobby ; 

I  wish  that  I  could  run  away 

From  House,  and  Court,  and  Levee, 
j  Where  bearded  men  appear  to-day 
Just  Eton  boys,  grown  heavy, — 

That  I  could  bask  in  childhood’s  sun, 

And  dance  o’er  childhood’s  roses, 

And  find  huge  wealth  in  one  pound  one, 
Vast  wit  in  broken  noses, 

And  play  Sir  Giles  at  Datchet  Lane, 

And  call  the  milkmaids  Houris, — 

That  I  could  be  a  boy  again, — 

A  happy  boy, — at  Drury’s. 

WlNTHROP  MaCKWORTH  PrAEU 
- »o+ - 

A  Reflective  Retrospect. 

’Tis  twenty  years,  and  something  more, 
Since,  all  athirst  for  useful  knowledge, 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  took  some  draughts  of  classic  lore, 

Drawn  very  mild,  at - rd  College  ; 

Yet  I  remember  all  that  one 

Could  wish  to  hold  in  recollection  ; 

The  boys,  the  joys,  the  noise,  the  fun; 

But  not  a  single  Conic  Section. 

I  recollect  those  harsh  affairs, 

The  morning  bells,  that  gave  us  panics  ; 
T  recollect  the  formal  prayers, 

That  seemed  like  lessons  in  Mechanics; 

I  recollect  the  drowsy  way 

In  which  the  students  listen’d  to  them, 
As  clearly,  in  my  wig,  to-day, 

As  when  a  boy  I  slumber’d  through 
them. 

I  recollect  the  tutors  all 
As  freshly  now,  if  I  may  say  so, 

As  any  chapter  I  recall, 

In  Homer  or  Ovidius  Naso. 

I  recollect  extremely  well 

c / 

“  Old  Hugh,”  the  mildest  of  fanatics  ; 

I  well  remember  Matthew  Bell, 

But  very  faintly  Mathematics. 

I  recollect  the  prizes  paid 

For  lessons  fathom’d  to  the  bottom  ; 
(Alas  that  pencil-marks  should  fade  !) 

I  recollect  the  chaps  who  got  ’em, — 

The  light  equestrians  who  soar’d 
O’er  every  passage  reckon’d  stony  ; 

And  took  the  chalks, — but  never  scored 
A  single  honor  to  the  pony  ! 

Ah  me  !  what  changes  Time  has  wrought, 
And  how  predictions  have  miscarried  ! 

A  few  have  reach’d  the  goal  they  sought, 
And  some  are  dead,  and  some  are  mar¬ 
ried  ! 

And  some  in  city  journals  war  ; 

And  some  as  politicians  bicker  ; 

And  some  are  pleading  at  the  bar — 

For  jury- verdicts,  or  for  liquor  ! 

And  some  on  Trade  and  Commerce  wait ; 

And  some  in  school  with  dunces  battle ; 
And  some  the  gospel  propagate  ; 

And  some  the  choicest  breeds  of  cattle ; 
And  some  are  living  at  their  ease ; 

And  some  were  wreck’d  in  “  the  revul¬ 
sion  ;” 

Some  serve  the  State  for.  handsome  fees, 
And  one,  I  hear,  upon  compulsion ! 


Lamont,  who,  in  his  college  days, 
Thought  e’en  a  cross  a  moral  scandal, 
Has  left  his  Puritanic  ways, 

And  worships  now  with  bell  and  candle  ; 
And  Manx,  who  mourn’d  the  negro’s 
fate, 

And  held  the  slave  as  most  unlucky, 
Now  holds  him,  at  the  market  rate, 

On  a  plantation  in  Kentucky ! 

Tom  Knox — who  swore  in  such  a  tone 
It  fairly  might  be  doubted  whether 
It  was  really  himself  alone, 

Or  Knox  and  Erebus  together — 

Has  grown  a  very  alter’d  man, 

And,  changing  oaths  for  mild  entreaty, 
Now  recommends  the  Christian  plan 
To  savages  in  Otaheite  ! 

Alas  for  young  ambition’s  vow ! 

How  envious  Fate  may  overthrow  it ! — 
Poor  Harvey  is  in  Congress  now, 

Who  struggled  long  to  be  a  poet  ; 

Smith  carves  (quite  well)  memorial 
stones, 

Who  tried  in  vain  to  make  the  law  go ; 
Hall  deals  in  hides;  and  “Pious  Jones” 
Is  dealing  faro  in  Chicago ! 

And,  sadder  still,  the  brilliant  Hays, 

Once  honest,  manly,  and  ambitious, 

Has  taken  latterly  to  ways 

Extremely  profligate  and  vicious ; 

By  slow  degrees — I  can’t  tell  how — 

He’s  reach’d  at  last  the  very  groundsel, 
And  in  New  York  he  figures  now, 

A  member  of  the  Common  Council ! 

John  G.  Saxe. 

- - 

The  Boys. 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mix’d  with 
the  boys  ? 

If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  mak¬ 
ing  a  noise. 

Hang  the  Almanac’s  cheat  and  the  Cata¬ 
logue’s  spite ! 

Old  Time  is  a  liar  !  We’re  twenty  to-night ! 

We’re  twenty  !  We’re  twenty  !  Who  says 
we  are  more  ? 

He’s  tipsy, — young  jackanapes ! — show  him 
the  door! 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION. 


81 


“  Gray  temples  at  twenty  V’— Yes  !  white, 
if  we  please; 

Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there’s 
nothing  can  freeze !  • 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of?  Excuse  the 
mistake ! 

Look  close, — you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a 
flake ! 

We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we 
have  shed, — 

And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the 
red. 

We’ve  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may 
have  been  told, 

Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old: 

That  boy  we  call  “  Doctor,”  and  this  we 
call  “Judge”; — 

It’s  a  neat  little  fiction, — of  course  it’s  all 
fudge. 

That  fellow’s  the  “  Speaker,” — the  one  on 
the  right ; 

“  Mr.  Mayor,”  my  young  one,  how  are  you 
to-night  ? 

That’s  our  “  Member  of  Congress,”  we  say 
when  we  chaff ; 

There’s  the  “  Reverend  ”  What’s  his  name  ? 
— don’t  make  me  laugh  ! 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical 
look 

Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful 
book, 

And  the  Royal  Society  thought  it  was 
true  ! 

So  they  chose  him  right  in, — a  good  joke 
it  was  too ! 

There’s  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three- 
decker  brain, 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical 
chain ; 

When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syl¬ 
labled  fire, 

We  call’d  him  “The  Justice,”  but  now 
he’s  “  The  Squire.” 

And  there’s  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent 
pith, — 

Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him 

Smith ; 

6 


But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and 
the  free, — 

Just  read  on  his  medal,  “My  country,” 
“of  thee!” 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing? — You  think 
he’s  all  fun ; 

But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he 
has  done; 

The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to 
his  call, 

And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs 
loudest  of  all ! 

Yes,  we’re  boys, — always  playing  with 
tongue  or  with  pen ; 

And  I  sometimes  have  ask’d,  Shall  we  ever 
be  men? 

Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing, 
and  gay, 

Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smil¬ 
ing  away? 

Then  here’s  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and 
its  gray ! 

The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its 
May ! 

And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-last' 
ing  toys, 

Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children. 
The  Boys. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

- *>•  "  - 

Auld  Lang  Syne. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  mind  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  auld  lang  syne  ? 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 

We’ll  tak’  a  cup  o’  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye’ll  be  your  pint  stowp  ! 

And  surely  I’ll  be  mine  ! 

And  we’ll  tak’  a  cup  o’  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 

We’ll  tak’  a  cup  o’  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


82 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


We  twa  ha’e  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pou’d  the  gowans  fine ; 

But  we’ve  wander’d  mony  a  weary  fitt 
Sin’  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 

We’ll  tak’  a  cup  o’  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  ha’e  paidl’d  in  the  burn, 

Frae  morning  sun  till  dine  ; 

But  seas  between  us  braid  ha’e  roar’d 
Sin’  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 

We’ll  tak’  a  cup  o’  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  there’s  a  hand,  my  trusty  here  ! 

And  gie’s  a  hand  o’  thine ! 

And  we’ll  tak’  a  right  gude-willie  waught, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 

W e’ll  tak’  a  cup  o’  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

Robert  Burns. 

- +o« - 

My  Playmate. 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 

The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seem’d  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 

My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kiss’d  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  : 

What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 
Who  fed  her  father’s  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May : 

The  constant  years  told  o’er 

Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 


I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 
Of  uneventful  vears  ; 

Still  o’er  and  o’er  I  sow  the  spring 
And  reap  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 
Her  summer  roses  blow ; 

The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 
Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewell’d  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown, — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 

And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 
The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 

And  how  the  old  time  seems, — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice : 

Does  she  remember  mine  ? 

And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 
Who  fed  her  father’s  kine? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  eves  than  ours, — 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  fill’d, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

0  playmate  in  the  golden  time! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 

Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o’er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 
A  sweeter  memory  blow ; 

And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 
The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea, — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 

Between  myself  and  thee ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 


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AND  THRICE  ERE  THE  MORNING  I  DREMT  ITAGA1N" 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION. 


83 


I  Hae  Naebody  NOW. 

I  hae  naebody  now,  I  hae  naebody  now, 
To  meet  me  upon  the  green, 

Wi’  light  locks  waving  o’er  her  brow, 

An’  joy  in  her  deep  blue  e’en  ; 

Wi’  the  raptured  kiss,  an’  the  happy  smile, 
An’  the  dance  o’  the  lightsome  fay, 

An’  the  wee  bit  tale  o’  news  the  while 
That  had  happen’d  when  I  was  away. 

I  hae  naebody  now,  I  hae  naebody  now, 

To  clasp  to  my  bosom  at  even, 

O’er  her  calm  sleep  to  breathe  the  vow, 

An’  pray  for  a  blessing  from  Heaven ; 
An’  the  wild  embrace,  an’  the  gleesome  face, 
In  the  morning  that  met  my  eye, 

Where  are  they  now?  where  are  they  now? 
In  the  cauld,  cauld  grave  they  lie. 

There’s  naebody  kens,  there’s  naebody  kens, 
An’  oh,  may  they  never  prove, 

That  sharpest  degree  o’  agony 

For  the  child  o’  their  earthly  love. 

To  see  a  flower,  in  its  vernal  hour, 

By  slow  degrees  decay, 

Then  calmly  aneath  the  hand  o’  death, 
Breathe  its  sweet  soul  away  1 

Oh,  dinna  break,  my  poor  auld  heart, 

Nor  at  thy  loss  repine, 

For  the  unseen  hand  that  threw  the  dart 
Was  sent  frae  her  Father  and  thine. 

Yet  I  maun  mourn,  an’  I  will  mourn, 

Even  till  my  latest  day, 

For  though  my  darling  can  never  return, 

I  shall  follow  thee  soon  away. 

James  Hogg. 

-  •<>•  . 

The  Soldier's  Dream. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud 
had  lower’d, 

And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in 
the  sky, 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground 
overpower’d, 

The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to 
die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of 
straw, 

By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded 
the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dream’d  it 
again. 


Methought  from  the  battle-field’s  dreadful 
array, 

Far,  far  I  had  roam’d  on  a  desolate  track : 

’Twas  Autumn,  and  sunshine  arose  on  the 
way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  wel¬ 
comed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life’s  morning  march,  when  my  bosom 
was  young ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating 
aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn- 
reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly 
I  swore 

From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends 
never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kiss’d  me  a  thousand  times 
o’er, 

And  my  wife  sobb’d  aloud  in  her  fulness 
of  heart. 

“  Stay,  stay  with  us  ;  rest, — thou  art  weary 
and  worn  !” 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier 
to  stay, 

But  sorrow  return’d  with  the  dawning  of 
morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted 
away. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in 
Algiers, 

There  was  lack  of  woman’s  nursing,  there 
was  dearth  of  woman’s  tears, 

But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  his, 
life-blood  ebb’d  away, 

And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  heai 
what  he  might  say. 

The  dying  soldier  falter’d  as  he  took  that, 
comrade’s  hand, 

And  he  said,  “  I  never  more  shall  see  ni) 
own,  my  native  land; 

Take  a  message  and  a  token  to  some  dis¬ 
tant  friends  of  mine, 

For  I  was  born  at  Bingen — at  Bingen  or 
the  Rhine. 


84 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


u  Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when 
they  meet  and  crowd  around 
To  hear  mv  mournful  story  in  the  pleasant 
vineyard  ground, 

That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and 
when  the  day  was  done 
Full  many  a  corpse  lay  ghastly  pale  be¬ 
neath  the  setting  sun. 

And  ’midst  the  dead  and  dying  were  some 
grown  old  in  wars, 

The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts, 
the  last  of  many  scars  ; 

But  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld 
life’s  morn  decline, 

And  one  had  come  from  Bingen,  fair  Bin¬ 
gen  on  the  Rhine. 

“  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons  shall 
comfort  her  old  age, 

And  I  was  aye  a  truant  bird,  that  thought 
his  home  a  cage, 

For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a 
child 

My  heart  leap’d  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of 
struggles  fierce  and  wild  ; 

And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide 
his  scanty  hoard, 

I  let  them  take  whate’er  they  would,  but 
kept  my  father’s  sword, 

And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the 
bright  light  used  to  shine 
On  the  cottage-wall  at  Bingen — calm  Bin¬ 
gen  on  the  Rhine. 

“  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and 
sob  with  drooping  head, 

When  the  troops  are  marching  home  again 
with  glad  and  gallant  tread, 

But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a 
calm  and  steadfast  eye, 

F or  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and  not 
afraid  to  die. 

And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her 
in  my  name 

To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or 
shame, 

And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place 
(my  father’s  sword  and  mine), 

For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen — dear  Bin¬ 
gen  on  the  Rhine. 


“  There’s  another — not  a  sister :  in  the 
happy  days  gone  by, 

You’d  have  known  her  by  the  merriment 
that  sparkled  in  her  eye  ; 

Too  innocent  for  coquetry,  too  fond  for 
idle  scorning, 

0  friend,  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes 
sometimes  heaviest  mourning ; 

Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for  ere 
the  moon  be  risen 

My  body  will  be  out  of  pain — my  soul  be 
out  of  prison), 

I  dream’d  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the 
yellow  sunlight  shine 
On  the  vineclad  hills  of  Bingen — fair 
Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

“  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along — I 
heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 

The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in 
chorus  sweet  and  clear, 

And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the 
slanting  hill, 

The  echoing  chorus  sounded  through  the 
evening  calm  and  still ; 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me  as  we 
pass’d  with  friendly  talk 
Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and 
well-remember’d  walk, 

And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confid¬ 
ingly  in  mine ; 

But  we’ll  meet  no  more  at  Bingen — loved 
Bingen  on  the  Rhine.” 

His  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarser — his 
grasp  was  childish  weak — 

His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look — he  sigh’d 
and  ceased  to  speak  ; 

His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark 
of  life  had  fled — 

The  soldier  of  the  Legfon  in  a  foreign 
land  was  dead ! 

And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and 
calmly  she  look’d  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with 
bloody  corpses  strown ; 

Yea,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her 
pale  light  seem’d  to  shine, 

As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen — fair  Bin¬ 
gen  on  the  Rhine. 

Caroline  Norton. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION. 


85 


The  Chess-Board. 

My  little  love,  do  you  remember, 

Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise, 

Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  December, 
Curtain’d  warm  from  the  snowy  weather, 
When  you  and  I  play’d  chess  together, 
Checkmated  by  each  other’s  eyes  ? 

Ah,  still  I  see  your  soft  white  hand 
Hovering  warm  o’er  Queen  and  Knight. 

Brave  Pawns  in  valiant  battle  stand  : 

The  double  Castles  guard  the  wings  : 

The  Bishop,  bent  on  distant  things, 

Moves  sidling  through  the  fight. 

Our  fingers  touch  ;  our  glances  meet, 
And  falter  ;  falls  your  golden  hair 
Against  my  cheek  ;  your  bosom  sweet 
Is  heaving.  Down  the  field,  your  Queen 
Rides  slow  her  soldiery  all  between, 

And  checks  me  unaware. 

Ah  me  !  the  little  battle’s  done, 
Dispersed  is  all  its  chivalry  ; 

Full  many  a  move  since  then  have  we 
Mid  Life’s  perplexing  checkers  made, 

And  many  a  game  with  Fortune  play’d, — 
What  is  it  we  have  won  ? 

This,  this  at  least — if  this  alone  ; — 

That  never,  never,  never  more, 

As  in  those  old  still  nights  of  yore 
(Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise), 

Can  you  and  I  shut  out  the  skies, 

Shut  out  the  world,  and  wintry  weather, 
And,  eyes  exchanging  warmth  with  eyes, 
Play  chess,  as  then  we  play’d,  together  ! 

Robert  Bulwer  Lytton. 

- ♦O*  ■  ■  ■ 

We  Parted  in  Silence. 

We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night, 
On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river ; 
Where  the  fragrant  limes  their  boughs 
unite, 

W e  met — and  we  parted  for  ever  ! 

The  night-bird  sung,  and  the  stars  above 
Told  many  a  touching  story, 

Of  friends  long  pass’d  to  the  kingdom  of 
love, 

Where  the  soul  wears  its  mantle  of  glory. 

We  parted  in  silence — our  cheeks  were 
wet  , 

With  the  tears  that  were  past  controlling; 


We  vow’d  we  would  never — no,  never  for¬ 
get, 

And  those  vows  at  the  time  were  consol¬ 
ing; 

But  those  lips  that  echo’d  the  sounds  of 
mine 

Are  as  cold  as  that  lonely  river ; 

And  that  eye,  that  beautiful  spirit’s  shrine, 
Has  shrouded  its  fires  for  ever. 

And  now  on  the  midnight  sky  I  look, 

And  my  heart  grows  full  of  weeping ; 

Each  star  is  to  me  a  sealed  book, 

Some  tale  of  that  loved  one  keeping. 

We  parted  in  silence — we  parted  in  tears, 
On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river  : 

But  the  odor  and  bloom  of  those  bygone 
years 

Shall  hang  o’er  its  waters  for  ever. 

Julia  Crawford 

- K>*  ■  -  - 

FAREWELL!  BUT  WHENEVER  YOU 

Welcome  the  hour. 

Farewell  !  but  whenever  you  welcome 
the  hour 

That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in 
your  bower, 

Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  wel¬ 
comed  it  too. 

And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with 
you. 

His  griefs  may  return — not  a  hope  may  re¬ 
main 

Of  the  few  that  have  brighten’d  his  path¬ 
way  of  pain — 

But  he  ne’er  will  forget  the  short  vision  that 
threw 

Its  enchantment  around  him  while  linger¬ 
ing  with  you ! 

And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure 
fills  up 

To  the  highest  top-sparkle  each  heart  and 
each  cup, 

Where’er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or 
bright, 

My  soul,  happy  friends!  shall  be  with  you 
that  night — 

i  Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and 
your  wiles, 

And  return  to  me  beaming  all  o’er  with 
your  smiles ; 


86 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Too  blest  if  it  tells  me  that,  mid  the  gay 
cheer, 

Some  kind  voice  had  murmur’d,  “  I  wish 
he  were  here !” 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of 

joy, 

Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  can¬ 
not  destroy ! 

Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow 
and  care, 

And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used 
to  wear. 

Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memo¬ 
ries  fill’d ! 

Like  the  vase  in  which  roses  have  once 
been  distill’d ; 

You  may  break,  you  may  ruin  the  vase  if 
you  will, 

But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round 
it  still. 

Thomas  Moore. 

- - 

When  we  Two  Parted . 

When  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 

Half  broken-hearted, 

To  sever  for  vears, 

Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss ; 

Trulv  that  hour  foretold 
«/ 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 
Sunk  chill  on  my  brow — 

It  felt  like  the  warning 
Of  what  I  feel  now. 

Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame ; 

I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

Thev  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear ; 

A  shudder  comes  o’er  me — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 

They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well : — 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 

That  thy  heart  could  forget. 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 


If  I  should  meet  thee 
After  long  years, 

How  should  I  greet  thee  ? — 

With  silence  and  tears. 

Lord  Byron. 

- •<>* - 

Lament  of  the  Irish 
Emigrant. 

I’m  sittin’  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side 

On  a  bright  May  mornin’  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  mv  bride  : 

The  corn  was  springin’  fresh  and  green, 
And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high  ; 

And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then ; 

The  lark’s  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again ; 

But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 
And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek  ; 

And  I  still  keep  list’nin’  for  the  words 
You  never  more  will  speak. 

’Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 

The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary  ; 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 

But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 

For  I’ve  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep. 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I’m  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends ; 

But,  oh  !  they  love  the  better  still 
The  few  our  F ather  sends ! 

And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary — 

My  blessin’  and  my  pride  : 

There’s  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 
That  still  kept  hoping  on, 

When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 
And  my  arm’s  young  strength  was 
gone ; 

There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 

I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION. 


87 


I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 
When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break — 
When  the  hunger-pain  was  gnawin’  there, 
And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake ; 

I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word,  ^ 
When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 

Oh  !  I’m  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 
Where  grief  can’t  reach  you  more ! 

I’m  biddin’  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true  ! 

But  I’ll  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I’m  goin’  to ; 

They  say  there’s  bread  and  work  for  all, 
And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 

But  I’ll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 
I’ll  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 

And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 
To  the  place  where  Mary  lies  ! 

And  I’ll  think  I  see  the  little  stile 
Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 

And  the  springin’  corn,  and  the  bright 
May  morn, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 

Lady  Dufferin. 

- K>* - 

The  Age  of  Wisdom. 

Ho,  pretty  page  with  the  dimpled  chin 
That  never  has  known  the  barber’s 
shear, 

All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win, 

This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin, — 

Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains, 
Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer ; 
Sighing  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under  Bonnybell’s  window-panes, — 

Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year  ! 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass, 
Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear — 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass, 

Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass, 

Once  you  have  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Pledge  me  round,  I  bid  ye  declare, 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  grey, 
Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  pass’d  away? 


The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kiss’d, 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper,  and  we  not  list, 

Or  look  away,  and  never  be  miss’d, 

Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

Gillian’s  dead,  God  rest  her  bier  ! 

How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne ! 
Marian’s  married,  but  I  sit  here 
Alone  and  merry  at  Forty  Year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

♦o*  ■  - 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin. 

Written  in  Cherical,  Malabar. 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here  ? 
How  can  I  love  to  see  thee  shine 

So  bright,  whom  I  have  bought  so 
dear  ? — 

The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I  hear, 

For  twilight  converse,  arm  in  arm  ; 

The  jackal’s  shriek  bursts  on  mine  ear 
When  mirth  and  music  wont  to  charm. 

By  Cherical’s  dark  wandering  streams, 
Where  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild, 
Sweet  visions  haunt  my  waking  dreams 
Of  Teviot,  loved  while  still  a  child, 

Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  piled 
By  Esk  or  Eden’s  classic  wave, 

Where  loves  of  youth  and  friendships 
smiled, 

Uncursed  by  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

Fade,  day-dreams  sweet,  from  memory 
fade ! — 

The  perish’d  bliss  of  youth’s  first 
prime, 

That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  play’d, 
Revives  no  more  in  after  time. 

Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 

I  haste  to  an  untimely  grave; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soar’d  sublime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean’s  southern  wave. 

• 

Slave  of  the  mine  !  thy  yellow  light 
Gleams  baleful  as  the  tomb-fire  drear. 

A  gentle  vision  comes  by  night 
My  lonely  widow’d  heart  to  cheer ; 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a  tear, 

That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  mine: 


88 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Her  fond  heart  throbs  with  many  a  fear ! 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 

I  left  a  heart  that  loved  me  true  ! 

I  cross’d  the  tedious  ocean-wave, 

To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new. 

The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 
Chill  on  my  wither’d  heart :  the  grave 
Dark  and  untimely  met  my  view, — 

And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave ! 

Ha  !  com’st  thou  now  so  late  to  mock 
A  wanderer’s  banish’d  heart  forlorn, 
Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  shock 
Of  sun-rays  tipt  with  death  has  borne? 
F rom  love,  from  friendship,  country,  torn, 
To  memory’s  fond  regrets  the  prey ; 

Vile  slave,  thy  yellow  dross  I  scorn! 

Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay ! 

John  Leyden. 


Break ,  Break ,  Break 

Bleak,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold,  gray  stones,  O  sea ! 

And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

Oh,  well  for  the  fisherman’s  boy 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 
Oh,  well  for  the  sailor  lad 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  the  haven  under  the  hill  ; 

But  oh,  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish’d  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  sea ! 

But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 
•o% - 

On  This  Day  /  Complete  my 
Thirty-sixth  Year. 

Missolonghi,  Jan.  22,  1824. 
'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 
Since  others  it  has  ceased  to  move : 

Yet,*  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 

Still  let  me  love  ! 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf ; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone ; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone ! 


The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 
Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle  ; 

No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 

A  funeral  pile ! 

Thefliope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 

And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 

But  wear  the  chain. 

But  ’tis  not  thus — and  ’tis  not  here — 

Such  thoughts  would  shake  my  soul,  nor 
now , 

Where  glory  decks  the  hero’s  bier, 

Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see ! 

The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 

Was  not  more  free. 

Awake  !  (not  Greece — she  is  awake) 

Awake,  my  spirit !  Think  through  whom 

Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 

And  then  strike  home ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood  ! — unto  thee 

Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regret’st  thy  youth,  why  live  ? 

The  land  of  honorable  death 

Is  here : — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found — 
A  soldier’s  grave,  for  thee  the  best ; 

Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground. 
And  take  thy  rest. 

Lord  Byron. 

- KX - 

Old  Letters. 

Old  letters  !  wipe  away  the  tear 
For  vows  and  hopes  so  vainly  worded? 

A  pilgrim  finds  his  journal  here 

Since  first  his  youthful  loins  were  girded. 

Yes,  here  are  wails  from  Clapliam  Grove, 
How  could  philosophy  expect  us 

To  live  with  Dr.  Wise,  and  love 

Rice-pudding  and  the  Greek  Delectus  ? 

Explain  why  childhood’s  path  is  sown 
With  moral  and  scholastic  tin-tacks  ; 


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POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION. 


89 


Ere  sin  original  was  known, 

Did  Adam  groan  beneath  the  syntax  ? 

How  strange  to  parley  with  the  dead  ! 

Keep  ye  your  green ,  wan  leaves  ?  How 
many 

From  Friendship’s  tree  untimely  shed  ! 
And  here  is  one  as  sad  as  any ; 

A  ghastly  bill !  “  I  disapprove,” 

And  yet  She  helped  me  to  defray  it — 

What  tokens  of  a  mother’s  love  ! 

Oh,  bitter  thought !  I  can’t  repay  it. 

And  here’s  the  offer  that  I  wrote 
In  ’33  to  Lucy  Diver ; 

And  here  John  Wylie’s  begging  note, — 
He  never  paid  me  back  a  stiver. 

And  here  my  feud  with  Major  Spike, 

Our  bet  about  the  French  Invasion  ; 

I  must  confess  I  acted  like 
A  donkey  upon  that  occasion. 

Here’s  news  from  Paternoster  Row  ! 

How  mad  I  was  when  first  I  learn’d  it : 

They  would  not  take  my  book,  and  now 
I’d  give  a  trifle  to  have  burnt  it. 

And  here  a  pile  of  notes,  at  last, 

With  “  love,”  and  “  dove,”  and  “  sever,” 
“  never 

Though  hope,  though  passion  may  be  past, 
Their  perfume  is  as  sweet  as  ever. 

A  human  heart  should  beat  for  two, 
Despite  the  scoffs  of  single  scorners ; 

And  all  the  hearths  I  ever  knew 
Had  got  a  pair  of  chimney  corners. 

See  here  a  double  violet — 

Two  locks  of  hair — a  deal  of  scandal ; 

I'll  burn  what  only  brings  regret — 

Go,  Betty,  fetch  a  lighted  candle. 

Frederick  Locker. 

-  •04 - 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse. 

A  STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 

Rue  Neuve  des  Petits  Champs  its  name  is — 
The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields. 

And  here’s  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid, 
But  still  in  comfortable  case ; 

The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended, 

To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 


This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is — 

A  sort  of  soup  or  broth,  or  brew, 

Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo  ; 
Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saffron, 
Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace : 
All  these  you  eat  at  Terre’s  tavern, 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed,  a  rich  and  savory  stew  ’tis ; 

And  true  philosophers,  metliinks, 

V/ho  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 
Should  love  good  victuals  and  good 
drinks. 

And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 
Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 

Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting, 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is,  as  before; 

The  smiling  red-clieek’d  6caillere  is 
Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 

Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace : 

He’d  come  and  smile  before  your  table> 
And  hope  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter — nothing’s  changed  or  older. 

“  How’s  Monsieur  Terre,  waiter,  pray?” 
The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulder — 
“  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day.” 

“  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner, 

So  honest  Terre’s  run  his  race.” 

“What  will  Monsieur  require  for  din¬ 
ner?” 

“Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse?” 

“Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,” ’s  the  waiter’*  an¬ 
swer  ; 

“Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il?” 

“  Tell  me  a  good  one.” — “  That  I  can,  sir  • 
The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal.” 

“So  Terre’s  gone,”  I  say,  and  sink  in 
My  old  accustom’d  corner-place ; 

“  He’s  done  with  feasting  and  with  drink¬ 
ing, 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse.” 

My  old  accustom’d  corner  here  is, 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook  ; 

Ah  !  vanish’d  many  a  busy  year  is 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I 
took. 


90 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


When  first  I  saw  ye,  cari  luoghi, 

I’d  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face, 

And  now,  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 
Of  early  days  here  met  to  dine? 

Come,  waiter!  quick,  a  flagon  crusty — 

I’ll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 
My  memory  can  quick  retrace ; 

Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 
And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 

There’s  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous  mar¬ 
riage  ; 

There’s  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet ; 
There’s  brave  Augustus  drives  his  car¬ 
riage  ; 

There’s  poor  old  Fred  in  the  Gazette ; 
On  James’s  head  the  grass  is  growing  : 

Good  Lord  !  the  world  has  wagg’d  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  Claret  flowing, 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  me  !  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting ! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that’s  gone, 

When  here  I’d  sit,  as  now  I’m  sitting, 

In  this  same  jfiace — but  not  alone. 

A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  look’d  fondly  up, 

And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer 
me. 

— There’s  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 
****** 

I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes: 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass  and  drain  it 
In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 

Welcome  the  wine,  wliate’er  the  seal  is ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate’er  the  meal 
is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse ! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

- #o« - 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl. 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine, — it  tells 
of  good  old  times, 

Of  joyous  days,  and  jolly  nights,  and 
merry  Christmas  chimes ; 


They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  hon¬ 
est,  brave,  and  true, 

That  dipp’d  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when 
this  old  bowl  was  new. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar, — so 
runs  the  ancient  tale  ; 

’Twas  hammer’d  by  an  Antwerp  smith, 
whose  arm  was  like  a  flail ; 

And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes, 
for  fear  his  strength  should  fail, 

He  wiped  his  brow,  and  quaff’d  a  cup  of 
good  old  Flemish  ale. 

’Twas  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to 
please  his  loving  dame, 

Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a 
longing  for  the  same ; 

And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another 
twig  was  found, 

’Twas  fill’d  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot, 
and  handed  smoking  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reach’d  at  length 
a  Puritan  divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a 
little  wine, 

But  hated  punch  and  prelacy ;  and  so  it 
was,  perhaps, 

He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  con¬ 
venticles  and  schnaps. 

And  then, — of  course  vou  know  what’s 
next — it  left  the  Dutchman’s  shore 

With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came, — 
a  hundred  souls  and  more, 

Along  with  all  the  furniture  to  fill  their 
new  abodes : 

To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least 
a  hundred  loads. 

’Twas  on  a  dreary  winter’s  eve,  the  night 
was  closing  dim,  • 

When  old  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl, 
and  fill’d  it  to  the  brim ; 

The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirr’d  the 
posset  with  his  sword, 

And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were 
ranged  about  the  board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in, — the 
man  that  never  fear’d, — 

He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and 
wiped  his  yellow  beard ; 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION. 


91 


And  one  by  one  the  musketeers,  the  men 
that  fought  and  pray’d, 

All  drank  as  ’twere  their  mother’s  milk, 
and  not  a  man  afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest  the 
screaming  eagle  flew, 

He  heard  the  Pequot’s  ringing  whoop,  the 
soldier’s  wild  halloo  ; 

And  there  the  sachem  learn’d  the  rule  he 
taught  to  kith  and  kin, 

“  Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find 
he  smells  of  Hollands  gin  !” 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had 
spread  their  leaves  and  snows, 

A  thousand  rubs  had  flatten’d  down  each 
little  cherub’s  nose, 

When  once  again  the  bowl,  was  fill’d,  but 
not  in  mirth  or  joy — 

’Twas  mingled  by  a  mother’s  hand  to  cheer 
her  parting  boy. 

“  Drink,  John,”  she  said,  “  ’twill  do  you 
good, — poor  child,  you’ll  never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in 
the  midnight  air ; 

And  if — God  bless  me  ! — you  were  hurt, 
’twould  keep  away  the  chill 
So  John  did  drink, — and  well  he  wrought 
that  night  at  Bunker’s  Hill ! 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in 
good  old  English  cheer ; 

I  tell  you,  ’twas  a  pleasant  thought  to 
bring  its  symbol  here. 

’Tis  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess ; — hast 
thou  a  drunken  soul  ? 

Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in 
my  silver  bowl ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past, — its  press’d 
yet  fragrant  flowers — 

The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls, — 
the  ivy  on  its  towers ; 

Nay,  this  poor  bauble  it  bequeath’d — my 
eyes  grow  moist  and  dim, 

To  think  of  all  the  vanish’d  joys  that 
danced  around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear 
it  straight  to  me  ; 

The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate’er 
the  liquid  be  ; 


And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect 
me  from  the  sin 

That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words, 
“  My  dear,  where  have  you  been  ?” 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

- •<># - 

The  Days  that  are  No  More. 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what 
they  mean, 

Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  de¬ 
spair 

Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no 
more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a 
sail, 

That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  un¬ 
der-world, 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the 
verge  ; 

So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no 
more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 
dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken’d  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering 
square ; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no 
more. 

Dear  as  remember’d  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy 
feign’d 

On  lips  that  are  for  others :  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  re¬ 
gret ; 

Oh,  death  in  life !  the  days  that  are  no 
more. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

- K>« - 

The  Past. 

Thou  unrelenting  Past ! 

Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark 
domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 

Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 


92 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 

Youth,  Manhood,  Age  that  draws  us  to 
the  ground, 

And  last,  Man’s  life  on  earth, 

Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 

Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends — the  good — 
the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 

The  venerable  form — the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back — yearns  with  desire 
intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives 
thence. 

In  vain — thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv’st  them  back — nor  to  the  broken 
heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 

Beauty  and  excellence  unknown — to  thee 

Earth’s  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gather’d,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea ; 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 

Unpublish’d  charity,  unbroken  faith, — 

Love,  that  ’midst  grief  began, 

And  grew  with  years,  and  falter’d  not  in 
death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unutter’d,  unrevered  ; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 

Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappear’d. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they — - 
Yet  slialt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at 
last ; 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 

Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past ! 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 


They  have  not  perish’d — no  ! 

Kind  words,  remember’d  voices  once  so 
swTeet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 

And  features,  the  great  soul’s  apparent  seat 

All  shall  come  back,  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again ; 
Alone  shall  Evil  die, 

And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 
And  her  who,  still  and  cold, 

Fills  the  next  grave — the  beautiful  and 
young. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

- K>« - 

The  Retreat. 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  angel-infancy  l 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 

Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white  celestial  thought ; 

When  yet  I  had  not  walk’d  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 

And  looking  back  at  that  short,  space 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 

And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity  ; 

Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 

Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense, 

But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

Oh  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 

And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 

That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain. 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train  ; 

From  whence  th’  enlighten’d  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palm  trees  : 

But  ah  !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way  : 

Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 

But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 

In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

Henry  Vaughan. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION. 


93 


The  Nabob. 

When  silent  time,  wi’  lightly  foot, 

Had  trod  on  thirty  years, 

I  sought  again  my  native  land 
Wi’  mony  hopes  and  fears. 

Wha  kens  gin  the  dear  friends  I  left 
May  still  continue  mine? 

Or  gin  I  e’er  again  shall  taste 
The  joys  I  left  langsyne? 

As  I  drew  near  my  ancient  pile 
My  heart  beat  a’  the  way ; 

Ilk  place  I  pass’d  seem’d  yet  to  speak 
O’  some  dear  former  dav ; 

Those  days  that  follow’d  me  afar, 

Those  happy  days  o’  mine, 

Whilk  made  me  think  the  present  joys 
A’  naething  to  langsyne  ! 

The  ivied  tower  now  met  my  eye 
Where  minstrels  used  to  blaw ; 

Xae  friend  stepp’d  forth  wi’  open  hand, 
Xae  weel-kenn’d  face  I  saw  ; 

Till  Donald  totter’d  to  the  door, 

Wham  I  left  in  his  prime, 

And  grat  to  see  the  lad  return 
He  bore  about  langsyne. 

I  ran  to  ilka  dear  friend’s  room, 

As  if  to  find  them  there, 

I  knew  where  ilk  ane  used  to  sit, 

And  hang  o’er  mony  a  chair; 

Till  soft  remembrance  threw  a  veil 
Across  these  e’en  o’  mine, 

I  closed  the  door,  and  sobb’d  aloud, 

To  think  on  auld  langsyne. 

Some  pensy  chiels,  a  new-sprung  race, 
Wad  next  their  welcome  pay, 

Wha  shudder’d  at  my  Gothic  wa’s 
And  wish’d  my  groves  away. 

“Cut,  cut,”  they  cried,  “those  aged  elms; 
Lay  low  yon  mournfu’  pine.” 

Na !  na  !  our  fathers’  names  grow  there, 
Memorials  o’  langsyne. 

To  wean  me  frae  these  waefu’  thoughts, 
They  took  me  to  the  town  ; 

Hut  sair  on  ilka  weel-kenn’d  face 
I  miss’d  the  youthfu’  bloom. 

At  balls  they  pointed  to  a  nymph 
Wham  a’  declared  divine  ; 

But  sure  her  mother’s  blushing  cheeks 
Were  fairer  far  langsyne  ! 


In  vain  I  sought  in  music’s  sound 
To  find  that  magic  art, 

Which  oft  in  Scotland’s  ancient  lays 
Has  thrill’d  through  a’  my  heart. 

The  song  had  mony  an  artfu’  turn ; 

My  ear  confess’d  ’twas  fine  ; 

But  miss’d  the  simple  melody 
I  listen’d  to  langsyne. 

Ye  sons  to  comrades  o’  my  youth, 

Forgi’e  an  auld  man’s  spleen, 

Wha  ’midst  your  gayest  scenes  still 
mourns 

The  days  he  ance  has  seen. 

When  time  has  pass’d  and  seasons  fled, 
Your  hearts  will  feel  like  mine; 

And  aye  the  sang  will  maist  delight 

That  minds  ye  o’  langsyne  ! 

Susanna  Blamire. 

- - 

Once  upon  a  Time. 

I  mind  me  of  a  pleasant  time, 

A  season  long  ago ; 

The  pleasantest  I’ve  ever  known, 

Or  ever  now  shall  know. 

Bees,  birds,  and  little  tinkling  rills 
So  merrily  did  chime  ; 

The  year  was  in  its  sweet  spring-tide, 

And  I  was  in  my  prime. 

I’ve  never  heard  such  music  since, 

From  every  bending  spray  ; 

I’ve  never  pluck’d  such  primroses, 

Set  thick  on  bank  and  brae ; 

I’ve  never  smelt  such  violets 
As  all  that  pleasant  time 
I  found  by  every  hawthorn  root — 

When  I  was  in  my  prime. 

Yon  moorv  down,  so  black  and  bare, 

Was  gorgeous  then  and  gay 
With  golden  gorse — bright  blossoming — 
As  none  blooms  nowaday. 

'  The  blackbird  sings  but  seldom  now 
Up  there  in  the  old  lime, 

Where  hours  and  hours  he  used  to  sing-- 
When  I  was  in  my  prime. 

Such  cutting  winds  came  never  then 
To  pierce  one  through  and  through , 
More  softly  fell  the  silent  shower, 

More  balmily  the  dew. 


94 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  morning  mist  and  evening  haze — 
Unlike  this  cold  gray  rime — 

Seem’d  woven  warm  of  golden  air 
When  I  was  in  my  prime. 

And  blackberries — so  mawkish  now — 
Were  finely  flavor’d  then  ; 

And  nuts — such  reddening  clusters  ripe 
I  ne’er  shall  pull  again ; 

Nor  strawberries  blushing  bright — as  rich 
As  fruits  of  sunniest  clime ; 

How  all  is  alter’d  for  the  worse 
Since  I  was  in  my  prime ! 

Caroline  Bowles  Southey. 

- - 

Forget  me  Not. 

Go,  youth  beloved,  in  distant  glades 
New  friends,  new  hopes,  new  joys  to  find, 
Yet  sometimes  deign,  ’midst  fairer  maids, 
To  think  on  her  thou  leav’st  behind. 
Thy  love,  thy  fate,  dear  youth,  to  share, 
Must  never  be  my  happy  lot, 

But  thou  mayst  grant  this  humble  prayer, 
Forget  me  not,  forget  me  not! 

Yet  should  the  thought  of  my  distress 
Too  painful  to  thy  feelings  be, 

Heed  not  the  wish  I  now  express, 

Nor  ever  deign  to  think  on  me ; 

But,  oh,  if  grief  thy  steps  attend, 

If  want,  if  sickness  be  thy  lot, 

And  thou  require  a  soothing  friend ; 

Forget  me  not,  forget  me  not! 

Amelia  Opie. 

•C*  ■■  ■■■■ 

Youth  and  Age. 

Verse,  a  breeze  ’mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine  !  Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I  was  young  ! 

When  I  was  young  ? — Ah,  woful  When  ! 
Ah  !  for  the  change  ’twixt  Now  and  Then  ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O’er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands 
How  lightly  then  it  flash’d  along  : 

Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 

That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 

That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  ! 


Naught  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in  ’t  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely  ;  Love  is  flower-like  ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 

Oh  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like. 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old  ! 

Ere  I  was  old  ? — Ah,  woful  Ere, 

Which  tells  me,  Youth’s  no  longer  here  ! 

O  Youth  !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet 
’Tis  known  that  thou  and  I  were  one, 

I’ll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be,  that  thou  art  gone  ! 

Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll’d 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 

What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 

This  drooping  gait,  this  alter’d  size  : 

But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 

And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  ! 
Life  is  but  Thought :  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  housemates  still. 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 

But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve  ! 

Where  no  hope  is,  life’s  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old  : 

— That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave, 

Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist, 

Yet  hath  outstav’d  his  welcome  while, 

And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

- •<>•  -  • 

Stanzas. 

When  midnight  o’er  the  moonless  skies 
Her  pall  of  transient  death  has  spread 
When  mortals  sleep,  when  spectres  rise, 
And  naught  is  wakeful  but  the  dead  ; 

No  bloodless  shape  my  way  pursues, 

No  sheeted  ghost  my  couch  annoys  ; 
Visions  more  sad  my  fancy  views, 

Visions  of  long-departed  joys  ! 

The  shade  of  youthful  hope  is  there, 

That  linger’d  long,  and  latest  died : 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY  AND  RETROSPECTION. 


95 


Ambition  all  dissolved  to  air, 

With  phantom  honors  by  his  side. 

What  empty  shadows  glimmer  nigh  ? 

They  once  were  Friendship,  Truth,  and 
Love  ! 

Oh,  die  to  thought,  to  memory  die, 

Since  lifeless  to  my  heart  ye  prove  ! 

William  Robert  Spencer. 

- K>« - 

Go  where  Glory  waits  Thee. 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee  ; 

But  while  fame  elates  thee, 

Oh  still  remember  me ! 

When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 

Oh  then  remember  me  ! 

Other  arms  may  press  thee, 

Dearer  friends  caress  thee, 

All  the  joys  that  bless  thee 
Sweeter  far  may  be ; 

But  when  friends  are  nearest, 

And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

Oh  then  remember  me  ! 

When  at  eve  thou  rovest 
By  the  star  thou  lovest, 

Oh  then  remember  me  ! 

Think,  when  home  returning, 
Bright  we’ve  seen  it  burning, 

Oh  thus  remember  me  ! 

Oft  as  summer  closes, 

When  thine  eye  reposes 
On  its  lingering  roses, 

Once  so  loved  by  thee, 

Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 

Her  who  made  thee  love  them — 

Oh  then  remember  me  ! 

When  around  thee  dying 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

Oh  then  remember  me  ! 

And  at  night  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing, 

Oh  still  remember  me  ! 

Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling, 

To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee  ; 

Then  let  memory  bring  thee 
Strains  I  used  to  sing  thee — 

Oh  then  remember  me  ! 

Thomas  Moor?:. 


The  Closing  Year. 

’Tis  midnight’s  holy  hour,  and  silence  now 
Is  brooding  like  a  gentle  spirit  o’er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.  Hark  !  on 
the  winds 

The  bell’s  deep  tones  are  swelling, — ’tis 
the  knell 

Of  the  departed  year.  No  funeral  train 
Is  sweeping  past ;  yet,  on  the  stream  and 
wood, 

With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams 
rest 

Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud  ;  the  air  is 
stirr’d 

As  by  a  mourner’s  sigh ;  and  on  yon  cloud 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through 
heaven, 

The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand, — 
Young  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn’s 
solemn  form, 

And  Winter  with  its  aged  locks,  —  and 
breathe, 

In  mournful  cadences  that  come  abroad 
Like  the  far  wind-liarp’s  wild  and  touching 
wail, 

A  melancholy  dirge  o’er  the  dead  year, 
Gone  from  the  Earth  for  ever. 

’Tis  a  time 

For  memory  and  for  tears.  Within  the 
deep, 

Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a  spectre  dim, 
Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of 
Time 

Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its 
cold 

And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  pass’d  away, 
And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.  That  spectre 
lifts 

The  coffin-lid  of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Love, 
And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale, 
Sweet  forms  that  slumber  there,  scatters 
dead  flowers 

O’er  what  has  pass’d  to  nothingness. 

The  year 

Has  gone,  and  with  it  many  a  glorious 
throng 

Of  happy  dreams.  Its  mark  is  on  each 
brow, 


96 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Its  shadow  in  each  heart.  In  its  swift 
course 

It  waved  its  sceptre  o’er  the  beautiful, — 
And  they  are  not.  It  laid  its  pallid  hand 
Upon  the  strong  man, — and  the  haughty 
form 

Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 

It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  throng’d 
The  bright  and  joyous, — and  the  tearful 
wail 

Of  stricken  ones  is  heard  where  erst  the  song 
And  reckless  shout  resounded. 

It  pass’d  o’er 

The  battle-plain,  where  sword,  and  spear, 
and  shield, 

Flash’d  in  the  light  of  mid-day, — and  the 
strength 

Of  serried  hosts  is  shiver’d,  and  the  grass, 
.  Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves 
above 

The  crush’d  and  mouldering  skeleton.  It 
came, 

And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve  ; 
Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air, 

It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 
In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

Remorseless  Time ! 

Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe  ! — 
what  power 

Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity?  On,  still  on, 

He  presses,  and  for  ever.  The  proud  bird, 
The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven’s  unfathomable  depths,  or 
brave 

The  furv  of  the  northern  hurricane, 

And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder’s 
home, 


Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall,  and 
sinks  down 

To  rest  upon  his  mountain-crag, — but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 
And  night’s  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to 
bind 

His  rushing  pinions. 

Revolutions  sweep 

O’er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o’er  the 
breast 

Of  dreaming  sorrow, — cities  rise  and  sink 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water, — fiery  isles 
Spring  blazing  from  the  ocean,  and  go 
back 

To  their  mysterious  caverns, — mountains 
rear 

To  heaven  their  bald  and  blacken’d  cliffs, 
and  bow 

Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain, — new  empires 
rise, 

Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 
And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche, 
Startling  the  nations, — and  the  very  stars, 
Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 
Glitter  a  while  in  their  eternal  depths, 
And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their 
train, 

Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass 
away 

To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void, — yet 
Time, 

Time,  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce 
career, 

Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his 
path 

To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 
Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 

George  D.  Prentice. 


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Poems  of  Love. 


Loves  Philosophy. 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 
And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean, 

The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 
With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 

Nothing  in  the  world  is  single ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another’s  being  mingle — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 
And  the  waves  clasp  one  another  ; 

No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 
If  it  disdain’d  its  brother : 

And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea ; — 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

- K>« - 

LOVE  WILL  FIND  OUT  THE  WAY. 

Oveb,  the  mountains 
And  over  the  waves  ; 

Under  the  fountains 
And  under  the  graves  ; 

Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 

Which  Neptune  obey ; 

Over  rocks  that  are  steepest, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Where  there  is  no  place 
For  the  glow-worm  to  lye  ; 

Where  there  is  no  space 
For  receipt  of  a  fly  ; 

Where  the  midge  dares  not  venture, 
Lest  herself  fast  she  lay  ; 

If  love  come  he  will  enter, 

And  soon  find  out  his  way. 

You  may  esteem  him 
A  child  for  his  might ; 


Or  you  may  deem  him 
A  coward  from  his  flight : 

But  if  she  whom  love  doth  honor 
Be  conceal’d  from  the  day, 

Set  a  thousand  guards  upon  her, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Some  think  to  lose  him 
By  having  him  confined ; 

And  some  do  suppose  him, 

Poor  thing,  to  be  blind  ; 

But  if  ne’er  so  close  ye  wall  him, 

Do  the  best  that  you  may, 

Blind  love,  if  so  ye  call  him, 

Will  find  out  his  way. 

You  may  train  the  eagle 
To  stoop  to  your  fist ; 

Or  you  may  inveigle 
The  phoenix  of  the  East ; 

The  lioness,  ye  may  move  her 
To  give  o’er  her  prey  ; 

But  you’ll  ne’er  stop  a  lover, 

He  will  find  out  his  way. 

Author  Unknown. 

- K>»  - 

Ah,  how  Sweet  it  is  to  Love 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love  ! 

Ah,  how  gay  is  young  desire  ! 

And  what  pleasing  pains  we  prove 
When  we  first  approach  love’s  fire  ! 

Pains  of  love  be  sweeter  far 

Than  all  other  pleasures  are. 

Sighs  which  are  from  lovers  blown 
Do  but  gently  heave  the  heart ; 

E’en  the  tears  they  shed  alone, 

Cure,  like  trickling  balm,  their  smart. 

Lovers,  when  they  lose  their  breath, 

Bleed  away  in  easy  death. 


97 


98 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Love  and  time  with  reverence  use — 

Treat  them  like  a  parting  friend, 

Nor  the  golden  gifts  refuse 

Which  in  youth  sincere  they  send  ; 

For  each  year  their  price  is  more, 

And  they  less  simple  than  before. 

Love,  like  spring-tides,  full  and  high, 
Swells  in  every  youthful  vein  ; 

But  each  tide  does  less  supply, 

Till  they  quite  shrink  in  again  ; 

If  a  flow  in  age  appear, 

’Tis  but  rain,  and  runs  not  clear. 

John  Dryden. 

- K>« - 

Love  is  a  Sickness. 

Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes, 

All  remedies  refusing ; 

A  plant  that  with  most  cutting  grows, 
Most  barren  wTith  best  using : 

Why  so  ? 

More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies ; 

If  not  enjoy’d,  it  sighing  cries, 

Hey,  ho ! 

Love  is  a  torment  of  the  mind, 

A  tempest  everlasting; 

And  Jove  hath  made  it  of  a  kind 
Not  well,  nor  full,  nor  fasting : 

Why  so  ? 

More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies ; 

If  not  enjoy’d,  it  sighing  cries, 

Hey,  ho ! 

Samuel  Daniel. 

- ♦<>♦ - 

Pang loryjs  Wooing  Song. 

Love  is  the  blossom  where  there  blows 
Everything  that  lives  or  grows  : 

Love  doth  make  the  heavens  to  move, 

And  the  sun  doth  burn  in  love; 

Love  the  strong  and  weak  doth  yoke, 

And  makes  the  ivy  climb  the  oak, 

Under  whose  shadows  lions  wild, 

Soften’d  by  love,  grow  tame  and  mild. 
Love  no  med’cine  can  appease; 

He  burns  the  fishes  in  the  seas  ; 

Not  all  the  skill  his  wounds  can  stanch ; 
Not  all  the  sea  his  fire  can  quench. 

Love  did  make  the  bloody  spear 
Once  a  leafy  coat  to  wear, 


While  in  his  leaves  there  shrouded  lay 
Sweet  birds,  for  love  that  sing  and  play ; 
And  of  all  love’s  joyful  flame 
I  the  bud  and  blossom  am. 

Only  bend  thy  knee  to  me — 

Thy  wooing  shall  thy  winning  be. 

See  !  see  the  flowers  that  below 
Now  freshly  as  the  morning  blow. 

And  of  all,  the  virgin  rose, 

That  as  bright  Aurora  shows — 

How  they  all  unleavkd  die, 

Losing  their  virginity ; 

Like  unto  a  summer  shade, 

But  now  born,  and  now  they  fade : 
Everything  doth  pass  away  ; 

There  is  danger  in  delay. 

Come,  come,  gather  then  the  rose ; 
Gather  it,  or  it  you  lose. 

All  the  sand  of  Tagus’  shore 
In  my  bosom  casts  its  ore ; 

All  the  valleys’  swimming  corn 
To  my  house  is  yearly  borne ; 

Every  grape  of  every  vine 
Is  gladly  bruised  to  make  me  wine ; 
While  ten  thousand  kings,  as  proud 
To  carry  up  my  train,  have  bow’d ; 

And  a  world  of  ladies  send  me, 

In  my  chambers  to  attend  me ; 

All  the  stars  in  heaven  tiiat  shine, 

And  ten  thousand  more,  are  mine. 

Only  bend  thy  knee  to  me — 

Thy  wooing  shall  thy  winning  be. 

Giles  Fletcher. 

- - 

Rosalind's  Madrigal. 

Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee, 

Doth  suck  his  sweet ; 

Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 
Now  with  his  feet. 

Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast; 

My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 

And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest : 

Ah,  wanton,  will  ye? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 
With  pretty  flight, 

And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 
The  livelong  night. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


99 


Strike  I  mv  lute,  he  tunes  the  string  : 
He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing  ; 

He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing, 

Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting : 
Whist,  wanton,  still  ye  : 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  whip  you  hence,  , 

And  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 
For  your  offence ; 

I’ll  shut  mine  eyes  to  keep  you  in, 

I’ll  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin, 

I’ll  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin  : 
Alas  !  what  hereby  shall  I  win, 

If  he  gainsay  me? 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 
With  many  a  rod? 

He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 

Because  a  god. 

Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee, 

And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be ; 

Lurk  in  mine  eyes, — I  like  of  thee, 

0  Cupid  !  so  thou  pity  me, 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee. 

Thomas  Lodge. 


Love  still  hath  Something  of 
the  Sea. 

Love  still  hath  something  of  the  sea, 
From  whence  his  mother  rose  ; 

No  time  his  slaves  from  love  can  free, 
Nor  give  their  thoughts  repose. 

They  are  becalm’d  in  clearest  days, 

And  in  rough  wreather  toss’d  ; 

They  wither  under  cold  delays, 

Or  are  in  tempests  lost. 

One  while  they  seem  to  touch  the  port ; 
Then  straight  into  the  main 

Some  angry  wind,  in  cruel  sport, 

The  vessel  drives  again. 

At  first  disdain  and  pride  they  fear, 
Which  if  they  chance  to  ’scape, 

Rivals  and  falsehood  soon  appear 
In  a  more  dreadful  shape. 

By  such  degrees  to  joy  they  come, 

And  are  so  long  withstood ; 

So  slowly  they  receive  the  sum, 

It  hardly  does  them  good. 


’Tis  cruel  to  prolong  a  pain ; 

And  to  defer  a  bliss, 

Believe  me,  gentle  Hermoine, 

No  less  inhuman  is. 

A  hundred  thousand  oaths  your  fears 
Perhaps  would  not  remove  ; 

And  if  I  gazed  a  thousand  years, 

I  could  no  deeper  love. 

’Tis  fitter  much  for  you  to  guess 
Than  for  me  to  explain, 

But  grant,  oh !  grant  that  happiness 

Which  only  does  remain. 

Sir  Charles  Sedley. 

- - 

Love >s  Omnipresence. 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain, 

And  you,  my  Love,  as  high  as  heaven  above, 
Yet  should  the  thoughts  of  me  your  humble 
swain 

Ascend  to  heaven,  in  honor  of  my  Love. 
Were  I  as  high  as  heaven  above  the  plain. 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  humble  and  as  low 
As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 
Wheresoe’er  you  were,  with  you  my  love 
should  go. 

Were  you  the  earth,  dear  Love,  and  I  the 
skies, 

My  love  should  shine  on  you  like  to  the  sun. 
And  look  upon  you  with  ten  thousand  eyes 
Till  heaven  wax’d  blind,  and  till  the  world 
were  done. 

Wheresoe’er  I  am,  below,  or  else  above  you. 
Wheresoe’er  you  are,  my  heart  shall  truly 
love  you. 

Joshua  Sylvester. 

- KX - 

Cupid  and  Campaspe. 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  playd 
At  cardes  for  kisses  ;  Cupid  payd  : 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow  and  arrows, 

His  mothers  doves,  andteame  of  sparrows 
Loses  them  too ;  then  down  he  throws 
The  coral  of  his  lippe,  the  rose 
Growing  on’s  cheek  (but  none  knows  how) 
With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  browe, 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chinne; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  winne. 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eves, 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 


300 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


O  Love !  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 
What  shall,  alas  !  become  of  mee  ? 

John  Lyly. 

- K>« - • 

Love. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 

All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 

And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o’er  again  that  happy  hour, 

When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 

Beside  the  ruin’d  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o’er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 

And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 

My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man, 

The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 

She  stood  and  listen’d  to  my  lay, 

Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own 
My  hope  !  my  joy!  my  Genevieve ! 

She  loves  me  best,  whene’er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  play’d  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 

I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 

An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen’d  with  a  flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 

For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand; 

And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo’d 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  ;  and  ah  ! 

The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 

With  which  I  sang  another’s  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen’d  with  a  flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace; 

And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 


But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 

And  that  he  cross’d  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 

And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade. 

And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  look’d  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 

And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 

This  miserable  Knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 

He  leap’d  amid  a  murderous  band. 

And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  ! 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp’d  his  knees  ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 

And  ever  strove  to  expiate 
The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain. 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave ; 

And  how  his  madness  went  awray, 

When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay. 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach’d 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturb’d  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 

Had  thrill’d  my  guileless  Genevieve ; 

The  music,  and  the  doleful  tale, 

The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 

An  undistinguishable  throng, 

And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 

Subdued  and  cherish’d  long ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 

She  blush’d  with  love,  and  virgin-shame ; 

And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 

I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepp’d  aside, 

As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepp’d — 

Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


101 


She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 

She  press’d  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  look’d  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

’Twas  partly  Love,  and  partly  Fear, 

And  partly  ’twas  a  bashful  art, 

That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see, 

The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm’d  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 

And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride. 

And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 
- - 

Not  Ours  the  Vows. 

Not  ours  the  vows  of  such  as  plight 
Their  troth  in  sunny  weather, 

While  leaves  are  green  and  skies  are  bright, 
To  walk  on  flowers  together. 

But  we  have  loved  as  those  who  tread 
The  thorny  path  of  sorrow, 

With  clouds  above,  and  cause  to  dread 
Yet  deeper  gloom  to-morrow. 

That  thorny  path,  those  stormy  skies, 

Have  drawn  our  spirits  nearer, 

And  rendered  us,  by  sorrow’s  ties, 

Each  to  the  other  dearer. 

Love,  born  in  hours  of  joy  and  mirth, 
With  mirth  and  joy  may  perish ; 

That  to  which  darker  hours  gave  birth 
Still  more  and  more  we  cherish. 

It  looks  beyond  the  clouds  of  time, 

And  through  death’s  shadowy  portal, 
Made  by  adversity  sublime, 

By  faith  and  hope  immortal.. 

Bernard  Barton. 

- K>»- 

Sonnet. 

The  doubt  which  ye  misdeem,  fair  love,  is 
vain, 

That  fondly  fear  to  lose  your  liberty ; 
When,  losing  one,  two  liberties  ye  gain, 
And  make  him  bound  that  bondage  erst 
did  fly. 

Sweet  be  the  bands,  the  which  true  love 
doth  tye 

Without  constraint,  or  dread  of  any  ill : 


The  gentle  bird  feels  no  captivity 

Within  her  cage;  but  sings  and  feeds  her 
fill; 

There  pride  dare  not  approach,  nor  discord 
spill 

The  league  ’twixt  them  that  loyal  love 
hath  bound ; 

But  simple  truth,  and  mutual  good-will, 
Seeks,  with  sweet  peace,  to  salve  each 
other’s  wound ; 

There  faith  doth  fearless  dwell  in  brazen 
tower, 

And  spotless  pleasure  builds  her  sacred 
bower. 

Edmund  Spenser. 

- *o* - 

Absence. 

What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and 
hours 

That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy  face  ? 

How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that  lowers 
Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time 
of  grace? 

Still  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense — 
Weary  with  longing?  Shall  I  flee  away 

Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pre¬ 
tence 

Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day  ? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God’s  great  gift  of 
time? 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  locked 
within, 

Leave  and  forget  life’s  purposes  sublime? 

Oh,  how,  or  by  what  means,  may  I  contrive 
To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back 
more  near? 

How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
U ntil  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here  ? 

I’ll  tell  thee ;  for  thy  sake  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee, 

In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that  is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one !  art  far  from  me. 

For  thee  I  will  arouse  my  thoughts  to  try 
All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and  holy 
strains  ; 

For  thy  dear  sake  I  will  walk  patiently 
Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their 
minutes  pains. 


102 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task-time ;  and  will  therein  strive 
To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o’ertake 
More  good  than  I  have  won  since  yet  I 
live. 

Bo  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in  me 
A  thousand  graces,  which  shall  thus  be 
thine ; 

So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence 
divine. 

Frances  Anne  Kemble. 

■  -  •<>« - 

How  Many  Times. 

How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear? 
Tell  me  how  many  thoughts  there  be 
In  the  atmosphere 
Of  a  new-fallen  year, 

Whose  white  and  sable  hours  appear 
The  latest  flake  of  Eternity ; 

So  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear. 

How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  again  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  beads  there  are 
In  a  silver  chain 
Of  the  evening  rain, 

Unravelled  from  the  tumbling  main, 
And  threading  the  eye  of  a  yellow  star ; 

So  how  many  times  do  I  love,  again. 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes. 

- KX - 

Fair  Ines. 

Oh,  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She’s  gone  into  the  West, 

To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest : 

She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 

With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 
And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

Oh  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 

Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 
And  stars  unrivall’d  bright ; 

And  blessed  wdll  the  lover  be 
That  wralks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 
I  dare  not  even  write ! 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier, 

Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 

And  wThisper’d  thee  so  near ! 


Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 
Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 
The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

I  sawr  thee,  lovely  Ines ! 

Descend  along  the  shore, 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before  ; 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 
And  snowy  plumes  they  wore ; 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 
If  it  had  been  no  more ! 

Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines  ! 

She  went  away  with  song, 

With  music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng ; 

But  some  were  sad  and  felt  no  mirth, 
But  only  music’s  wrong, 

In  sounds  that  sang,  Farewell,  farewell, 
To  her  you’ve  loved  so  long ! 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines! 

That  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before; 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore ! 

The  smile  that  blest  one  lover’s  heart 
Has  broken  many  more ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


IIe  Came  too  Late. 

He  came  too  late !  Neglect  had  tried 
Her  constancy  too  long ; 

Her  love  had  yielded  to  her  pride 
And  the  deep  sense  of  wrong. 

She  scorned  the  offering  of  a  heart 
Which  lingered  on  its  way 

Till  it  could  no  delight  impart, 

Nor  spread  one  cheering  ray. 

He  came  too  late !  At  once  he  felt 
That  all  his  power  wras  o’er  ; 

Indifference  in  her  calm  smile  dwrelt — 
She  thought  of  him  no  more. 

Anger  and  grief  had  passed  away, 

Her  heart  and  thoughts  were  free; 

She  met  him,  and  her  words  wrere  gay— 
No  spell  had  Memory. 

He  came  too  late !  The  subtle  chorda 
Of  love  were  all  unbound, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


103 


Not  by  offence  of  spoken  words, 

But  by  the  slights  that  wound. 

She  knew  that  life  held  nothing  now 
That  could  the  past  repay, 

Yet  she  disdained  his  tardy  vow, 

And  coldly  turned  away. 

He  came  too  late !  Her  countless  dreams 
Of  hope  had  long  since  flown ; 

No  charms  dwelt  in  his  chosen  themes, 

Nor  in  his  whispered  tone. 

And  when  with  word  and  smile  he  tried 
Affection  still  to  prove, 

She  nerved  her  heart  with  woman’s  pride, 

And  spurned  his  fickle  love. 

Elizabeth  Bogart. 
- +<>• - 

Cupid  Swallowed. 

T’other  day,  as  I  was  twining 
Boses,  for  a  crown  to  dine  in, 

What,  of  all  things,  midst  the  heap, 
Should  I  light  on,  fast  asleep, 

But  the  little  desperate  elf, 

The  tiny  traitor, — Love  himself! 

By  the  wings  I  pinch’d  him  up 

Like  a  bee,  and  in  a  cup 

Of  my  wine  I  plunged  and  sank  him ; 

And  what  d’ye  think  I  did? — I  drank  him! 
Faith,  I  thought  him  dead.  Not  he! 

There  he  lives  with  tenfold  glee  ; 

And  now  this  moment,  with  his  wings 

I  feel  him  tickling  my  heart-strings. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

Waly,  Waly,  but  Love  be  Bonny. 

Oh  waly  waly  up  the  bank, 

And  waly  waly  down  the  brae, 

And  waly  waly  yon  burn  side, 

Where  I  and  my  love  were  wont  to  gae. 
I  leant  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I  thought  it  was  a  trusty  tree  ! 

But  first  it  bow’d,  and  syne  it  brak, 

Sae  my  true  love  did  lichtly  me. 

Oh  waly  waly  gin  love  be  bonny, 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new ; 

But  when  its  auld,  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fades  awa’  like  morning  dew. 

Oh  wherefore  shuld  I  busk  my  head  ? 

Or  wherefore  shuld  I  kame  my  hair? 

For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he’ll  never  lo’e  me  mair. 


Now  Arthur-seat  sail  be  my  bed, 

The  sheets  sail  ne’er  be  fyl’d  by  me : 
Saint  Anton’s  well  sail  be  my  drink, 

Since  my  true  love  has  forsaken  me. 
Marti’mas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  aif  the  tree? 
0  gentle  death,  whan  wilt  thou  cum? 

For  of  my  life  I  am  wearle. 

Tis  not  the  frost,  that  freezes  fell, 

Nor  blawing  snaws  inclemencie; 

’Tis  not  sic  cauld,  that  makes  me  cry, 

But  my  loves  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  we  came  in  by  Glasgowe  town, 

We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see, 

My  love  was  cled  in  black  velvet, 

And  I  my  sell  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist,  before  I  kisst, 

That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win ; 

I  had  lockt  my  heart  in  a  case  of  gowd, 
And  pinn’d  it  with  a  siller  pin. 

And,  oh  !  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 
And  set  upon  the  nurses  knee, 

And  I  my  sell  were  dead  and  gane  1 
For  a  maid  again  Ise  never  be. 

Author  Unknown. 

- K>« - 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air. 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright ; 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me — who  knows  how  ? — 

To  thy  chamber-window,  sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 

The  champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 

The  nightingale’s  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 

As  I  must  on  thine, 

Beloved  as  thou  art ! 

Oh  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

I  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 


X04 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas ! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast, 

Oh !  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


Why  so  Pale? 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prethee,  why  so  pale? 

Will,  when  looking  well  can’t  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prethee  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prethee,  why  so  mute  ? 

Will,  when  speaking  well  can’t  win  her, 
Saying  nothing  do’t? 

Prethee  why  so  mute  ? 

Quit,  quit  for  shame ;  this  will  not  move, 
This  cannot  take  her ; 

If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her, 

The  devil  take  her ! 

Sir  John  Suckling. 


Lady  Geraldines  Courtship. 

A  Romance  of  the  Age. 

A  poet  writes  to  his  friend.  Place — A  room  in  Wycombe 
Hall.  Time — Late  in  the  evening. 

Dear  my  friend  and  fellow-student,  I 
would  lean  my  spirit  o’er  you  ! 
Down  the  purple  of  this  chamber  tears 
should  scarcely  run  at  will. 

I  am  humbled  who  was  humble.  Friend, 
I  bow  my  head  before  you : 

You  should  lead  me  to  my  peasants,  but 
their  faces  are  too  still. 

There’s  a  lady,  an  earl’s  daughter — she  is 
proud  and  she  is  noble, 

And  she  treads  the  crimson  carpet,  and 
she  breathes  the  perfumed  air, 

And  a  kingly  blood  sends  glances  up,  her 
princely  eye  to  trouble, 

And  the  shadow  of  a  monarch’s  crown  is 
soften’d  in  her  hair. 

She  has  halls  among  the  woodlands,  she 
has  castles  by  the  breakers, 

She  has  farms  and  she  has  manors,  she 
can  threaten  and  command, 


And  the  palpitating  engines  snort  in  steam 
across  her  acres, 

As  they  mark  upon  the  blasted  heaven 
the  measure  of  the  land. 

There  are  none  of  England’s  daughters 
who  can  show  a  prouder  presence ; 

Upon  princely  suitors,  praying,  she  has 
look’d  in  her  disdain, 

She  was  sprung  of  English  nobles,  T  was 
born  of  English  peasants  ; 

What  was  I  that  I  should  love  her,  save 
for  competence  to  pain  ? 

I  was  only  a  poor  poet,  made  for  singing 
at  her  casement, 

As  the  finches  or  the  thrushes,  while  she 
thought  of  other  things. 

Oh,  she  walk’d  so  high  above  me,  she  ap¬ 
pear’d  to  my  abasement, 

In  her  lovely  silken  murmur,  like  an 
angel  clad  in  wings  ! 

Many  vassals  bow  before  her  as  her  car¬ 
riage  sweeps  their  door-ways  ; 

She  has  blest  their  little  children,  as  a 
priest  or  queen  were  she  : 

Far  too  tender,  or  too  cruel  far,  her  smile 
upon  the  poor  was, 

For  I  thought  it  was  the  same  smile 
which  she  used  to  smile  on  me. 

She  has  voters  in  the  commons,  she  has 
lovers  in  the  palace, 

And  of  all  the  fair  court-ladies,  few  have 
jewels  half  as  fine  ; 

Oft  the  prince  has  named  her  beauty  ’twixt 
the  red  wine  and  the  chalice : 

Oh,  and  what  was  I  to  love  her  ?  my  be¬ 
loved,  my  Geraldine ! 

Yet  I  could  not  choose  but  love  her  :  I  was 
born  to  poet-uses, 

To  love  all  things  set  above  me,  all  of 
good  and  all  of  fair. 

Nymphs  of  mountain,  not  of  valley,  we 
are  wont  to  call  the  Muses  ; 

And  in  nympholeptic  climbing,  poets 
pass  from  mount  to  star. 

And  because  I  was  a  poet,  and  because  the 
public  praised  me, 

With  a  critical  deduction  for  the  modern 
writer’s  fault, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


105 


I  could  sit  at  rich  men’s  tables — though 
the  courtesies  that  raised  me, 

Still  suggested  clear  between  us  the  pale 
spectrum  of  the  salt. 

And  they  praised  me  in  her  presence ; — 
“Will  your  book  appear  this  sum¬ 
mer  ?” 

Then  returning  to  each  other — “Yes, 
our  plans  are  for  the  moors.” 

Then  with  whisper  dropp’d  behind  me — 
“  There  he  is  !  the  latest  comer. 

Oh,  she  only  likes  his  verses !  what  is 
over,  she  endures. 

“  Quite  low-born,  self-educated !  somewhat 
gifted  though  by  Nature, 

And  we  make  a  point  of  asking  him — 
of  being  very  kind. 

You  may  speak,  he  does  not  hear  you  ! 
and  besides  he  writes  no  satire — 

All  these  serpents  kept  by  charmers  leave 
the  natural  sting  behind.” 

I  grew  scornfuller,  grew  colder,  as  I  stood 
up  there  among  them, 

Till  as  frost  intense  will  burn  you,  the 
cold  scorning  scorch’d  my  brow  ; 

When  a  sudden  silver  speaking,  gravely 
cadenced,  overrung  them, 

And  a  sudden  silken  stirring  touch’d 
my  inner  nature  through. 

I  look’d  upward  and  beheld  her.  With  a 
calm  and  regnant  spirit, 

Slowly  round  she  swept  her  eyelids,  and 
said  clear  before  them  all — 

“  Have  you  such  superfluous  honor,  sir, 
that,  able  to  confer  it, 

You  will  come  down,  Mister  Bertram,  as 
my  guest  to  Wycombe  Hall  ?” 

Here  she  paused  ;  she  had  been  paler  at 
the  first  word  of  her  speaking, 

But  because  a  silence  follow’d  it,  blush’d 
somewhat,  as  for  shame, 

Then,  as  scorning  her  own  feeling,  resumed 
calmly — “  I  am  seeking 
More  distinction  than  these  gentlemen 
think  worthy  of  my  claim. 

“  Ne’ertheless,  you  see,  I  seek  it — not  be¬ 
cause  I  am  a  woman  ” 

(Here  her  smile  sprang  like  a  fountain, 
and,  so,  overflow’d  her  mouth), 


“  But  because  my  woods  in  Sussex  have 
some  purple  shades  at  gloaming 
Which  are  worthy  of  a  king  in  state,  or 
poet  in  his  youth. 

“  I  invite  you,  Mister  Bertram,  to  no  scene 
for  worldly  speeches — 

Sir,  I  scarce  should  dare  —  but  only 
where  God  ask’d  the  thrushes  first : 

And  if  you  will  sing  beside  them,  in  the 
covert  of  my  beeches, 

I  will  thank  you  for  the  woodlands,  .  .  . 
for  the  human  world,  at  worst.” 

Then  she  smiled  around  right  childly,  then 
she  gazed  around  right  queenly, 
And  I  bow’d — I  could  not  answer ;  al¬ 
ternated  light  and  gloom — 

While  as  one  who  quells  the  lions,  with  a 
steady  eye  serenely, 

She,  with  level  fronting  eyelids,  pass’d 
out  stately  from  the  room. 

Oh,  the  blessed  woods  of  Sussex,  I  can  hear 
them  still  around  me, 

With  their  leafy  tide  of  greenery  still 
rippling  up  the  wind. 

Oh,  the  cursed  woods  of  Sussex !  where  the 
hunter’s  arrow  found  me, 

When  a  fair  face  and  a  tender  voice  had 
made  me  mad  and  blind  ! 

In  that  ancient  hall  of  Wvcombe  thronar’d 

« / 

the  numerous  guests  invited, 

And  the  lovely  London  ladies  trod  the 
floors  with  gliding  feet ; 

And  their  voices  low  with  fashion,  not  with 
feeling,  softly  freighted 
All  the  air  about  the  windows  with  elas¬ 
tic  laughter  sweet. 

For  at  eve  the  open  windows  flung  their 
light  out  on  the  terrace 
Which  the  floating  orbs  of  curtains  did 
with  gradual  shadow  sweep, 

While  the  swans  upon  the  river,  fed  at 
morning  by  the  heiress, 

Trembled  downward  through  their  snowy 
wings  at  music  in  their  sleep. 

And  there  evermore  was  music,  both  of 
instrument  and  singing, 

Till  the  finches  of  the  shrubberies  grew 
restless  in  the  dark  ; 


106 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  the  cedars  stood  up  motionless,  each 
in  a  moonlight  ringing, 

A  nd  the  deer,  half  in  the  glimmer, 
strew’d  the  hollows  of  the  park. 

And  though  sometimes  she  would  bind  me 
with  her  silver-corded  speeches 
To  commix  my  words  and  laughter  with 
the  converse  and  the  jest, 

Oft  I  sate  apart,  and,  gazing  on  the  river 
through  the  beeches, 

Heard,  as  pure  the  swans  swam  down  it, 
her  pure  voice  o’erfloat  the  rest. 

In  the  morning,  horn  of  huntsman,  hoof 
of  steed,  and  laugh  of  rider, 

Spread  out  cheery  from  the  courtyard 
till  we  lost  them  in  the  hills, 

While  herself  and  other  ladies,  and  her 
suitors  left  beside  her, 

Went  a -wandering  up  the  gardens 
through  the  laurels  and  abeles. 

Thus,  her  foot  upon  the  new-mown  grass, 
bareheaded,  with  the  flowing 
Of  the  virginal  white  vesture  gather’d 
closely  to  her  throat, 

And  the  golden  ringlets  in  her  neck  just 
quicken’d  by  her  going, 

And  appearing  to  breathe  sun  for  air, 
and  doubting  if  to  float, — 

With  a  bunch  of  dewy  maple,  which  her 
right  hand  held  above  her, 

And  which  trembled  a  green  shadow  in 
betwixt  her  and  the  skies, 

As  she  turn’d  her  face  in  going,  thus,  she 
drew  me  on  to  love  her, 

And  to  worship  the  divineness  of  the 
smile  hid  in  her  eyes. 

For  her  eyes  alone  smile  constantly;  her 
lips  have  serious  sweetness, 

And  her  front  is  calm,  the  dimple  rarely 
ripples  on  the  cheek  ; 

But  her  deep-blue  eyes  smile  constantly, 
as  if  they  in  discreetness 
Kept  the  secret  of  a  happy  dream  she 
did  not  care  to  speak. 

Thus  she  drew  me  the  first  morning,  out 
across  into  the  garden, 

And  I  walk’d  among  her  noble  friends, 
and  could  not  keep  behind. 


Spake  she  unto  all  and  unto  me — “  Be¬ 
hold,  I  am  the  warden 
Of  the  song-birds  in  these  lindens, 
which  are  cages  to  their  mind. 

“  But  within  this  swarded  circle  into  which 
the  lime-walk  brings  us, 

Whence  the  beeches,  rounded  greenly, 
stand  away  in  reverent  fear, 

I  will  let  no  music  enter,  saving  what  the 
fountain  sings  us 

Which  the  lilies  round  the  basin  may 
seem  pure  enough  to  hear. 

“  The  live  air  that  waves  the  lilies  waves 
the  slender  jet  of  water 
Like  a  holy  thought  sent  feebly  up  from 
soul  of  fasting  saint : 

Whereby  lies  a  marble  Silence,  sleeping 
(Lough  the  sculptor  wrought  her), 
So  asleep  she  is  forgetting  to  say  Hush  ; 
— a  fancy  quaint. 

“  Mark  how  heavy  white  her  eyelids  !  not 
a  dream  between  them  lingers  ; 

And  the  left  hand’s  index  droppeth  from 
the  lips  upon  the  cheek  : 

While  the  right  hand — with  the  svmbol- 
rose  held  slack  within  the  fingers — 
Has  fallen  backward  in  the  basin — yet 
this  Silence  will  not  speak  ! 

“  That  the  essential  meaning  growing  may 
exceed  the  special  symbol, 

Is  the  thought  as  I  conceive  it :  it  ap¬ 
plies  more  high  and  low. 

Our  true  noblemen  will  often  through 
right  nobleness  grow  humble, 

And  assert  an  inward  honor  by  denying 
outward  show.” 

“  Nay,  your  Silence,”  said  I,  “truly,  holds 
her  symbol-rose  but  slackly, 

Yet  she  holds  it,  or  would  scarcely  be  a 
Silence  to  our  ken  : 

And  your  nobles  wear  their  ermine  on  the 
outside,  or  walk  blackly 
In  the  presence  of  the  social  law  as  mere 
ignoble  men. 

“  Let  the  poets  dream  such  dreaming ! 
madam,  in  these  British  islands 
’Tis  the  substance  that  wanes  ever,  ‘tis 
the  symbol  that  exceeds. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


107 


Soon  we  shall  have  naught  but  symbol,  and, 
for  statues  like  this  Silence, 

Shall  accept  the  rose’s  image — in  another 
case,  the  weed’s.” 

“  Not  so  quickly,”  she  retorted — “  I  con¬ 
fess,  where’er  you  go,  you 
Find  for  things,  names — shows  for  ac¬ 
tions,  and  pure  gold  for  honor  clear : 

But  when  all  is  run  to  symbol  in  the  Social, 
I  will  throw  you 

The  world’s  book  which  now  reads  drily, 
and  sit  down  with  Silence  here.” 

Half  in  playfulness  she  spoke,  I  thought, 
and  half  in  indignation  ; 

Friends  who  listen’d  laugh’d  her  words 
off,  while  her  lovers  deem’d  her  fair : 

A  fair  woman,  flush’d  with  feeling,  in  her 
noble-lighted  station 
Near  the  statue’s  white  reposing — and 
both  bathed  in  sunny  air ! 

With  the  trees  round,  not  so  distant  but 
you  heard  their  vernal  murmur, 

And  beheld  in  light  and  shadow  the 
leaves  in  and  outward  move, 

And  the  little  fountain  leaping  toward  the 
sun-heart  to  be  warmer, 

Then  recoiling  in  a  tremble  from  the  too 
much  light  above. 

'Tis  a  picture  for  remembrance.  And  thus, 
morning  after  morning, 

Did  I  follow  as  she  drew  me  by  the  spirit 
to  her  feet. 

Why,  her  greyhound  followed  also !  dogs — 
we  both  were  dogs  for  scorning — 

To  be  sent  back  when  she  pleased  it  and 
her  path  lay  through  the  wheat. 

And  thus,  morning  after  morning,  spite  of 
vows  and  spite  of  sorrow, 

Did  I  follow  at  her  drawing,  while  the 
week-days  pass’d  along, 

Just  to  feed  the  swans  this  noontide,  or  to 
see  the  fawns  to-morrow, 

Or  to  teach  the  hillside  echo  some  sweet 
Tuscan  in  a  song. 

Ay,  for  sometimes  on  the  hillside,  while 
we  sate  down  in  the  gowans, 

With  the  forest  green  behind  us  and  its 
shadow  cast  before. 


And  the  river  running  under,  and  across  it 
from  the  rowans 

A  brown  partridge  whirring  near  us  till 
we  felt  the  air  it  bore — 

There,  obedient  to  her  praying,  did  I  read 
aloud  the  poems 

Made  to  Tuscan  flutes,  or  instruments 
more  various  of  our  own  ; 

Read  the  pastoral  parts  of  Spenser,  or  the 
subtle  interflowings 

Found  in  Petrarch’s  sonnets — here’s  the 
book,  the  leaf  is  folded  down ! 

Or  at  times  a  modern  volume,  Wordsworth’s 
solemn-thoughted  idyl, 

Ho witt’s  ballad- verse,  or  Tennvson’s 
enchanted  reverie — 

Or  from  Browning  some  “  Pomegranate,” 
which,  if  cut  deep  down  the  middle, 
Shows  a  heart  within  blood-tinctured, 
of  a  vein’d  humanity. 

Or  at  times  I  read  there,  hoarsely,  some 
new  poem  of  my  making : 

Poets  ever  fail  in  reading  their  own 
verses  to  their  worth, 

For  the  echo  in  you  breaks  upon  the  words 
which  you  are  speaking, 

And  the  chariot  wheels  jar  in  the  gate 
through  which  you  drive  them  forth. 

After,  when  we  were  grown  tired  of  books, 
the  silence  round  us  flinging 
A  slow  arm  of  sweet  compression,  felt 
with  beatings  at  the  breast, 

She  would  break  out  on  a  sudden  in  a  gush 
of  woodland  singing, 

Like  a  child’s  emotion  in  a  god — a  naiad 
tired  of  rest. 

Oh,  to'see  or  hear  her  singing!  scarce  I 
know  which  is  divinest, 

For  her  looks  sing  too — she  modulates 
her  gestures  on  the  tune, 

And  her  mouth  stirs  with  the  song,  like 
song ;  and  when  the  notes  are  finest, 
’Tis  the  eyes  that  shoot  out  vocal  light 
and  seem  to  swell  them  on. 

Then  we  talk’d — oh,  how  we  talk’d  !  her 
voice,  so  cadenced  in  the  talking, 
Made  another  singing — of  the  soul !  a 
music  without  bars : 


108 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


While  the  leafy  sounds  of  woodlands,  hum¬ 
ming  round  where  we  were  walking, 
Brought  interposition  worthy-sweet — as 
skies  about  the  stars. 

And  she  spake  such  good  thoughts  natural, 
as  if  she  always  thought  them ; 

She  had  sympathies  so  rapid,  open,  free 
as  bird  on  branch, 

Just  as  ready  to  fly  east  as  west,  whichever 
way  besought  them, 

In  the  birchen-wood  a  chirrup,  or  a 
cock-crow  in  the  grange. 

In  her  utmost  lightness  there  is  truth — 
and  often  she  speaks  lightly, 

Has  a  grace  in  being  gay  which  even 
mournful  souls  approve, 

F or  the  root  of  some  grave  earnest  thought 
is  understruck  so  rightly 
As  to  justify  the  foliage  and  the  waving 
flowers  above. 

And  she  talk’d  on — ice  talk’d,  rather ! —  | 
upon  all  things,  substance,  shadow, 
Of  the  sheep  that  browsed  the  grasses, 
of  the  reapers  in  the  corn, 

Of  the  little  children  from  the  schools, 
seen  winding  through  the  meadow, 
Of  the  poor  rich  world  beyond  them, 
still  kept  poorer  by  its  scorn. 

So,  of  men,  and  so,  of  letters — books  are 
men  of  higher  stature, 

And  the  only  men  that  speak  aloud  for 
future  times  to  hear ; 

So,  of  mankind  in  the  abstract,  which 
grows  slowly  into  nature, 

Yet  will  lift  the  cry  of  “progress,”  as  it 
trod  from  sphere  to  sphere. 

And  her  custom  was  to  praise  me'when  I 
said — “  The  Age  culls  simples, 

With  a  broad  clown’s  back  turn’d  broadly 
to  the  glory  of  the  stars. 

We  are  gods  by  our  own  reck’ning,  and 
may  well  shut  up  the  temples, 

And  wield  on,  amid  the  incense-steam, 
the  thunder  of  our  cars. 

“  For  we  throw  out  acclamations  of  self- 
thanking,  self-admiring, 

With,  at  every  mile  run  faster, — ‘  0  the 
wondrous,  wondrous  age  1’ 


Little  thinking  if  we  work  our  souls  as 
nobly  as  our  iron, 

Or  if  angels  will  commend  us  at  the  goal 
of  pilgrimage. 

“  Why,  what  is  this  patient  entrance  into 
nature’s  deep  resources 
But  the  child’s  most  gradual  learning  to 
walk  upright  without  bane  ? 

When  we  drive  out,  from  the  cloud  of 
steam,  majestical  white  horses, 

Are  we  greater  than  the  first  men  who 
led  black  ones  by  the  mane? 

“  If  we  trod  the  deeps  of  ocean,  if  we 
struck  the  stars  in  rising, 

If  we  wrapp’d  the  globe  intensely  with 
one  hot  electric  breath, 

’Twere  but  power  within  our  tether,  no  new 
spirit-power  comprising, 

And  in  life  we  were  not  greater  men,  nor 
bolder  men  in  death.” 

She  was  patient  with  my  talking ;  and  I 
loved  her,  loved  her,  certes, 

As  I  loved  all  heavenly  objects,  with  up¬ 
lifted  eyes  and  hands ; 

As  I  loved  pure  inspirations,  loved  the 
graces,  loved  the  virtues, 

In  a  Love  content  with  writing  his  own 
name  on  desert  sands. 

Or  at  least  I  thought  so,  purely;  thought 
no  idiot  Hope  was  raising 
Any  crown  to  crown  Love’s  silence, 
silent  love  that  sate  alone: 

Out,  alas !  the  stag  is  like  me,  he  that 
tries  to  go  on  grazing 
With  the  great  deep  gun-wound  in  his 
neck,  then  reels  with  sudden  moan. 

It  was  thus  I  reel’d.  I  told  you  that  her 
hand  had  many  suitors ; 

But  she  smiles  them  down  imperially,  as 
Venus  did  the  waves, 

And  with  such  a  gracious  coldness  that 
they  cannot  press  their  futures 
On  the  present  of  her  courtesy,  which 
yieldingly  enslaves. 

And  this  morning  as  I  sat  alone  within 
the  inner  chamber 

With  the  great  saloon  beyond  it,  lost  iD 
pleasant  thought  serene, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


109 


For  I  had  been  reading  Camoens,  that 
poem,  you  remember, 

Which  his  lady’s  eyes  are  praised  in  as 
the  sweetest  ever  seen. 

And  the  book  lay  open,  and  my  thought 
flew  from  it,  taking  from  it 
A  vibration  and  impulsion  to  an  end  be¬ 
yond  its  own, 

As  the  branch  of  a  green  osier,  when  a 
child  would  overcome  it, 

Springs  up  freely  from  his  claspings  and 
goes  swinging  in  the  sun. 

As  I  mused  I  heard  a  murmur ;  it  grew 
deep  as  it  grew  longer, 

Speakers  using  earnest  language — “  Lady 
Geraldine,  you  would  V  ’ 

And  I  heard  a  voice  that  pleaded,  ever  on 
in  accents  stronger, 

As  a  sense  of  reason  gave  it  power  to 
make  its  rhetoric  good. 

Well  I  knew  that  voice ;  it  was  an  earl’s, 
of  soul  that  match’d  his  station, 
Soul  completed  into  lordship,  might  and 
right  read  on  his  brow ; 

Very  finely  courteous;  far  too  proud  to 
doubt  his  domination 
Of  the  common  people,  he  atones  for 
grandeur  by  a  bow. 

High  straight  forehead,  nose  of  eagle,  cold 
blue  eyes  of  less  expression 
Than  resistance,  coldly  casting  off  the 
looks  of  other  men, 

As  steel,  arrows ;  unelastic  lips  which  seem 
to  taste  possession, 

And  be  cautious  lest  the  common  air 
should  injure  or  distrain. 

For  the  rest,  accomplish’d,  upright — ay, 
and  standing  by  his  order 
With  a  bearing  not  ungraceful ;  fond  of 
art  and  letters  too ; 

Just  a  good  man  made  a  proud  man — as 
the  sandy  rocks  that  border 
A  wild  coast,  by  circumstances,  in  a 
regnant  ebb  and  flow. 

Thus,  I  knew  that  voice,  I  heard  it,  and  I 
could  not  help  the  hearkening : 

In  the  room  I  stood  up  blindly,  and  my 
burning  heart  within 


Seem’d  to  seethe  and  fuse  my  senses  till 
they  ran  on  all  sides  darkening, 

And  scorch’d,  weigh’d  like  melted  metal 
round  my  feet  that  stood  therein. 

And  that  voice,  I  heard  it  pleading,  for 
love’s  sake,  for  wealth,  position, 
For  the  sake  of  liberal  uses  and  great 
actions  to  be  done — 

And  she  interrupted  gently,  “Nay,  my 
lord,  the  old  tradition 
Of  your  Normans,  by  some  worthier  hand 
than  mine  is,  should  be  won.” 

“  Ah,  that  white  hand  !”  he  said  quickly — 
and  in  his  he  either  drew  it 
Or  attempted — for  with  gravity  and  in¬ 
stance  she  -replied, 

“  Nay  indeed,  my  lord,  this  talk  is  vain, 
and  we  had  best  eschew  it 
And  pass  on,  like  friends,  to  other  points 
less  easy  to  decide.” 

What  he  said  again,  I  know  not:  it  is 
likely  that  his  trouble 
Work’d  his  pride  up  to  the  surface,  for 
she  answer’d  in  slow  scorn, 

“  And  your  lordship  judges  rightly.  Whom 
I  marry,  shall  be  noble, 

Ay,  and  wealthy.  I  shall  never  blush  to 
think  how  he  was  born.” 

There,  I  madden’d !  her  words  stung  me. 
Life  swept  through  me  into  fever. 
And  my  soul  sprang  up  astonish’d, 
sprang  full-statured  in  an  hour. 

Know  you  what  it  is  when  anguish,  with 
apocalyptic  never, 

To  a  Pythian  height  dilates  you,  and 
despair  sublimes  to  power? 

From  my  brain  the  soul- wings  budded, 
waved  a  flame  about  my  body, 
Whence  conventions  coil’d  to  ashes.  I 
felt  self-drawn  out,  as  man, 

From  amalgamate  false  natures,  and  I  saw 
the  skies  grow  ruddy 
With  the  deepening  feet  of  angels,  and  I 
knew  what  spirits  can. 

I  was  mad,  inspired — say  either  !  (anguish 
worketh  inspiration) 

Was  a  man  or  beast — perhaps  so.  for  the 
tiger  roars  when  spear’d  ; 


110 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  I  walk’d  on,  step  by  step  along  the 
level  of  my  passion — 

O  my  soul !  and  pass’d  the  doorway  to 
her  face,  and  never  fear’d. 

He  had  left  her,  peradventure,  when  my 
footstep  proved  my  coming, 

But  for  her — she  half  arose,  then  sate, 
grew  scarlet  and  grew  pale. 

Oh,  she  trembled !  ’tis  so  always  with  a 
worldly  man  or  woman 
In  the  presence  of  true  spirits  ;  what  else 
can  they  do  but  quail  ? 

Oh,  she  flutter’d  like  a  tame  bird,  in 
among  its  forest  brothers 
Far  too  strong  for  it  ;  then  drooping, 
bow’d  her  face  upon  her  hands ; 

And  I  spake  out  wildly,  fiercely,  brutal 
truths  of  her  and  others  ; 

/,  she  planted  in  the  desert,  swathed  her, 
windlike,  with  my  sands. 

I  pluck’d  up  her  social  fictions,  bloody- 
rooted  though  leaf-verdant, 

Trod  them  down  with  words  of  shaming, 
all  the  purple  and  the  gold, 

All  the  “  landed  stakes  ”  and  lordships, 
all  that  spirits  pure  and  ardent 
Are  cast  out  of  love  and  honor  because 
chancing  not  to  hold. 

“For  myself  I  do  not  argue,”  said  I, 
“  though  I  love  you,  madam, 

But  for  better  souls  that  nearer  to  the 
height  of  yours  have  trod. 

And  this  age  shows,  to  my  thinking,  still 
more  infidels  to  Adam 
Than  directly,  by  profession,  simple  infi¬ 
dels  to  God. 

“  Yet,  O  God,”  I  said,  “  0  grave,”  I  said, 
“  O  mother’s  heart  and  bosom, 

With  whom  first  and  last  are  equal,  saint 
and  corpse  and  little  child, 

We  are  fools  to  your  deductions  in  these 
figments  of  heart-closing, 

We  are  traitors  to  your  causes  in  these 
sympathies  defiled. 

“  Learn  more  reverence,  madam ;  not  for 
rank  or  wealth — that  needs  no  learn¬ 
ing  ; 

That  comes  quickly,  quick  as  sin  does ; 
ay,  and  culminates  to  sin  ; 


But  for  Adam’s  seed,  man  !  Trust  me,  ’tis 
a  clay  above  your  scorning, 

With  God’s  image  stamp’d  upon  it,  and 
God’s  kindling  breath  within. 

“  What  right  have  you,  madam,  gazing  in 
your  palace  mirror  daily, 

Getting  so  by  heart  your  beauty,  which 
all  others  must  adore, 

While  you  draw  the  golden  ringlets  down 
your  fingers,  to  vow  gaily 
You  will  wed  no  man  that’s  only  good  to 
God,  and  nothing  more? 

“  Why,  what  right  have  you,  made  fair  by 
that  same  God,  the  sweetest  woman 
Of  all  women  he  has  fashion’d,  with 
your  lovely  spirit-face, 

Which  would  seem  too  near  to  vanish  if 
its  smile  were  not  so  human, 

And  your  voice  of  holy  sweetness,  turn¬ 
ing  common  words  to  grace, 

“  What  right  can  you  have,  God’s  other 
works  to  scorn,  despise,  revile  them 
In  the  gross,  as  mere  men,  broadly — not 
as  noble  men,  forsooth — 

As  mere  Pariahs  of  the  outer  world,  forbid¬ 
den  to  assoil  them 

In  the  hope  of  living,  dying,  near  that 
sweetness  of  your  mouth  ? 

“  Have  you  any  answer,  madam  ?  If  my 
spirit  were  less  earthly, 

If  its  instrument  were  gifted  with  a 
better  silver  string, 

I  would  kneel  down  where  I  stand,  and 
say,  ‘  Behold  me !  I  am  worthy 
Of  thy  loving,  for  I  love  thee !  I  am 
worthy  as  a  king.’ 

“  As  it  is — your  ermined  pride,  I  swear, 
shall  feel  this  stain  upon  her, 

That  7,  poor,  weak,  tost  with  passion 
scorn’d  by  me  and  you  again, 

Love  you,  madam,  dare  to  love  you,  to 
my  grief  and  your  dishonor, 

To  my  endless  desolation  and  your  im¬ 
potent  disdain !” 

More  mad  words  like  these — mere  mad¬ 
ness  !  friend,  I  need  not  write  them 
fuller, 

For  I  hear  my  hot  soul  dropping  on  the 
lines  in  showers  of  tears. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


Ill 


Oh,  a  woman !  friend,  a  woman !  why,  a 
beast  had  scarce  been  duller 
Than  roar  bestial  loud  complaints 
against  the  shining  of  the  spheres. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  pause.  I  stood 
all  vibrating  with  thunder 
Which  my  soul  had  used.  The  silence 
drew  her  face  up  like  a  call. 

Could  you  guess  what  word  she  utter’d? 
She  look’d  up,  as  if  in  wonder, 

With  tears  beaded  on  her  lashes,  and 
said,  “  Bertram  !” — it  was  all. 

If  she  had  cursed  me — and  she  might 
have — or  if  even  with  queenly  bear¬ 
ing 

Which  at  need  is  used  by  women,  she 
had  risen  up  and  said, 

“  Sir,  you  are  my  guest,  and  therefore  I 
have  given  you  a  full  hearing ; 

Now,  beseech  you,  choose  a  name  exact¬ 
ing  somewhat  less,  instead !” 

I  had  borne  it:  but  that  “  Bertram  ” — why, 
it  lies  there  on  the  paper 
A  mere  word,  without  her  accent ;  and 
you  cannot  judge  the  weight 

Of  the  calm  which  crush’d  my  passion : 
I  seem’d  drowning  in  a  vapor, 

And  her  gentleness  destroy’d  me  whom 
her  scorn  made  desolate. 

So,  struck  backward  and  exhausted  by 
that  inward  flow  of  passion 
Which  had  rush’d  on,  sparing  nothing, 
into  forms  of  abstract  truth, 

By  a  logic  agonizing  through  unseemly 
demonstration, 

And  by  youth’s  own  anguish  turning 
grimly  gray  the  hairs  of  youth, 

By  the  sense  accursed  and  instant,  that  if 
even  I  spake  wisely 

I  spake  basely,  using  truth,  if  what  I 
spake  indeed  was  true, 

To  avenge  wrong  on  a  woman — her ,  who 
sate  there  weighing  nicely 
A  poor  manhood’s  worth,  found  guilty  of 
such  deeds  as  I  could  do ! — 

By  such  wrong  and  woe  exhausted — what  I 
suffer’d  and  occasion’d, — 

As  a  wild  horse  through  a  city  runs  with 
lightning  in  his  eyes, 


And  then  dashing  at  a  church’s  cold  and 
passive  wall,  impassion’d, 

Strikes  the  death  into  his  burning  brain, 
and  blindly  drops  and  dies — 

So  I  fell,  struck  down  before  her — do  you 
blame  me,  friend,  for  weakness? 
’Twas  my  strength  of  passion  slew  me ! 
— fell  before  her  like  a  stone; 

Fast  the  dreadful  world  roll’d  from  me 
on  its  roaring  wheels  of  blackness : 
When  the  light  came,  I  was  lying  in  this 
chamber  and  alone. 

Oh,  of  course,  she  charged  her  lacqueys  to 
bear  out  the  sickly  burden, 

And  to  cast  it  from  her  scornful  sight, 
but  not  beyond  the  gate ; 

She  is  too  kind  to  be  cruel,  and  too  haughty 
not  to  pardon 

Such  a  man  as  I ;  ’twere  something  to  be 
level  to  her  hate. 

But  for  me — you  now  are  conscious  why, 
my  friend,  I  write  this  letter, 

How  my  life  is  read  all  backward,  and 
the  charm  of  life  undone. 

I  shall  leave  her  house  at  dawn ;  I  would 
to-night,  if  I  were  better — 

And  I  charge  my  soul  to  hold  my  body 
strengthen’d  for  the  sun. 

When  the  sun  hath  dyed  the  oriel,  I  depart 
with  no  last  gazes, 

No  weak  moanings  (one  word  only,  left 
in  writing  for  her  hands), 

Out  of  reach  of  all  derision,  and  some  un¬ 
availing  praises, 

To  make  front  against  this  anguish  in 
the  far  and  foreign  lands. 

Blame  me  not.  I  would  not  squander  life 
in  grief — I  am  abstemious. 

I  but  nurse  my  spirit’s  falcon  that  its 
wing  may  soar  again. 

There’s  no  room  for  tears  of  weakness  in 
the  blind  eyes  of  a  Phemius : 

Into  work  the  poet  kneads  them,  and  he 
does  not  die  till  then. 

Conclusion. 

Bertram  finish’d  the  last  pages,  while 
along  the  silence  ever 
Still  in  hot  and  heavy  splashes  fell  the 
tears  on  every  leaf. 


112 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Having  ended,  he  leans  backward  in  his 
chair,  with  lips  that  quiver 
From  the  deep  unspoken,  ay,  and  deep 
unwritten  thoughts  of  grief. 

Soh !  how  still  the  lady  standeth !  ’tis  a 
dream — a  dream  of  mercies ! 

’Twixt  the  purple  lattice-curtains  how 
she  standeth  still  and  pale ! 

’Tis  a  vision,  sure,  of  mercies,  sent  to  soften 
his  self-curses, 

Sent  to  sweep  a  patient  quiet  o’er  the 
tossing  of  his  wail. 

“  Eyes,”  he  said,  “  now  throbbing  through 
me  !  are  ye  eyes  that  did  undo  me  ? 
Shining  eyes,  like  antique  jewels  set  in 
Parian  statue-stone ! 

Underneath  that  calm  white  forehead,  are 
ye  ever  burning  torrid 
O’er  the  desolate  sand-desert  of  my  heart 
and  life  undone  ?” 

With  a  murmurous  stir  uncertain,  in  the 
air  the  purple  curtain 
Swelleth  in  and  swelleth  out  around  her 
motionless  pale  brows, 

While  the  gliding  of  the  river  sends  a 
rippling  noise  for  ever 
Through  the  open  casement  whiten’d  by 
the  moonlight’s  slant  repose. 

Said  he :  “  Vision  of  a  lady !  stand  there 
silent,  stand  there  steady  ! 

Now  I  see  it  plainly,  plainly,  now  I  can¬ 
not  hope  or  doubt — 

There,  the  brows  of  mild  repression — there, 
the  lips  of  silent  passion, 

Curved  like  an  archer’s  bow  to  send  the 
bitter  arrows  out.” 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence 
she  kept  smiling, 

And  approach’d  him  slowly,  slowly,  in  a 
gliding  measured  pace ; 

With  her  two  white  hands  extended  as  if 
praying  one  offended, 

And  a  look  of  supplication  gazing  earnest 
in  his  face. 

Said  he  :  “  Wake  me  by  no  gesture — sound 
of  breath,  or  stir  of  vesture! 

Let  the  blessed  apparition  melt  not  yet 
to  its  divine ! 


No  approaching — hush,  no  breathing!  or 
my  heart  must  swoon  to  death  in 
The  too  utter  life  thou  bringest,  O  thou 
dream  of  Geraldine !” 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence 
she  kept  smiling, 

But  the  tears  ran  over  lightly  from  her 
eyes  and  tenderly : — 

“Dost  thou,  Bertram,  truly  love  me?  Is 
no  woman  far  above  me 
Found  more  worthy  of  thy  poet-heart 
than  such  a  one  as  I?” 

Said  he :  “I  would  dream  so  ever,  like  the 
flowing  of  that  river, 

Flowing  ever  in  a  shadow  greenly  onward 
to  the  sea ! 

So,  thou  vision  of  all  sweetness,  princely 
to  a  full  completeness, 

Would  my  heart  and  life  flow  onward, 
deathward,  through  this  dream  of 
thee  !” 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence 
she  kept  smiling, 

While  the  silver  tears  ran  faster  down 
the  blushing  of  her  cheeks ; 

Then  with  both  her  hands  enfolding  both 
of  his,  she  softly  told  him, 

“  Bertram,  if  I  say  I  love  thee,  .  .  .  ’tis 
the  vision  only  speaks.” 

Soften’d,  quicken’d  to  adore  her,  on  his 
knee  he  fell  before  her, 

And  she  whisper’d  low  in  triumph,  “It 
shall  be  as  I  have  sworn. 

Very  rich  he  is  in  virtues,  very  noble — 
noble,  certes ; 

And  I  shall  not  blush  in  knowing  that 
men  call  him  lowly-born.” 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

- »o« - 

The  Nut-Brown  Maid. 

Be  it  ryght,  or  wrong,  these  men  among 
On  women  do  complayne ; 

Affyrmynge  this,  how  that  it  is 
A  labour  spent  in  vayne, 

To  love  them  wele  ;  for  never  a  dele 
They  love  a  man  agayne  : 

For  late  a  man  do  what  he  can, 

Theyr  favour  to  attayne, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


113 


Yet,  yf  a  nevve  do  them  persue, 

Theyr  first  true  lover  than 
Laboureth  for  nought:  for  from  her  thought 
He  is  a  banysh’d  man. 

I  say  nat  nay,  but  that  all  day 
It  is  bothe  writ  and  sayd 
That  womans  faith  is,  as  who  sayth, 

All  utterly  decayd ; 

But,  neverthelesse  ryght  good  wytnfcsse 
In  this  case  might  be  layd, 

That  they  love  true,  and  continue  : 

Recorde  the  Not-browne  Mayde  : 

Which,  when  her  love  came,  her  to  prove, 
To  her  to  make  his  mone, 

Wolde  nat  depart ;  for  in  her  hart 
She  loved  but  hym  alone. 

Than  betwaine  us  late  us  dyscus 
•What  was  all  the  manere 
Betwayne  them  two  :  we  wyll  also 
Tell  all  the  payne,  and  fere, 

That  she  was  in.  Now  I  begyn 
So  that  ye  me  answere  ; 

Wherfore,  all  ye  that  present  be 
I  pray  you,  gyve  an  ere  : 

“  I  am  the  knyght ;  I  come  by  nyght, 

As  secret  as  I  can  ; 

Sayinge,  Alas  !  thus  standeth  the  case, 

I  am  a  banysh’d  man.” 

SHE. 

And  I  your  wyll  for  to  fulfyll 
In  this  wyll  nat  refuse  ; 

Trusty ing  to  shewe,  in  wordes  fewe, 

That  men  have  an  yll  use 
(To  theyr  own  shame)  women  to  blame, 
And  causelesse  them  accuse  ; 

Therfore  to  vou  I  answere  nowe. 

All  women  to  excuse, — 

Myne  owne  hart  dere,  with  you  what  chere? 

I  pray  you,  tell  anone  ; 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

It  standeth  so  ;  a  dede  is  do 

Whereof  grete  harme  shall  growe  ; 

My  destiny  is  for  to  dy 

A  shamefull  deth,  I  trowe  ; 

Or  elles  to  fie  :  the  one  must  be. 

None  other  way  I  knowe, 

8 


But  to  withdrawe  as  an  outlawe, 

And  take  me  to  my  bo  we. 

Wherfore,  adue,  my  owne  hart  true  ! 

None  other  rede  I  can  ; 

For  I  must  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

O  Lord,  what  is  thys  worldys  blysse, 

That  changeth  as  the  mone  ! 

My  somers  day  in  lusty  may 
Is  derked  before  the  none. 

I  here  you  say  farewell :  Nay,  nay, 

We  depart  nat  so  sone. 

Why  say  ye  so  ?  wheder  wyll  ye  go  ? 

Alas  !  what  have  ye  done  ? 

All  my  welfare  to  sorrowe  and  care 
Sholde  chaunge,  yf  ye  were  gone  ; 

For  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

I  can  beleve,  it  shall  you  greve, 

And  somewhat  you  dystrayne  ; 

But,  aftyrwarde,  your  paynes  harde 
Within  a  day  or  twayne 

Shall  sone  aslake  ;  and  ye  shall  take 
Comfort  to  you  agayne. 

Why  sholde  ye  ought  ?  for,  to  make 
thought, 

Your  labour  were  in  vayne. 

And  thus  I  do  ;  and  pray  you  to 
As  hartely,  as  I  can  ; 

For  I  must  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

Now,  syth  that  ye  have  sliew’d  to  me 
The  secret  of  your  mynde, 

I  shall  be  playne  to  you  agayne, 

Lyke  as  ye  shall  me  fynde. 

Syth  it  is  so,  that  ye  wyll  go, 

I  wolle  not  leve  behynde  : 

Shall  never  be  sayd,  the  Not-browne  Mayd 
Was  to  her  love  unkynde  : 

Make  you  redy,  for  so  am  I, 

Allthough  it  were  anone  ; 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

Yet  I  you  rede  to  take  good  hede 
What  men  wyll  thynke,  and  say  : 


114 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Of  yonge,  and  olde  it  shall  be  tolde, 

That  ye  be  gone  away, 

Your  Avanton  wyll  for  to  fulfill, 

In  grene  wode  you  to  play  ; 

And  that  ye  myglit  from  your  delyght 
No  lenger  make  delay. 

Rather  than  ye  sliolde  thus  for  me 
Be  called  an  yll  womk, 

Yet  wolde  I  to  the  grene  wode  go 
Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

Though  it  be  songe  of  old  and  yonge, 

That  I  sliolde  be  to  blame, 

Theyrs  be  the  charge,  that  speke  so  large 
In  hurtynge  of  my  name  : 

For  I  wyll  prove,  that  faythfulle  love 
It  is  devoyd  of  shame  ; 

In  your  dystresse,  and  hevynesse, 

To  part  with  you,  the  same : 

And  sure  all  tho,  that  do  not  so, 

True  lovers  are  they  none  ; 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

I  counceyle  you,  remember  howe, 

It  is  no  maydens  lawe, 

Nothynge  to  dout,  but  to  renne  out 
To  wode  with  an  outlawe  : 

For  ye  must  there  in  your  hand  bere 
A  bo  we,  redy  to  drawe  ; 

And,  as  a  thefe,  thus  must  you  lyve, 

Ever  in  drede  and  awe  ; 

Wherby  to  you  grete  harme  myght  growe : 
Yet  had  I  lever  than, 

That  I  had  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

I  thinke  nat  nay,  but  as  ye  say, 

It  is  no  maidens  lore  : 

But  love  may  make  me  for  your  sake, 

As  I  have  sayd  before 

To  come  on  fote,  to  hunt,  and  shote 
To  gete  us  mete  in  store  ; 

For  so  that  I  your  company 
May  have,  I  aske  no  more : 

From  which  to  part,  it  maketh  my  hart 
As  colde  as  ony  stone  ; 

For  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 


HE. 

For  an  outlawe  this  is  the  lawe, 

That  men  hym  take  and  bynde ; 
Without  pyt&,  hanged  to  be, 

And  waver  with  the  wynde, 

If  I  had  nede,  (as  God  forbede  !) 

What  rescous  coude  ye  fyn.de  ? 
Forsoth,  I  trowe,  ye  and  your  bowe 
For  fere  wolde  drawe  behynde  : 

And  no  mervayle  ;  for  lytell  avayle 
Were  in  your  counceyle  than  : 
Wherfore  I  wyll  to  the  grene  wode  go; 
Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

Right  wele  know  ye,  that  woman  be 
But  feble  for  to  fyght ; 

No  womanhede  it  is  indede 
To  be  bolde  as  a  knyght : 

Yet,  in  such  fere  yf  that  ye  were 
With  enemy es  day  or  nyght, 

I  wolde  withstande,  with  bowe  in  hande 
To  greve  them  as  I  myght, 

And  you  to  save  ;  as  women  have 
From  detli  ‘  men  ’  many  one  : 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

Yet  take  good  hede  ;  for  ever  I  drede 
That  ye  coude  nat  sustayne 
The  thornie  wayes,  the  deep  vallfeies, 
The  snowe,  the  frost,  the  rayne, 

The  colde,  the  hete  :  for  dry,  or  wete, 
We  must  lodge  on  the  playne  ; 

And,  us  above,  none  other  rofe 
But  a  brake  bush;  or  twayne  : 

Which  sone  sholde  greve  you,  I  beleve  ; 

And  ye  wolde  gladly  than 
That  I  had  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

Syth  I  have  here  bene  partynfcre 
With  you  of  joy  and  blysse, 

I  must  also  part  of  your  wo 
Endure,  as  reson  is  : 

Yet  am  I  sure  of  one  pleshre 
And,  shortely,  it  is  this  : 

That,  where  ye  be,  me  semeth,  pard&, 

I  could  not  fare  amysse. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


115 


Without  more  speche,  I  you  beseche 
That  we  were  sone  agone : 

For  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

If  ye  go  thyder,  ye  must  consyder, 
Whan  ye  have  lust  to  dyne, 

There  shall  no  mete  be  for  you  gete, 
Nor  drinke,  bere,  ale,  ne  wyne. 

No  schetes  clene,  to  lye  betwene, 

Made  of  threde  and  twyne  ; 

None  other  house,  but  leves  and  bowes. 
To  cover  your  hed  and  myne. 

O  myne  harte  swete,  this  evyll  dy&te 
Sholde  make  you  pale  and  wan  ; 

Wherfore  I  wyll  to  the  grene  wode  go, 
Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

Amonge  the  wild  dere,  such  an  archkre, 
As  men  say  that  ye  be, 

Ne  may  nat  fayle  of  good  vitayle, 
Where  is  so  grete  plenty  : 

And  water  clere  of  the  ryvkre 
Shall  be  full  swete  to  me  ; 

With  which  in  hele  I  shall  ryght  wele 
Endure,  as  ye  shall  see ; 

And,  or  we  go,  a  bedde  or  two 
I  can  provyde  anone; 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

Lo  yet,  before,  ye  must  do  more, 

Yf  ye  wyll  go  with  me : 

As  cut  your  here  up  by  your  ere, 

Your  kyrtel  by  the  kne ; 

With  bowe  in  hande,  for  to  withstande 
Your  enemyes  yf  nede  be  ; 

And  this  same  nyght  before  day-light, 
To  wode-warde  wyll  I  fie. 

Yf  that  ye  wyll  all  this  fulfill, 

Do  it  shortely  as  ye  can ; 

Els  wyll  I  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

I  shall  as  nowe  do  more  for  you 
Than  longeth  to  womanhede; 

To  shote  my  here,  a  bowe  to  bere, 

To  shote  in  tyme  of  nede. 


0  my  swete  mother,  before  all  other 
For  you  I  have  most  drede : 

But  nowe,  adue  !  I  must  ensue, 

Where  fortune  doth  me  lede. 

All  this  make  ye:  Now  let  us  fie: 

The  day  cometh  fast  upon  ; 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

Nay,  na'y,  nat  so;  ye  shall  nat  go, 

And  I  shall  tell  ye  why, — 

Your  appetyght  is  to  be  lyght 
Of  love,  I  wele  espy: 

For,  lyke  as  ye  have  sayd  to  me, 

In  lyke  wyse  hardely 
Ye  wolde  answere  whosoever  it  were, 

In  way  of  company. 

It  is  sayd  of  olde,  Sone  hote,  sone  colde; 

And  so  is  a  woman. 

Wherfore  I  to  the  wode  wyll  go, 

Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

Yf  ye  take  hede,  it  is  no  nede 
Such  wordes  to  say  by  me ; 

For  oft  ye  pray’d,  and  longe  assay’d, 

Or  I  you  loved,  parde ; 

And  though  that  I  of  auncestry 
A  barons  daughter  be, 

Yet  have  you  proved  howe  I  you  loved 
A  squyer  of  lowe  degre  ; 

And  ever  shall,  whatso  befall ; 

To  dy  therfore  anone ; 

For  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

A  barons  chylde  to  be  begylde! 

It  were  a  cursed  dede ; 

To  be  felawe  with  an  outlawe ! 

Almighty  God  forbede! 

Yet  beter  were,  the  pore  squy&re 
Alone  to  forest  yede, 

Than  ye  sholde  say  another  day, 

That,  by  my  cursed  dede, 

Ye  were  betray’d:  Wherfore,  good  mayd, 
The  best  rede  that  I  can, 

Is,  that  I  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 


116 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


SHE. 

Whatever  befall,  I  never  shall 
Of  this  thvng  you  upbrayd : 

But  yf  ye  go,  and  leve  me  so, 

Then  have  ye  me  betravd. 

Remember  you  wele,  howe  that  ye  dele ; 

For,  yf  ye,  as  ye  sayd, 

Be  so  unkynde,  to  leve  behynde 
Your  love  the  Not-browne  Mayd, 

Trust  me  truly,  that  I  shall  dy 
Sone  after  ye  be  gone ; 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  manky nde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

Yf  that  ye  went,  ye  sholde  repent; 

For  in  the  forest  nowe 
1  have  purvay’d  me  of  a  mayd, 

Whom  I  love  more  than  you ; 

Another  fayrkre,  than  ever  ye  were, 

I  dare  it  wele  avowe ; 

And  of  ye  bothe  eche  sholde  be  wrothe 
With  other,  as  I  trowe : 

It  were  myne  ese,  to  lyve  in  pese ; 

So  wyll  I,  yf  I  can ; 

Wherfore  I  to  the  wode  wyll  go, 

Alone,  a  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

Though  in  the  wode  I  undyrstode 
Ye  had  a  paramour, 

All  this  may  nought  remove  my  thought, 
But  that  I  will  be  your : 

And  she  shall  fynde  me  soft,  and  kynde, 
And  courtevs  everv  hour  ; 

!  dad  to  fulfyll  all  that  she  wyll 
Commaunde  me  to  my  power : 

For  had  ye,  lo,  an  hundred  mo, 

‘  Of  them  I  wolde  be  one  ;’ 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

Myne  owne  dere  love,  I  se  the  prove 
That  ye  be  kynde,  and  true  : 

)f  mayde,  and  wyfe,  in  all  my  lyfe, 

The  best  that  ever  I  knewe. 

>e  merv  and  glad,  be  no  more  sad, 

The  case  is  chaung&d  newe  ; 
for  it  were  ruthe,  that,  for  your  truthe, 
Ye  sholde  have  cause  to  rewe. 


Be  nat  dismay’d ;  whatsoever  I  sayd 
To  you,  whan  I  began, 

I  wyll  nat  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

I  am  no  banysh’d  man. 

SHE. 

These  tydings  be  more  gladd  to  me, 

Than  to  be  made  a  quene, 

Yf  I  were  sure  they  sholde  endure; 

But  it  is  often  sene, 

Whan  men  wyll  breke  promyse,  they 
speke 

The  wordes  on  the  splene. 

Ye  shape  some  wyle  me  to  begyle, 

And  stele  from  me,  I  wene  : 

Than  were  the  case  worse  than  it  was. 

And  I  more  wo-begone : 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

HE,. 

Ye  shall  nat  nede  further  to  drede; 

I  will  nat  dvsparage  „ 

You  (God  forfend!),  syth  ye  descend 
Of  so  grete  a  lvnage. 

Nowe  undyrstande ;  to  Westmarlande, 
Which  is  myne  herytage, 

I  wyll  you  brynge,  and  with  a  rynge 
By  way  of  maryage 
I  wyll  you  take,  and  lady  make, 

As  shortely  as  I  can  : 

Thus  have  you  won  an  erlvs  son 
And  not  a  banysh’d  man. 

Author. 

Here  may  ye  se,  that  women  be 
In  love,  meke,  kynde,  and  stable ; 

Late  never  man  reprove  them  than, 

Or  call  them  variable  ; 

But,  rather,  pray  God  that  we  may 
To  them  be  comfortable. 

Which  sometyme  proveth  such,  as  he  lov 
eth, 

Yf  they  be  chary  table. 

For  syth  men  wolde  that  women  sholde 
Be  meke  to  them  each  one, 

Moche  more  ought  they  to  God  obey, 

And  serve  but  Hym  alone. 

Author  Unknown. 


♦0* 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


117 


The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 
Walkt  forth  to  tell  his  beades ; 

And  he  met  with  a  lady  faire 
Clad  in  a  pilgrime’s  weedes. 

Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend  friar, 
I  pray  thee  tell  to  me, 

If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 
My  true  love  thou  didst  see. 

And  how  should  I  know  your  true  love 
For  many  another  one  ? 

0,  by  his  cockle  hat,  and  staff, 

And  by  his  sandal  shoone. 

But  chiefly  by  his  face  and  mien, 

That  were  so  fair  to  view  ; 

His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curl’d, 

And  eyne  of  lovely  blue. 

0  lady,  he  is  dead  and  gone  ! 

Lady,  he’s  dead  and  gone  ! 

And  at  his  head  a  green  grass  turfe, 

And  at  his  heels  a  stone. 

Within  these  holy  cloysters  long 
He  languisht  and  he  dyed, 

Lamenting  of  a  ladyes  love, 

And  ’plaining  of  her  pride. 

Here  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier 
Six  proper  youths  and  tall, 

And  many  a  tear  bedew’d  his  grave 
Within  yon  kirk-yard  wall. 

And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth  ! 
And  art  thou  dead  and  gone ! 

And  didst  thou  dye  for  love  of  me  ! 

Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone ! 

0  weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  soe  : 

Some  ghostly  comfort  seek  : 

Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart, 

Ne  teares  bedew  thy  cheek. 

0  do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar, 

My  sorrows  now  reprove ; 

For  I  have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 
That  e’er  wan  ladyes  love. 

And  nowe,  alas  !  for  thy  sad  losse, 

I’ll  evermore  weep  and  sigh: 

For  thee  I  only  wisht  to  live, 

For  thee  I  wish  to  dye. 


Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more, 

Thy  sorrowe  is  in  vaine  : 

For  violets  pluckt  the  sweetest  showers 
Will  ne’er  make  grow  againe. 

Our  joys  as  winged  dreams  doe  flye, 

Why,  then,  should  sorrow  last? 

Since  grief  but  aggravates  thy  losse, 
Grieve  not  for  what  is  past. 

0  say  not  soe,  thou  holy  friar  ; 

I  pray  thee  say  not  soe  : 

For  since  my  true-love  dyed  for  mee, 

’Tis  meet  my  tears  should  flow. 

And  will  he  ne’er  come  again  ? 

Will  he  ne’er  come  again  ? 

Ah  !  no,  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave, 
For  ever  to  remain. 

His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose  ; 

The  comeliest  youth  was  he  ! 

But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave  : 

Alas,  and  woe  is  me  ! 

Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more, 

Men  were  deceivers  ever  : 

One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  land, 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false, 
And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy  ; 

For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found, 
Since  summer  trees  were  leafy. 

Now  say  not  soe,  thou  holy  friar, 

I  pray  thee  say  not  soe  ; 

My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart : 

O  he  was  ever  true ! 

And  art  thou  dead,  thou  much-loved  youth, 
And  didst  thou  dye  for  mee  ? 

Then  farewell  home,  for  ever-more 
A  pilgrim  I  will  bee. 

But  first  upon  my  true-loves  grave 
My  weary  limbs  I’ll  lay, 

And  thrice  I’ll  kiss  the  green-grass  turf, 
That  wraps  his  breathless  clay. 

Yet  stay,  fair  lady  :  rest  a  while 
Beneath  this  cloyster  wall : 

See  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  cold 
wind, 

And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall. 


118 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


O  stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar  ; 

O  stay  me  not,  I  pray  ; 

No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  me, 

Can  wash  my  fault  away. 

Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  turn  again, 

And  dry  those  pearly  tears  ; 

For  see  beneath  this  gown  of  gray 
Thy  owne  true-love  appears. 

Here  forced  by  grief  and  hopeless  love, 
These  holy  weeds  I  sought : 

And  here  amid  these  lonely  walls 
To  end  my  days  I  thought. 

But  haply,  for  my  year  of  grace 
Is  not  yet  pass’d  away, 

Might  I  still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 

No  longer  would  I  stay. 

Now  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy 
Once  more  unto  my  heart ; 

For  since  I  have  found  thee,  lovely  youth, 
We  never  more  will  part. 

Thomas  Percy. 

-  »o« - 

Sonnet. 

To  the  Moon. 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb’st 
the  skies ! 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 
What !  may  it  be,  that  e’en  in  heav’nly 
place 

That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ? 
•Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted 
eyes 

Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel’st  a  lover’s 
case ; 

I  read  it  in  thy  looks;  thy  languish’d 
grace 

To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  ev’n  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell 
me, 

Is  constant  love  deem’d  there  but  want  of 
wit? 

Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they 
be? 

Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn,  whom  that  love  doth 
possess  ? 

Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness? 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


Jeanie  Morrison. 

I’ve  wander’d  east,  I’ve  wander’d  west, 
Through  monv  a  weary  way ; 

But  never,  never  can  forget 
The  luve  o’  life’s  young  day ! 

The  fire  that’s  blawn  on  Beltane  e’en 
May  weel  be  black  gin  Yrule; 

But  blacker  fa’  awaits  the  heart 
Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

Oh  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o’  bvgane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 
And  blind  my  een  wi’  tears : 

Thev  blind  mv  een  wi’  saut,  saut  tears, 
And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 

As  memory  idly  summons  up 
The  blithe  blinks  o’  langsyne. 

’Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

’Twas  then  we  twa  did  part; 

Sweet  time — sad  time !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 
Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart! 

’Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear; 

And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 
Remember’d  evermair. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 

Cheek  touchin’  cheek,  loof  lock’d  in  loof, 
What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 

When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 
Wi’  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

Oh,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi’  shame, 
Whene’er  the  scule-weans,  laughin,’  said 
We  cleek’d  thegither  hame? 

And  mind  ve  o’  the  Saturdavs 

%j  ** 

(The  scule  then  skail’t  at  noon), 

When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes, — 

The  broomv  braes  o’  June? 

1  My  head  rins  round  and  round  about — 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 

As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 
O’  scule-time  and  o’  thee. 

Oh  mornin’  life!  oh  mornin’  luve! 

Oh  lichtsome  davs  and  lane: 

•/  V— '  ' 

When  hinny’d  hopes  around  our  hearts 
Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


119 


Oil,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 
The  deavin’  dinsome  toun, 

To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 

The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 
The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 

And  in  the  gloamin’  o’  the  wood 
The  throssil  whusslit  sweet  ; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees — 

And  we,  with  Nature’s  heart  in  tune, 
Concerted  harmonies : 

And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 
For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o’  joy,  till  baith 
Wi’  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 
Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 

That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gush’d  all  feelings  forth, 
Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi’  earliest  thochts 
As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 

Oh,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 
Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ? 

Oh,  say  gin  e’er  your  heart  grows  grit 
Wi’  dreamings  o’  langsyne? 

I’ve  wander’d  east,  I’ve  wander’d  west, 
I’ve  borne  a  weary  lot ; 

But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 

The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 
Still  travels  on  its  way ; 

And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o’  life’s  young  day. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sinder’d  youno; 

v  O 

I’ve  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 
The  music  o’  your  tongue; 

But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 

Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dream’d 
O’  bygone  days  and  me  ! 

William  Motherwell. 


Sweet  William’s  Farewell  to 
Black-Eyed  Susan. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moor’d, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 
When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard  : — 

“  Oh  !  where  shall  I  my  true-love  find  ? 
Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors  !  tell  me  true 
If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew„’’ 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Bock’d  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 

Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard, 
He  sigh’d,  and  cast  his  eyes  below  : 

The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glow¬ 
ing  hands, 

And  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he 
stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 

Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast, 

If  chance  his  mate’s  shrill  call  he  hear, 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest. 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 
Might  envy  William’s  lip  those  kisses 
sweet. 

“  O  Susan  !  Susan  !  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain  ; 

Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear  ; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 

Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds !  my  heart 
shall  be 

The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to 
thee. 

“  Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say 
Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant 
mind  : 

They’ll  tell  thee,  sailors,  when  away, 

In  every  port  a  mistress  find  : 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee 
so, 

For  thou  art  present  wheresoe’er  I  go. 

“  If  to  far  India’s  coast  we  sail, 

Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 
Thy  breath  is  Afric’s  spicy  gale, 

Thy  skin  is  ivory,  so  white  : 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 
Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely 
Sue. 

“  Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn ; 


120 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Though  cannons  roar,  yet  safe  from  harms 
William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 

Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me 

Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from 
Susan’s  eye.” 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word  ; 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread  ; 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  ; 

They  kiss’d;  she  sigh’d;  he  hung  his  head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land  : 
“  Adieu  !”  she  cries  ;  and  waved  her  lily 


Highland  Mary. 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 
The  castle  o’  Montgomery, 

Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 
Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 

There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ; 

For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 
O’  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom’d  the  gay  green  birk, 
How  rich  the  hawthorn’s  blossom, 

As,  underneath  their  fragrant  shade, 

I  clasp’d  her  to  my  bosom  ! 

The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o’er  me  and  my  dearie  ; 

For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 
Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary  ! 

Wi’  monv  a  vow,  and  lock’d  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu’  tender  ; 

And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder  ; 

But,  oh,  fell  death’s  untimely  frost, 

That  nipp’d  my  flower  sae  early  ! 

Now  green’s  the  sod  and  cauld’s  the  clay, 
That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

Oh,  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 
I  aft  ha’e  kiss’d  sae  fondly  ! 

And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 
That  dwalt  on  me  sae  kindly  ! 

And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust, 

That  heart  that  lo’ed  me  dearly  ; 

But  still  within  my  bosom’s  core 
Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

Robert  Burns. 


Sally  in  our  Alley. 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart, 
There’s  none  like  pretty  Sally  ; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 
Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally ; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets, 

And  through  the  streets  does  crv  ’em 

Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 
To  such  as  please  to  buy  ’em  : 

But  sure  such  folks  could  ne’er  beget 
So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally ! 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely ; 

My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely — 

But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful, 

I’ll  bear  it  all  for  Sally: 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that’s  in  the  week 
I  dearly  love  but  one  day — 

And  that’s  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 
A  Saturday  and  Monday  ; 

For  then  I’m  drest  all  in  my  best 
To  walk  abroad  with  Sally ; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed 

Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 
As  soon  as  text  is  named  ; 

I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time 
And  slink  away  to  Sally ; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again. 
Oh  then  I  shall  have  money ; 

I’ll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 

I’ll  give  it  to  my  honey  : 

I  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound, 
I’d  give  it  all  to  Sally ; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


121 


My  master  and  the  neighbors  all 
Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 

And,  but  for  her,  I’d  better  be 
A  slave  and  row  a  galley , 

But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out, 
Oh  then  I’ll  marry  Sally, — 

Oh  then  we’ll  wed,  and  then  we’ll  bed, 
But  not  in  our  alley. 

Henry  Carey. 

- K>« - 

A  Supplication. 

Awake,  awake,  my  Lyre ! 

And  tell  thy  silent  master’s  humble 
tale 

In  sounds  that  may  prevail ; 

Sounds  that  gentle  thoughts  inspire  : 
Though  so  exalted  she 
And  I  so  lowly  be, 

Tell  her,  such  different  notes  make  all  thy 
harmony. 

Hark  !  how  the  strings  awake : 

And,  though  the  moving  hand  approach 
not  near, 

Themselves  with  awful  fear 
A  kind  of  numerous  trembling  make. 

Now  all  thy  forces  try  ; 

Now  all  thy  charms  apply; 

Revenge  upon  her  ear  the  conquests  of 
her  eye. 

Weak  Lyre  !  thy  virtue  sure 
Is  useless  here,  since  thou  art  only 
found 

To  cure,  but  not  to  wound, 

And  she  to  wound,  but  not  to  cure. 

Too  weak  too  wilt  thou  prove 
My  passion  to  remove  ; 

Physic  to  other  ills,  thou’rt  nourishment 
to  love. 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre ! 

For  thou  canst  never  tell  my  humble 
tale 

In  sounds  that  will  prevail, 

Nor  gentle  thoughts  in  her  inspire ; 

All  thy  vain  mirth  lay  by, 

Bid  thy  strings  silent  lie, 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre,  and  let  thy 
master  die. 

Abraham  Cowley. 


Wishes  for  the  Supposed 
Mistress. 

Whoe’er  she  be, 

That  not  impossible  She 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me ; 

Where’er  she  lie, 

Lock’d  up  from  mortal  eye 
In  shady  leaves  of  destiny  : 

Till  that  ripe  birth 
Of  studied  Fate  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  our  earth  ; 

Till  that  divine 
Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine : 

— Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 

Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 

And  be  ye  call’d,  my  absent  kisses. 

J  wish  her  beautv 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist’ring  shoe-tie  : 

Something  more  than 
Taffata  or  tissue  can, 

Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 

A  face  that’s  best 
By  its  own  beauty  drest, 

And  can  alone  command  the  rest : 

A  face  made  up 

Out  of  no  other  shop 

Than  what  Nature’s  white  hand  sets  ope. 

Sydneian  showers 

Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 

Can  crown  old  Winter’s  head  with  flowers. 

Whate’er  delight 

Can  make  day’s  forehead  bright 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  night. 

Soft  silken  hours, 

Open  suns,  shady  bowers  ; 

’Bove  all,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 

Days,  that  need  borrow 
No  part  of  their  good  morrow 
From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow: 


122 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Days,  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night. 

Life,  that  dares  send 
A  challenge  to  his  end, 

And  when  it  comes,  say,  “  Welcome, 
friend.” 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes;  and  I  wish - no  more. 

— Now,  if  Time  knows 

That  Her,  whose  radiant  brows 

Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows  ; 

Her  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see : 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

’Tis  She,  and  here 

Lo  !  I  unclothe  and  clear 

My  wishes’  cloudy  character. 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  wishes, 

And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

Let  her  full  glory, 

My  fancies,  fly  before  ye ; 

Be  ye  my  fictions : — but  her  story. 

Richard  Crashaw. 

- *>♦ 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly. 

O  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it’s  you  I  love 
the  best ! 

If  fifty  girls  were  around  you,  I’d  hardly  see 
the  rest ; 

Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the  place 
be  where  it  will, 

Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom 
before  me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that’s  flow¬ 
ing  on  a  rock, 

How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are ! 

and  they  give  me  many  a  shock  ; 

Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine,  and  wetted 
with  a  shower, 

Could  ne’er  express  the  charming  lip  that 
has  me  in  its  power. 


Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome,  her 
eyebrows  lifted  up, 

Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth 
like  a  china  cup  ; 

Her  hair’s  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty 
and  so  fine — 

It’s  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gath¬ 
er’d  in  a  twine. 

The  dance  o’  last  Whit  Monday  night  ex¬ 
ceeded  all  before — 

No  pretty  girl  for  miles  around  was  missing 
from  the  floor  ; 

But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  love,  and  oh !  but 
she  was  gay ; 

She  danced  a  jig,  she  sung  a  song,  and  took 
my  heart  away ! 

When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps 
were  so  complete, 

The  music  nearly  kill’d  itself,  to  listen  to 
her  feet ; 

The  fiddler  mourn’d  his  blindness,  he 
heard  her  so  much  praised  ; 

But  bless’d  himself  he  wasn’t  deaf  when 
once  her  voice  she  raised. 

And  evermore  I’m  whistling  or  lilting  what 
you  sung ; 

Your  smile  is  always  in  my  heart,  your 
name  beside  my  tongue. 

But  you’ve  as  many  sweethearts  as  you’d 
count  on  both  your  hands, 

And  for  myself  there’s  not  a  thumb  or 
little  finger  stands. 

Oh,  you’re  the  flower  of  womankind,  in 
country  or  in  town  ; 

The  higher  I  exalt  you,  the  lower  I’m  cast 
down. 

If  some  great  lord  should  come  this  way 
and  see  your  beauty  bright, 

And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I’d  own  it  was  but 
right. 

Oh,  might  we  live  together  in  lofty  palace 
hall 

Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scar¬ 
let  curtains  fall ! 

Oh,  might  we  live  together  in  a  cottage 
mean  and  small, 

With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud 
the  only  wall ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


123 


O  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty’s  my 
distress — 

It’s  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I’ll 
never  wish  it  less ; 

The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and 
I  am  poor  and  low, 

But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever 
you  may  go ! 

William  Allingham. 

- — 

Shall  I  Tell  you  Whom  I  Love? 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 

Hearken  then  a  while  to  me ; 

And  if  such  a  woman  inove 
As  I  now  shall  versify, 

Be  assured  ’tis  she,  or  none, 

That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

Nature  did  her  so  much  right 
As  she  scorns  the  help  of  art. 

In  as  many  virtues  dight 

As  e’er  yet  embraced  a  heart. 

So  much  good  so  truly  tried, 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desire 
To  make  known  how  much  she  hath ; 
And  her  anger  flames  no  higher 
Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath. 

Full  of  pity  as  may  be, 

Though  perhaps  not  so  to  me. 

Reason  masters  every  sense, 

And  her  virtues  grace  her  birth  ; 
Lovely  as  all  excellence, 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth. 
Likelihood  enough  to  prove 
Only  worth  could  kindle  love. 

Such  she  is ;  and  if  vou  know 

Such  a  one  as  I  have  sung ; 

Be  she  brown,  or  fair,  or  so 

That  she  be  but  somewhile  young; 

Be  assured  ’tis  she,  or  none, 

That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

William  Browne. 
- - 

To  Virgins,  to  i make  Much  of 
Time. 

Gather  ve  rosebuds  while  ve  mav. 

Old  Time  is  still  a-fiying, 

And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-dav. 
To-morrow  will  be  dying. 


The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 
The  higher  he’s  a-getting 

The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he’s  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer, 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  ye  may,  go  marry ; 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  for  ever  tarry. 

Robert  Herrick. 


Rosaline. 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere 
Where  all  imperial  glory  shines, 

Of  selfsame  color  is  her  hair, 

Whether  unfolded,  or  in  twines ; 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 

Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 
Resembling  heaven  by  every  wink ; 

The  gods  do  fear  whenas  they  glow, 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think. 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud 
That  beautifies  Aurora’s  face, 

Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud 
That  Phoebus’  smiling  looks  doth  grace ; 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 

Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses 
Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbor  nigh, 
Within  which  bounds  she  balm  encloses 
Apt  to  entice  a  deity  ; 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

Her  neck  is  like  a  stately  tower 
Where  Love  himself  imprison’d  lies, 

To  watch  for  glances  every  hour 
From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes : 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 

Her  paps  are  centres  of  delight, 

Her  breasts  are  orbs  of  heavenly  frame, 
Where  Nature  moulds  the  dew  of  light 
To  feed  perfection  with  the  same ; 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red. 

With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  1  lue, 


124 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Her  body  every  way  is  fed, 

Yet  soft  in  touch  and  sweet  in  view  ; 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 

Nature  herself  her  shape  admires  ; 

The  gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight, 

And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires 
And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light ; 
Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

Then  muse  not,  nymphs,  though  I  be¬ 
moan 

The  absence  of  fair  Rosaline, 

Since  for  a  fair  there’s  fairer  none, 

Nor  for  her  virtues  so  divine ; 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline ; 

Heigh  ho,  my  heart !  would  God  that  she 
were  mine ! 

Thomas  Lodge. 

- X>* - 

To  Althea,  fro 31  Prison. 

When  Love,  with  unconfined  wings, 
Hovers  within  my  gates, 

And  my  divine  Althea  brings 
To  whisper  at  my  grates  ; 

When  I  lye  tangled  in  her  haire ; 

And  fetter’d  with  her  eye, 

The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  aire 
Know  no  such  libertye. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 
With  no  allaying  Thames, 

Our  carelesse  heads  with  roses  crown’d, 
Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  ; 

When  thirsty  griefe  in  wine  we  steepe, 
When  healths  and  draughts  goe  free, 
Fishes,  that  tipple  in  the  deepe, 

Know  no  such  libertie. 

When,  linnet-like,  confined  I 
With  shriller  note  shall  sing 
The  mercye,  sweetness,  majestye, 

And  glories  of  my  king  ; 

When  I  shall  voyce  aloud  how  good 
He  is,  how  great  should  be, 

Th’  enlarged  windes,  that  curie  the  flood, 
Know  no  such  libertie. 

Stone  walls  doe  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  barres  a  cage, 

Mindes,  innocent,  and  quiet,  take 
That  for  an  hermitage  : 

If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soule  am  free, 


Angels  alone,  that  soare  above, 
Enjoy  such  libertie. 

Bichard  Lovelace. 


Lines  on  Isabella  Markham. 

Whence  comes  my  love?  O  heart,  dis¬ 
close  ; 

It  was  from  cheeks  that  shamed  the  rose, 
From  lips  that  spoil  the  ruby’s  praise, 
From  eyes  that  mock  the  diamond’s  blaze  : 
Whence  comes  my  woe  ?  as  freely  own  ; 
Ah  me  !  ’twas  from  a  heart  like  stone. 

The  blushing  chee'k  speaks  modest  mind, 
The  lips  befitting  words  most  kind, 

The  eye  does  tempt  to  love’s  desire, 

And  seems  to  say  ’tis  Cupid’s  fire ; 

Yet  all  so  fair  but  speak  my  moan, 

Sitli  naught  doth  say  the  heart  of  stone. 

Why  thus,  my  love,  so  kind  bespeak 
Sweet  eye,  sweet  lip,  sweet  blushing 
cheek — 

Yet  not  a  heart  to  save  my  pain? 

O  Y enus,  take  thy  gifts  again  ! 

Make  not  so  fair  to  cause  our  moan, 

Or  make  a  heart  that’s  like  our  own. 

John  Harrington. 
- - 

Song. 

Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  flies  you ; 

Seem  to  fly  it,  it  will  pursue  : 

So  court  a  mistress,  she  denies  you ; 

Let  her  alone,  she  will  court  you. 

Say,  are  not  women  truly,  then, 

Styled  but  the  shadows  of  us  men  ? 

At  morn  and  even  shades  are  longest ; 

At  noon  they  are  or  short  or  none ; 

So  men  at  weakest  they  are  strongest, 

But  grant  us  perfect,  they’re  not  known 
Say,  are  not  women  truly,  then, 

Styled  but  the  shadows  of  us  men  ? 

Ben  Jo\  son. 

- - 

TO  LUC  AST  A, 

On  Going  to  the  Wars. 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkinde, 

That  from  the  nunnerie 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  minde, 
To  warre  and  armes  I  flee. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


125 


True,  a  new  mistresse  now  I  chase — 
The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 

And  with  a  stronger  faith  imbrace 
A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 
As  you,  too,  should  adore  ; 

I  could  not  love  thee,  deare,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honor  more. 

Richard  Lovelace. 

- «o« - 

TO  LUC  AST  A. 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be 
Away  from  thee  : 

Or  that,  when  I  am  gone, 

You  or  I  were  alone  ; 

Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind  or  swallowing 
wave. 

But  I’ll  not  sigh  one  blast  or  gale 
To  swell  my  sail, 

Or  pay  a  tear  to  ’suage 
The  foaming  blue-god’s  rage  ; 

For,  whether  he  will  let  me  pass 
Or  no,  I’m  still  as  happy  as  I  was. 

Though  seas  and  lands  be  ’twixt  us  both, 
Our  faith  and  troth, 

Like  separated  souls, 

All  time  and  space  controls  : 

Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet, 

Unseen,  unknown ;  and  greet  as  angels 
greet. 

So,  then,  we  do  anticipate 
Our  after-fate, 

And  are  alive  i’  th’  skies, 

If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfined 
In  heaven — their  earthly  bodies  left  be¬ 
hind. 

Richard  Lovelace. 

■  ■  ♦<>♦ 

The  Welcome. 

Welcome,  welcome,  do  I  sing, 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  spring  ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 

Shall  enjoy  a  spring  for  ever. 

Love  that  to  the  voice  is  near, 

Breaking  from  your  ivory  pale, 


Need  not  walk  abroad  to  hear 
The  delightful  nightingale. 

Welcome,  welcome,  then  I  sing. 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  spring  ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 
Shall  enjoy  a  spring  for  ever. 

• 

Love,  that  still  looks  on  your  eyes, 
Though  the  winter  have  begun 
To  benumb  our  arteries, 

Shall  not  want  the  summer’s  sun. 
Welcome,  welcome,  then  I  sing, 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  spring  ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 
Shall  enjoy  a  spring  for  ever. 

Love,  that  still  may  see  your  cheeks. 
Where  all  rareness  still  reposes, 

Is  a  fool  if  e’er  he  seeks 
Other  lilies,  other  roses. 

Welcome,  welcome,  then  I  sing. 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  spring ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 
Shall  enjoy  a  spring  for  ever. 

Love,  to  whom  your  soft  lip  yields, 

And  perceives  your  breath  in  kissing. 
All  the  odors  of  the  fields 

Never,  never  shall  be  missing. 
Welcome,  welcome,  then  I  sing, 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  spring ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 
Shall  enjoy  a  spring  for  ever. 

Love,  that  question  would  anew 
What  fair  Eden  was  of  old, 

Let  him  rightly  study  you, 

And  a  brief  of  that  behold. 

Welcome,  welcome,  then  I  sing, 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  spring ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 
Shall  enjoy  a  spring  for  ever. 

William  Brownr 

-  ■  •<>♦ - 

'Twas  when  tile  Seas  were 
Roaring. 

’Twas  when  the  seas  were  roaring 
With  hollow  blasts  of  wind  ; 

A  damsel  lay  deploring, 

All  on  a  rock  reclined, 

Wide  o’er  the  roaring  billows 
She  cast  a  wistful  look  ; 


126 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Her  head  was  crown’d  with  willows, 
That  tremble  o’er  the  brook. 

Twelve  months  are  gone  and  over, 
And  nine  long,  tedious  days, 

Why  didst  thou,  vent’rous  lover, 

,  Why  didst  thou  trust  the  seas  ? 
Cease,  cease,  thou  cruel  ocean, 

And  let  my  lover  rest : 

Ah  !  what’s  thy  troubled  motion 
To  that  within  my  breast? 


The  merchant  robb’d  of  pleasure, 
Sees  tempests  in  despair  ; 

But  what’s  the  loss  of  treasure 
To  losing  of  my  dear? 

Should  you  some  coast  be  laid  on 
Where  gold  and  diamonds  grow, 
You’d  find  a  richer  maiden, 

But  none  that  loves  you  so. 


How  can  they  say  that  Nature 
Has  nothing  made  in  vain  ; 
Why  then  beneath  the  water 
Should  hideous  rocks  remain  ? 
No  eyes  the  rocks  discover, 

That  lurk  beneath  the  deep, 
To  wreck  the  wandering  lover, 
And  leave  the  maid  to  weep. 


All  melancholy  lying, 

Thus  wail’d  she  for  her  dear  ; 

Repaid  each  blast  with  sighing, 

Each  billow  with  a  tear  ; 

When,  o’er  the  white  wave  stooping, 
His  floating  corpse  she  spied  ;  . 

Then  like  a  lily  drooping, 

She  bow’d  her  head  and  died. 

John  Gay. 


Jean. 


Of  a’  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 
I  dearly  like  the  West, 

For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo’e  best ; 

There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 
And  mony  a  hill  between,  * 

But  day  and  night  my  fancy’s  flight 
Is  ever  wi’  my  Jean. 

i  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair, 

T  hear  her  in  the  tunefu’  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air ; 


There’s  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 

There’s  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings 
But  ’minds  me  o’  my  Jean. 

Oh  blaw  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 
Amang  the  leafy  trees ; 

Wi’  gentle  gale,  frae  muir  and  dale, 
Bring  liame  the  laden  bees  ; 

And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 
That’s  aye  sae  neat  and  clean ; 

Ae  blink  o’  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

What  sighs  and  vows  amang  the  knowes 
Hae  pass’d  atween  us  twa ! 

How  fain  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part 
That  day  she  gaed  awa ! 

The  Powers  aboon  can  only  ken, 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 

That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 
As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean  ! 

Robert  Burns. 

- •<>• - 

A  Song. 

To  thy  lover, 

Dear,  discover 

That  sweet  blush  of  thine,  that  shameth 
(When  those  roses 
It  discloses) 

All  the  flowers  that  Nature  nameth. 

In  free  air 
Flow  thy  hair, 

That  no  more  summer’s  best  dresses 
Be  beholden 
For  their  golden 

Locks,  to  Phoebus’  flaming  tresses. 

Oh,  deliver 
Love  his  quiver. 

From  thy  eyes  he  shoots  his  arrows, 
Where  Apollo 
Cannot  follow, 

Feather’d  with  his  mother’s  sparrows. 

Oh,  envv  not 
(That  we  die  not) 

Those  dear  lips,  whose  door  encloses 
All  the  Graces 
In  their  places, 

Brother  pearls,  and  sister  roses. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


127 


From  these  treasures 
Of  ripe  pleasures 

One  bright  smile  to  clear  the  weather ; 
Earth  and  heaven 
Thus  made  even, 

Both  will  be  good  friends  together. 

The  air  does  woo  thee, 

Winds  cling  to  thee  ; 

Might  a  word  once  fly  from  out  thee, 
Storm  and  thunder 
Would  sit  under, 

And  keep  silence  round  about  thee. 

But  if  Nature’s 
Common  creatures 
So  dear  glories  dare  not  borrow, 

Yet  thy  beauty 
Owes  a  duty 

To  my  loving,  lingering  sorrow. 

When,  to  end  me, 

Death  shall  send  me 
All  his  terrors  to  affright  me, 

Thine  eyes’  graces 
Gild  their  faces, 

And  those  terrors  shall  delight  me. 

When  my  dying 
Life  is  flying, 

Those  sweet  airs  that  often  slew  me, 
Shall  revive  me, 

Or  reprieve  me, 

And  to  many  deaths  renew  me. 

Richard  Crashaw. 

- - 

The  Night  Piece. 

To  Julia. 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worme  lend  thee, 

The  shooting-starres  attend  thee ; 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  Will-o’-th’-wispe  mislight  thee, 

Nor  snake  nor  slow-worm  bite  thee ; 

But  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  stay, 

Since  ghost  there’s  none  t’  affright  thee  ! 

Let  not  the  darke  thee  cumber  ; 

What  though  the  moon  does  slumber? 


The  stars  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light, 

Like  tapers  cleare,  without  number- 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 

Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me ; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 
Thy  silvery  feet, 

My  soule  f’le  pour  into  thee ! 

Robert  Herrick. 

A  Ditty. 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have 
his, 

By  just  exchange  one  to  the  other  given  : 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss, 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven  : 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have 
his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 
My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses 
guides : 

He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides : 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have 
his. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

•o* - 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes. 

i. 

St.  Agnes’  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  i 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  : 
The  hare  limp’d  trembling  through  the 
frozen  grass, 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  beadsman’s  lingers  while 
he  told 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem’d  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a 
death, 

Past  the  sweet  virgin’s  picture,  while  his 
prayer  he  saith. 

II. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his 
knees, 

And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees: 


128 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side  seem 
to  freeze, 

Emprison’d  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  : 

Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb 
orat’ries, 

He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods 
and  mails.  , 

in. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 

And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music’s  gold¬ 
en  tongue 

Flatter’d  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor  ; 

But  no — already  had  his  death-bell  rung ; 

The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung : 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes’  Eve ; 

Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul’s  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners’  sake 
to  grieve. 

IV. 

That  ancient  beadsman  heard  the  prelude 
soft ; 

And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was 

/  1/ 

wide, 

From  hurry  to  and  fro.  Soon,  up  aloft, 

The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  ’gan  to 
chide; 

The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their 
pride, 

Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand 
guests ; 

The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice 
rests, 

With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross¬ 
wise  on  their  breasts. 

v. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairilv 

The  brain,  new-stuff’d,  in  youth,  with 
triumphs  gay 

Of  old  romance.  These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady  there 

Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  win¬ 
try  day, 

On  love,  and  wing’d  St.  Agnes’  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many 
times  declare. 


YI. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes’  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of 
delight, 

And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey’d  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 

And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily 
white ; 

Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 

Of  heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that 
they  desire. 

VII. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Made¬ 
line  ; 

The  music,  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain, 

She  scarcely  heard ;  her  maiden  eyes  di¬ 
vine, 

Fix’d  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping 
train 

Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all ;  in  vain 

Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  retired;  not  cool’d  by  high 
disdain, 

But  she  saw  not;  her  heart  was  other¬ 
where  ; 

She  sigh’d  for  Agnes’  dreams,  the  sweetest 
of  the  year. 

VIII. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless 
eyes, 

Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick 
and  short ; 

The  hallow’d  hour  was  near  at  hand  ;  she 
sighs 

Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng’d  re¬ 
sort 

Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 

’Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink’d  with  fairy  fancy ;  all  amort, 

Save  to  St,  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 

And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow 
morn. 

IX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 

She  linger’d  still.  Meantime,  across  the 
moors, 

Had  come  young  Porphvro,  with  heart  on 
fire 

For  Madeline.  Beside  the  portal  doors, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


129 


Buttress’d  from  moonlight,  stands  he, 
and  implores 

All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Made¬ 
line, 

But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 

That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  un¬ 
seen  ; 

Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in 
sooth  such  things  have  been. 

x. 

He  ventures  in :  let  no  buzz’d  whisper 
tell : 

All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords  j 

Will  storm  his  heart,  Love’s  feverous 
citadel : 

For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian 
hordes, 

Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 

Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 

Against  his  lineage :  not  one  breast 
affords 

Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 

Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and 
in  soul. 

XI. 

Ah,  happy  chance !  the  aged  creature  came, 

Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 

To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch’s 
flame, 

Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 

The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus 
bland : 

He  startled  her;  but  soon  she  knew  his 
face, 

And  grasp’d  his  fingers  in  her  palsied 
hand, 

Saying,  “  Mercy,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from 
this  place ; 

They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole 
bloodthirsty  race ! 

XII. 

<l  Get  hence !  get  hence !  there’s  dwarfish 
Hildebrand ; 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 

He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and 
land: 

Then  there’s  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not 
a  whit 

More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me ! 
flit! 


Flit  like  a  ghost  away!” — “  Ah,  gossip  dear 
We’re  safe  enough;  here  in  this  arm¬ 
chair  sit, 

And  tell  me  how  ” — “  Good  saints,  not  here, 
not  here ; 

Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will 
be  thy  bier.” 

XIII. 

He  follow’d  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty 
plume ; 

And  as  she  mutter’d  “  Well-a — well-a-day !’ 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 

“  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,”  said  he, 
“  Oh  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 

Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 

When  they  St.  Agnes’  wool  are  weaving 
piously.” 

XIV. 

“  St.  Agnes !  Ah !  it  is  St.  Agnes’  Eve — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days : 

Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch’s  sieve, 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  elves  and  fays, 
To  venture  so.  It  fills  me  with  amaze 

To  see  thee,  Porphyro ! — St.  Agnes’  Eve ! 
God’s  help !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer 
plays 

This  very  night:  good  angels  her  deceive! 

But  let  me  laugh  a  while,  I’ve  mickle  time 
to  grieve.” 

XV. 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 

Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle- 
book, 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney-nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she 
told 

His  lady’s  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could 
brook 

Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchant¬ 
ments  cold, 

And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

XVI. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown 
rose 

Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained 
heart 


130 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 

A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame 
start : 

“A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art ! 

Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and 
dream 

Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 

From  wicked  men  like  thee.  Go,  go !  I 
deem 

Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that 
thou  didst  seem.” 

XVII. 

“  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I 
swear !” 

Quoth  Porphyro.  “  Oh,  may  I  ne’er  find 
grace 

When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last 
prayer, 

If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 

Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 

Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 

Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment’s  space, 

Awake  with  horrid  shout  mv  foemen’s  ears, 

And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more 
fang’d  than  wolves  and  bears.” 

XVIII. 

“  Ah,  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble 
soul  ? 

A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church¬ 
yard  thing, 

Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight 
toll ; 

Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and 
evening, 

Were  never  miss’d.”  Thus  plaining  doth 
she  bring 

A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 

So  woeful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 

Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or 
woe. 

XIX. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 

Even  to  Madeline’s  chamber,  and  there 
hide 

Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 

That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 

And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless 
bride, 


While  legion’d  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy- 
eyed. 

Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 

Since  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  mon¬ 
strous  debt. 

XX. 

“  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,”  said  the 
dame ; 

“  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored 
there 

Quickly  on  this  feast-night;  by  the  tam¬ 
bour-frame 

Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see :  no  time  to 
spare, 

For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce 
dare 

On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience  kneel 
in  prayer 

The  while  :  Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady 
wed, 

Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the 
dead.” 

XXI. 

So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover’s  endless  minutes  slowly  pass’d ; 

The  dame  return’d,  and  whisper’d  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  agfed  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.  Safe  at 
last, 

Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden’s  chamber,  silken,  hush’d 
and  chaste ; 

Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 

His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues 
in  her  brain. 

XXII. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 

When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes’  charmed 
maid, 

Rose,  like  a  mission’d  spirit,  unaware : 
With  silver  taper’s  light,  and  pious 
care, 

She  turn’d,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.  Now  prepare, 

Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 

She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove 
fray’d  and  fled. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


131 


XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 

Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine, 
died : 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 

To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 

No  utter’d  syllable,  or,  woe  betide ! 

But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy 
side  ; 

As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should 
swell 

Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in 
her  dell. 

XXIV. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch’d  there 
was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 

Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot¬ 
grass, 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint 
device, 

Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid 
dyes, 

As  are  the  tiger-moth’s  deep-damask’d 
wings ; 

And  in  the  midst,  ’mong  thousand  her¬ 
aldries, 

And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazon- 
ings, 

A  shielded  scutcheon  blush’d  with  blood 
of  queens  and  kings. 

XXV. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry 
moon, 

And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline’s  fair 
breast, 

As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven’s  grace  and 
boon ; 

Pose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together 
prest, 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 

And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 

She  seem’d  a  splendid  angel,  newly 
drest, 

Save  wings,  for  heaven.  Porphyro  grew 
faint : 

She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from 
mortal  taint. 


XXVI. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she 
frees ; 

Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her 
knees  : 

Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  a  while  she  dreams  awake,  and 
sees, 

In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 

But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm 
is  fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex’d  she 

lay, 

Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  op¬ 
press’d 

Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued 
away ; 

Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow- 
day  ; 

Blissfully  haven’d  both  from  joy  and  pain  ; 
Clasp’d  like  a  missal  where  swart  Pay- 
nims  pray ; 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from 
rain, 

As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a 
bud  again. 

XXVIII. 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 

And  listen’d  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did 
he  bless, 

And  breathed  himself :  then  from  the  closet 
crept, 

Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 

And  over  the  hush’d  carpet,  silent  stept, 

And  ’tween  the  curtains  peep’d,  where,  lo ! 
— how  fast  she  slept. 

XXIX. 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded 
moon 

Made  a  xlim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 


132 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


A  table,  and,  half  anguish’d,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 
Oh  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone: — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the 
noise  is  gone. 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 

In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  laven- 
der’d  ; 

While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a 
heap 

Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and 
gourd ; 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy 
curd, 

And  lucent  svrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 

Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr’d 
From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar’d  Leb¬ 
anon. 

XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heap’d  with  glowing 
hand 

On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver.  Sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume 
light. — 

“  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake! 

Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite; 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes’  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul 
doth  ache.” 

XXXII. 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.  Shaded  was  her 
dream 

By  the  dusk  curtains: — ’twas  a  midnight 
charm 

Impossible  to  melt  as  ic&d  stream  : 

The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight 
gleam ; 

Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies; 

It  seem’d  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady’s  eyes; 
So  mused  a  while,  entoil’d  in  woofed 
phantasies.  * 


XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 

Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  ten- 
derest  be, 

He  play’d  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since 
mute, 

In  Provence  called  “  La  belle  dame  sans 
mercy :” 

Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ;— 

Wherewith  disturb’d,  she  utter’d  a  soft 
moan : 

He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  sud¬ 
denly 

Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 

Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 

Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  : 

There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh 
expell’d 

The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and 
deep. 

At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 

And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many 
a  sigh ; 

While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would 
keep ; 

Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous 
eye, 

Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look’d  so 
dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

“Ah,  Porphyro!”  said  she,  “but  even  now 

Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine 
ear, 

Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and 
clear : 

How  changed  thou  art!  how  pallid,  chill 
and  drear ! 

Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 

Those  looks  immortal,  those  complain¬ 
ings  dear ! 

Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I  know  not 
where  to  go.” 

XXXVI. 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion’d  far 

At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE . 


133 


Ethereal,  flush’d,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 

Seen  ’mid  the  sapphire  heaven’s  deep 
repose ; 

Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 

Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 

Solution  sweet:  meantime  the  frost- wind 
blows 

Like  love’s  alarum  pattering  the  sharp 
sleet 

Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes’ 
moon  hath  set. 

XXXVII. 

’Tis  dark  :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown 
sleet : 

“  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Mad¬ 
eline  !” 

’Tis  dark  :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and 
beat : 

“  No  dream,  alas!  alas!  and  woe  is  mine! 

Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and 
pine. — 

Cruel!  what  traitor  could  thee  hither 
bring? 

I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 

Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing ; — 

A  dove  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick,  un¬ 
pruned  wing.” 

XXXVIII. 

“  My  Madeline !  sweet  dreamer !  lovely 
bride ! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 

Thy  beauty’s  shield,  heart-shaped  and 
vermeil-dyed  ? 

Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my 
rest 

After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 

A  famish’d  pilgrim.. — saved  by  miracle. 

Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy 
nest, 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self ;  if  thou  think’st 
well 

To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 


“Hark!  ’tis  an  elfin  storm  from  faery 
land, 

Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  in¬ 
deed  : 

Arise — arise!  the  morning  is  at  hand; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed. 


Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed; 

There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eves  to  see, — 

Drown’d  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy 
mead. 

Awake !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 

For  o’er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home 
for  thee.” 

XL. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears. 

For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all 
around, 

At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready 
spears — 

Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way 
they  found, 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human 
sound. 

A  cliain-droop’d  lamp  was  flickering  by 
each  door ; 

The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk, 
and  hound, 

Flutter’d  in  the  besieging  wind’s  uproar  ; 

And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty 
floor. 

XLI. 

They  glide  like  phantoms  into  the  wide  hall ! 

Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they 
glide, 

Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 

With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side : 

The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook 
his  hide, 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  : 

By  one  and  one  the  bolts  full  easy  slide: 

The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn 
stones ; 

The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its 
hinges  groans. 

XLII. 

And  they  arc  gone :  ay,  ages  long  ago 

These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 

That  night  the  baron  dreamt  of  many  a 
woe, 

And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade 
and  form 

Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin- 
worm, 

Were  long  benightmared.  Angela  the  oh] 

Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face 
deform  ; 


134 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Tlie  beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his 
ashes  cold. 

John  Keats. 

- K>« - 

Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

“  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 

I’ll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride ; 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen — 

But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa’ 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

“  Now  let  this  wilful  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale; 

Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington, 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale ; 

His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha’, 

His  sword  in  battle  keen  — 

But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa’ 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

“  A  chain  of  gold  ye  shall  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair, 

Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk. 
Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair ; 

And  you,  the  foremost  o’  them  a’, 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen — 

But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa’ 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  deck’d  at  morning  tide, 

The  tapers  glimmer’d  fair, 

The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 
And  dame  and  knight  are  there. 

They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha’, 
The  lady  was  not  seen  ! — 

She’s  o’er  the  Border,  and  awa’ 

Wi’  J ock  of  Hazeldean  ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

— - • - - - 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese. 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 
Except  for  love’s  sake  only.  Do  not  say 
“  I  love  her  for  her  smile,  her  look,  her 
way 

Of  speaking  gently, — for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes 
brought 


A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a 
day — ” 

For  these  things  in  themselves,  beloved, 
may 

Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee,  —  and 
love,  so  wrought, 

May  be  unwrought  so.  Neither  love  me 
for 

Thine  own  dear  pity’s  wiping  my  cheeks 
dry,— 

A  creature  might  forget  to  wTeep,  who 
bore 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love 
thereby ! 

But  love  me  for  love’s  sake,  that  ever¬ 
more 

Thou  mayst  love  on,  through  love’s 
eternity. 


I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 

To  a  man,  dearest,  except  this  to  thee, 

Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thought¬ 
fully 

I  ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length,  and 

say, 

“  Take  it.”  My  day  of  youth  went  yester¬ 
day  : 

My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot’s 
glee, 

Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle  tree, 

As  girls  do,  any  more  :  it  only  may 

Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks  the  mark 
of  tears, 

Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that 
hangs  aside 

Through  sorrow’s  trick.  I  thought  the 
funeral  shears 

Would  take  this  first,  but  love  is  justi¬ 
fied, — 

Take  it  thou, — finding  pure,  from  all  those 
years, 

The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she 
died. 


Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again. 
That  thou  dost  love  me.  Though  the 
word  repeated 

Should  seem  “  a  cuckoo-song,”  as  thou 
dost  treat  it. 

|  Remember,  never  to  the  hill  or  plain, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


135 


Valley  and  wood,  without  her  cuckoo- 
strain, 

Conies  the  fresh  Spring  in  all  her  green 
completed. 

Beloved,  I,  amid  the  darkness  greeted 

By  a  doubtful  spirit-voice,  in  that  doubt’s 
pain 

Cry,  “Speak  once  more — thou  lovest!” 
Who  can  fear 

Too  many  stars,  though  each  in  heaven 
shall  roll — 

Too  many  flowers,  though  each  shall  crown 
the  year  ? 

Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  me,  love 
me — toll 

The  silver  iterance ! — only  minding,  dear, 

To  love  me  also  in  silence  with  thy  soul. 


My  letters  !  all  dead  paper,  .  .  .  mute  and 
white ! 

And  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 

Against  my  tremulous  hands  which 
loose  the  string 

And  let  them  drop  down  on  my  knee  to¬ 
night. 

This  said,  ...  he  wish’d  to  have  me  in 
his  sight 

Once,  as  a  friend :  this  fix’d  a  day  in 
spring 

To  come  and  touch  my  hand  ...  a 
simple  thing, 

Yet  I  wept  for  it!  this,  .  .  .  the  paper’s 
light,  .  .  . 

Said,  Dear ,  I  love  thee;  and  I  sank  and 
quail’d 

As  if  God’s  future  thunder’d  on  my  past. 

This  said,  I  am  thine , — and  so  its  ink  has 
paled 

With  lying  at  my  heart  that  beat  too 
fast. 

4nd  this  .  .  .  O  Love,  thy  words  have  ill 
avail’d, 

If  what  this  said,  I  dared  repeat  at  last ! 


If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 
And  be  all  to  me?  Shall  I  never  miss 
Home-talk  and  blessing  and  the  com¬ 
mon  kiss 

That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it 
strange, 


When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 

Of  walls  and  floors — another  home  than 
this  ? 

Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me 
which  is 

Fill’d  by  dead  eyes  too  tender  to  know 
change  ? 

That’s  hardest.  If  to  conquer  love  has  tried, 

To  conquer  grief  tries  more,  as  all  things 
prove ; 

For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 

Alas,  I  have  grieved  so,  I  am  hard  to 
love. 

Yet  love  me — wilt  thou?  Open  thine 
heart  wide, 

And  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 


First  time  he  kiss’d  me,  he  but  only  kiss’d 

The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I 
write ; 

And  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean  and 
white, 

Slow  to  world-greetings,  quick  with  its 
“  Oh,  list,” 

When  the  angels  speak.  A  ring  of  ame¬ 
thyst 

I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my 
sight, 

Than  that  first  kiss.  The  second  pass’d 
in  height 

The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and 
half  miss’d, 

Half  falling  on  the  hair.  Oh,  beyond 
meed ! 

That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love’s 
own  crown, 

With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 

The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 

In  perfect,  purple  state;  since  when,  in¬ 
deed, 

I  have  been  proud,  and  said,  “  My  love, 
my  own !” 


How  do  I  love  thee?  Let  me  count  the 
ways : 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth 
and  height  ^ 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of 
sight 

For  the  ends  of  being  and  ideal  grace. 


136 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day’s 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  right ; 

I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  praise. 

I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  child¬ 
hood’s  faith. 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seem’d  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints.  I  love  thee  with 
the  breath, 

Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life ;  and,  if  God 
choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

—  »o« - 

Lochinvar. 

Oh,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the 
1  West- 

Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was 
the  best, 

And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons 
had  none, — 

He  rode  all  unarm’d  and  he  rode  all 
alone. 

So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in 
war, 

There  never  was  knight  like  the  young 
Lochinvar. 

He  stay’d  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopp’d 
not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there 
was  none, 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came 
late ; 

For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in 
war 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Loch¬ 
invar. 

So  boldly  he  enter’d  the  Netherby  hall, 

’Mong  bridesmen  and  kinsmen  and  broth¬ 
ers  and  all. 

Then  spoke  the  bride’s  father,  his  hand  on 
his  sword 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said 
never  a  word), 

“  Oh,  come  ye  in  pe^e  here,  or  come  ye 
in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord 
Lochinvar?” 


“I  long  woo’d  your  daughter, — my  suit 
you  denied ; 

Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like 
its  tide ; 

And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of 
mine 

To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of 
wine. 

There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  love¬ 
ly,  by  far, 

That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young 
Lochinvar.” 

The  bride  kiss’d  the  goblet,  the  knight 
took  it  up, 

He  quaff’d  off  the  wine  and  he  threw 
down  the  cup. 

She  look’d  down  to  blush,  and  she  look’d 
up  to  sigh, 

With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her 
eye. 

He  took  her  soft  hand  ere  her  mother 
could  bar : 

“Now  tread  we  a  measure,”  said  young 
Lochinvar. 

So  statelv  his  form,  and  so  lovelv  her 
face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did 

grace, 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father 
did  fume, 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his 
bonnet  and  plume, 

And  the  bridemaidens  whisper’d,  “  ’Twere 
better  by  far 

To  have  match’d  our  fair  cousin  with 
young  Lochinvar.  ” 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in 
her  ear, 

When  thev  reach’d  the  hall-door,  and  the 
charger  stood  near ; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he 
swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he 
sprung ! 

“She  is  won!  we  are  gone,  over  bank, 
bush,  and  scaur ; 

They’ll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,” 
quoth  young  Lochinvar. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


137 


There «was  mounting  ’mong  Graemes  of  the 
Netherby  clan ; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they 
rode  and  they  ran ; 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie 
Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne’er  did 
they  see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in 
war, 

Have  ye  e’er  heard  of  gallant  like  young 
Lochinvar  ? 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

- +0* - 

Auld  Robin  Gray. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when 
the  kye’s  come  hame, 

When  a’  the  weary  warld  to  rest  are 
gane, 

The  waes  o’  my  heart  fa’  in  showers  frae 
my  ee, 

Unkenn’d  by  my  gudeman,  wha  sleeps 
sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo’ed  me  weel,  and  sought 
me  for  his  bride  ; 

But  saving  ae  crown-piece,  he  had  naething 
beside ; 

•To  make  the  crown  a  pound,  my  Jamie 
gaed  to  sea ; 

And  the  crown  and  the  pound,  —  they 
were  baith  for  me  ! 

He  hadna  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and 
a  day, 

When  my  father  brake  his  arm,  and  the 
cow  was  stown  away  ; 

My  mither  she  fell  sick — my  Jamie  was  at 
sea— 

And  Auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courting 
me. 

My  father  cou’dna  wark,  my  mother 
cou’dna  spin  ; 

I  toil’d  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I 
cou’dna  win  ; 

Auld  Robin  maintain’d  them  baith,  and, 
wi’  tears  in  his  ee, 

Said,  “  Jeanie,  oh  !  for  their  sakes,  will  ye 
no  marry  me  ?” 


My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I  look’d  for  Jamie 
back  ; 

But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was 
a  wrack  : 

His  ship  was  a  wrack — Why  didna  Jamie 
dee  ? 

Or,  why  am  I  spared  to  cry,  Wae  is  me  ! 

My  father  urged  me  sair — my  mother  didna 
speak, 

But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart 
was  like  to  break  ; 

They  gied  him  my  hand — my  heart  was  in 
the  sea — 

And  so  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to 
me. 

I  hadna  been  his  wife  a  week  but  only 
four, 

When  mournfu’  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at 
my  door, 

I  saw  my  Jamie’s  ghaist,  for  I  cou’dna 
think  it  he, 

Till  he  said,  “  I’m  come  hame,  love,  to 
marry  thee !” 

Oh  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  say 
of  a’ ; 

I  gied  him  ae  kiss,  and  bade  him  gang 
awa’ — 

I  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I’m  na  like  to 
dee ; 

For,  though  my  heart  is  broken,  I’m  but 
young,  Wae  is  me  ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  much  to 
spin ; 

I  darena  think  o’  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be 
a  sin  ; 

But  I’ll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be, 

For,  oh!  Robin  Gray,  he  is  kind  to  me. 

Lady  Anne  Barnard. 

- k>« - 

To  Mary  in  Heaven. 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 
That  lov’st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 

Again  thou  usher’st  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

0  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 


138 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallow’d  grove, 

Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 

Eternity  will  not  efface 
Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  ; 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  ’twas  our  last ! 

Ayr  gurgling  kiss’d  his  pebbled  shore, 

'  O’erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening, 
green, 

The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 
Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured 
scene. 


The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  press’d, 
The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaim’d  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o’er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 
Time  but  the  impression  deeper  makes, 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 


My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 
Where  is  thy  blissful  place  of  rest  ? 


Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 


Robert  Burns. 


~+o+- 


the  Lady’s  Yes. 

“  Yes,”  I  answer’d  you  last  night ; 

“  No,”  this  morning,  sir,  I  say  : 
Colors  seen  by  candle-light 
Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 

When  the  viols  play’d  their  best, 
Lamps  above  and  laughs  below, 
Love  me  sounded  like  a  jest, 

Fit  for  yes  or  fit  for  no. 

Call  me  false  or  call  me  free, 

Vow,  whatever  light  may  shine, — 
No  man  on  your  face  shall  see 
Any  grief  for  change  on  mine. 


Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both  ;  • 

Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo ; 
Wooing  light  makes  fickle  troth, 
Scorn  of  me  recoils  on  you. 

Learn  to  win  a  lady’s  faith 
Nobly,  as  the  thing  is  high, 
Bravely,  as  for  life  and  death, 

With  a  loyal  gravity. 

Lead  her  from  the  festive  boards, 
Point  her  to  the  starry  skies ; 
Guard  her,  by  your  truthful  words 
Pure  from  courtship’s  flatteries. 

By  your  truth  she  shall  be  true, 

Ever  true,  as  wives  of  yore ; 

And  her  yes,  once  said  to  you, 

Shall  be  Yes  for  evermore. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning* 


Lady  Clare. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 

And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn : 

Lovers  long  betroth’d  were  they : 

They  two  will  wed  the  morrow  morn  : 
God’s  blessing  on  the  day  ! 

“  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 

Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 

And  that  is  well,”  said  Ladv  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 

Said,  “  Who  was  this  that  went  from 
thee  ?” 

“  It  was  my  cousin,”  said  Lady  Clare, 

“  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me.” 

“  Oh,  God  be  thank’d !”  said  Alice  the  nurse. 

“  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair  : 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 

And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare.” 

“  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my 
nurse  ?” 

Said  Lady  Clare,  “  that  ye  speak  so 
wild?” 

“  As  God’s  above,”  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

“  I  speak  the  truth  :  you  are  my  child. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


139 


“  The  old  earl’s  daughter  died  at  my  breast; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 

I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead.” 

“  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

O  mother,”  she  said,  “  if  this  be  true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due.” 

u  Nay  now,  my  child,”  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
“  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 

And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald’s, 
When  you  are  man  and  wife.” 

“  If  I’m  a  beggar  born,”  she  said, 

“  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off  the  brooch  of  gold, 

And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by.” 

“  Nay  now,  my  child,”  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
“  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can.” 

She  said,  “  Not  so  :  but  I  will  know 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man.” 

“  Nay  now,  what  faith  ?”  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

“  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right.” 

“  And  he  shall  have  it,”  the  lady  replied, 

“  Though  I  should  die  to-night.” 

“  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother,  dear ! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn’d  for  thee.” 

“  O  mother,  mother,  mother,”  she  said, 

“  So  strange  it  seems  to  me ! 

“  Yet  here’s  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so, 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 

And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go.” 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown, 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down, 
With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had 
brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 

Dropp’d  her  head  in  the  maiden’s  hand, 
And  follow’d  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stepp’d  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower: 

“  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth  ! 
Why  come  you  dress’d  like  a  village  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?” 


“  If  I  come  dress’d  like  a  village  maid, 

I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 

I  am  a  beggar  born,”  she  said, 

“  And  not  the  Lady  Clare.” 

“  Play  me  no  tricks,”  said  Lord  Ronald, 
“Fori  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed. 
Play  me  no  tricks,”  said  Lord  Ronald, 

“  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read.” 

Oh,  and  proudly  stood  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 

She  look’d  into  Lord  Ronald’s  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse’s  tale. 

He  laugh’d  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn  : 

He  turn’d  and  kiss’d  her  where  she  stood : 
“  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,”  said  he,  “  the  next  in  blood — 

“  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,”  said  he,  “  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 

And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare.” 

Alfred  Tennyson.  ; 

- *o« - 

Love  not  me  for  Comely 
Grace. 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace, 

For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 

Nor  for  any  outward  part, 

No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart, — 

For  those  may  fail,  or  turn  to  ill, 

So  thou  and  I  shall  sever  : 

Keep  therefore  a  true  woman’s  eye, 

And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why — 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  doat  upon  me  ever  ! 

Author  Unknown. 


The  Loveliness  of  Love. 

It  is  not  beauty  I  demand, 

A  crystal  brow,  the  moon’s  despair, 
Nor  the  snow’s  daughter,  a  white  hand, 
Nor  mermaid’s  yellow  pride  of  hair : 

Tell  me  not  of  your  starry  eyes, 

Your  lips  that  seem  on  roses  fed, 

Your  breasts,  where  Cupid  tumbling  lies, 
Nor  sleeps  for  kissing  of  his  bed  : — 


140 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY , 


A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks 
Like  Hebe’s  in  her  ruddiest  hours, 

A  breath  that  softer  music  speaks 

Than  summer  winds  a-wooing  flowers, 

These  are  but  gauds  :  nay  what  are  lips  ? 

Coral  beneath  the  ocean  stream, 

Whose  brink  when  your  adventurer  slips 
Full  oft  he  perisheth  on  them. 

And  what  are  cheeks,  but  ensigns  oft 
That  wave  hot  youth  to  fields  of  blood  ? 
Did  Helen’s  breast,  though  ne’er  so  soft, 
Do  Greece  or  Ilium  any  good  ? 

Eves  can  with  baleful  ardor  burn  ; 

Poison  can  breath,  that  erst  perfumed  ; 
There’s  many  a  white  hand  holds  an  urn 
With  lovers’  hearts  to  dust  consumed 

For  crystal  brows  there’s  naught  within  ; 

They  are  but  empty  cells  for  pride  ; 

He  who  the  siren’s  hair  would  win 
Is  mostly  strangled  in  the  tide. 

Give  me,  instead  of  Beauty’s  bust, 

A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  mind 
Which  with  temptation  I  would  trust, 

Yet  never  link’d  with  error  find, — 

One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes, 
Like  the  care-burthen’d  honey-fly 
That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rose, — 

My  earthly  Comforter  !  whose  love 
So  indefeasible  might  be 
That,  when  my  spirit  wonn’d  above, 

Hers  could  not  stay,  for  sympathy. 

Author  Unknown. 

- K» - 

Milk- Maid's  Song. 

The  Shepherd  to  his  Love. 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 

And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves,  or  hills,  or  field, 

Or  woods  and  steepy  mountains  yield  ; 

Where  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 

And  see  the  shepherds  feed  our  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 


And  I  will  make  thee  beds*  of  roses, 

And  then  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 

A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider’d  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle  ; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Slippers  lined  choicely  for  the  cold, 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold  ; 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 

With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  ; 

And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  my  meat, 

As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 

Shall,  on  an  ivory  table,  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing. 
For  thy  delight,  each  May  morning. 

If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

Christopher  Marlowe. 

■ - *>♦ - 

MILK- MAID'S  MOTHER'S  ANSWER. 
The  Nymph’s  Reply. 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd’s  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold  ; 
Then  Philomel  becometh  dumb, 

And  age  complains  of  care  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields. 

A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 

Is  fancy’s  spring,  but  sorrow’s  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 

Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten  : 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 

Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, 

All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


141 


What  should  we  talk  of  dainties,  then, 

Of  better  meat  than’s  fit  for  men  ? 

These  are  but  vain  :  that’s  only  good 
Which  God  hath  bless’d,  and  sent  for 
food. 

But  could  youth  last  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need, 

Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 

To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 

- - 

On  a  Day,  Alack  the  Day / 

Ox  a  day,  alack  the  day  ! 

Love,  whose  month  is  ever  May, 

Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air : 

Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind 
All  unseen  ’gan  passage  find ; 

That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 

Wish’d  himself  the  heaven’s  breath. 

Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow  ; 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  ! 

Bui,  alack,  my  hand  is  sworn 
Ne’er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn: 
Vow,  alack,  for  youth  unmeet ; 

Youth  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 

Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me 
That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee : 

Thou  for  whom  e’en  Jove  would  swear 
Juno  but  an  Ethiope  were, 

And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 

Turning  mortal  for  thy  love. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- «o« - 

Womans  Inconstancy. 

I  loved  thee  once,  I’ll  love  no  more, 
Thine  be  the  grief  as  is  the  blame ; 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  wast  before, 

What  reason  I  should  be  the  same  ? 

He  that  can  love  unloved  again, 

Hath  better  store  of  love  than  brain : 
God  send  me  love  my  debts  to  pay, 
While  unthrifts  fool  their  love  away. 

Nothing  could  have  my  love  o’erthrown, 

If  thou  hadst  still  continued  mine ; 

Yea,  if  thou  hadst  remain’d  thy  own, 

I  might  perchance  have  yet  been  thine. 


But  thou  thy  freedom  did  recall. 

That  if  thou  might  elsewhere  inthrall  ; 
And  then  how  could  I  but  disdain 
A  captive’s  captive  to  remain  ? 

When  new  desires  had  conquer’d  thee, 
And  changed  the  object  of  thy  will, 

It  had  been  lethargy  in  me, 

Not  constancy,  to  love  thee  still. 

Yea,  it  had  been  a  sin  to  go 
And  prostitute  affection  so, 

Since  we  are  taught  no  prayers  to  say 
To  such  as  must  to  others  pray. 

Yet  do  thou  glory  in  thy  choice, 

Thy  choice  of  his  good  fortune  boast ; 
I’ll  neither  grieve  nor  yet  rejoice, 

To  see  him  gain  what  I  have  lost ; 

The  height  of  my  disdain  shall  be, 

To  laugh  at  him,  to  blush  for  thee; 

To  love  thee  still,  but  go  no  more 
A  begging  to  a  beggar’s  door. 

Sir  Robert  Ayton. 

- - 

The  Mains  Lament. 

I  loved  him  not ;  and  yet  now  he  is 
gone, 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 

I  checkt  him  while  he  spoke ;  yet  could 
he  speak, 

Alas !  I  would  not  check. 

For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I 
sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  :  I  now  would  give 
My  love,  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  when  he 
found 

’Twas  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death ! 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me ;  but  mine  returns. 

And  this  lone  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 
And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart :  foi 
years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears  ! 

“  Merciful  God !”  such  was  his  latest  prayer 
“  These  may  she  never  share  !” 

Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 
Than  daisies  in  the  mould. 


142 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Where  children  spell  athwart  the  church¬ 
yard  gate 

His  name  and  life’s  brief  date. 

Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe’er  ye  be, 

And  oh,  pray,  too,  for  me ! 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 

■  -  •<>« - 

THE  SHEPHERD'S  WIFE'S  SONG. 

Ah  !  what  is  love?  It  is  a  pretty  thing, 

As  sweet  unto  a  shepherd  as  a  king, 

And  sweeter  too ; 

For  kings  have  cares  that  wait  upon  a 
crown, 

And  cares  can  make  the  sweetest  face  to 
frown : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd 
swain  ? 

His  flocks  are  folded ;  he  comes  home  at 
night 

As  merry  as  a  king  in  his  delight, 

And  merrier  too ; 

For  kings  bethink  them  what  the  state  re¬ 
quire, 

Where  shepherds,  careless,  carol  by  the  fire : 

Ah  then,  all  then, 

If  country  love  such  sweet  desires  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd 
swain  ? 

He  kisseth  first,  then  sits  as  blithe  to  eat 
His  cream  and  curd  as  doth  the  king  his 
meat, 

And  blither  too; 

For  kings  have  often  fears  when  they  sup, 
Where  shepherds  dread  no  poison  in  their 
cup : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd 
swain? 

Upon  his  couch  of  straw  he  sleeps  as  sound 
As  doth  the  king  upon  his  beds  of  down, 

More  sounder  too ; 

For  cares  cause  kings  full  oft  their  sleep  to 
spill, 

Where  weary  shepherds  lie  and  snort  their 
fill: 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 


If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  gain, 

What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

Thus  with  his  wife  he  spends  the  year  as 
blithe 

As  doth  the  king  at  every  tide  or  syth, 

And  blither  too; 

For  kings  have  wars  and  broils  to  take  in 
hand, 

When  shepherds  laugh,  and  love  upon  the 
land: 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  gain, 

What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd 
swain  ? 

Robert  Greene. 

- - 

Love  in  the  Valley. 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  standing  on  the 
green  sward, 

Couch’d  with  her  arms  behind  her  little 
head, 

Her  knees  folded  up,  and  her  tresses  on  her 
bosom, 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 

Had  I  the  heart  to  slide  one  arm  beneath 
her, 

Press  her  dreaming  lips  as  her  waist  I 
folded  slow, 

Waking  on  the  instant  she  could  not  but 
embrace  me — 

Ah !  would  she  hold  me,  and  never  let  me  go  ? 

Shy  as  the  squirrel,  and  wayward  as  the 
swallow ; 

Swift  as  the  swallow  when,  athwart  the 
western  flood, 

Circleting  the  surface,  he  meets  his  mir¬ 
ror’d  winglets — 

Is  that  dear  one  in  her  maiden  bud. 

Shy  as  the  squirrel  whose  nest  is  in  the 
pine  tops ; 

Gentle — ah  !  that  she  were  jealous — as  the 
dove ! 

Full  of  all  the  wildness  of  the  woodland 
creatures, 

Happy  in  herself  is  the  maiden  that  I  love  ! 

What  can  have  taught  her  distrust  of  all  I 
tell  her? 

Can  she  truly  doubt  me  when  looking  on 
my  brows? 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


143 


Nature  never  teaches  distrust  of  tender 
love-tales — 

What  can  have  taught  her  distrust  of  all 
my  vows? 

No,  she  does  not  doubt  me !  on  a  dewy  eve- 
tide, 

Whispering  together  beneath  the  listening 
moon, 

I  pray’d  till  her  cheek  flush’d,  implored 
till  she  falter’d — 

Flutter’d  to  my  bosom — ah !  to  fly  away  so 
soon ! 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the 
laughing  mirror, 

Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 

Often  she  thinks — Were  this  wild  thing 
wedded, 

I  should  have  more  love,  and  much  less 
care. 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the 
bashful  mirror, 

Loosening  her  laces,  combing  down  her 
curls, 

Often  she  thinks — Were  this  wild  thing 
wedded, 

I  should  lose  but  one  for  so  many  boys  and 
girls. 

Clambering  roses  peep  into  her  chamber; 

Jasmine  and  woodbine  breathe  sweet, 
sweet ; 

White-neck’d  swallows,  twittering  of  sum¬ 
mer, 

Fill  her  with  balm  and  nested  peace  from 
head  to  feet. 

Ah!  will  the  rose-bough  see  her  lying 
lonely, 

When  the  petals  fall  and  fierce  bloom  is  on 
the  leaves? 

Will  the  autumn  garners  see  her  still  un¬ 
gather’d, 

When  the  fickle  swallows  forsake  the  weep¬ 
ing  eaves? 

Comes  a  sudden  question — should  a  strange 
hand  pluck  her ! 

Oh,  what  an  anguish  smites  me  at  the 
thought ! 

Should  some  idle  lordling  bribe  her  mind 
with  jewels ! — 

Can  such  beauty  ever  thus  be  bought? 


Sometimes  the  huntsmen,  prancing  down 
the  valley, 

Eye  the  village  lasses,  full  of  sprightly 
mirth ; 

They  see,  as  I  see,  mine  is  the  fairest ! 

Would  she  were  older  and  could  read  my 
worth ! 

Are  there  not  sweet  maidens,  if  she  still 
deny  me  ? 

Show  the  bridal  heavens  but  one  bright 
star? 

Wherefore  thus  then  do  I  chase  a  shadow, 

Clattering  one  note  like  a  brown  eve-jar? 

So  I  rhyme  and  reason  till  she  darts  before 
me — 

Through  the  milky  meadows  from  flower  to 
flower  she  flies, 

Sunning  her  sweet  palms  to  shade  her 
dazzled  eyelids 

From  the  golden  love  that  looks  too  eager 
in  her  eyes. 

When  at  dawn  she  wakens,  and  her  fair 
face  gazes 

Out  on  the  weather  through  the  window- 
panes, 

Beauteous  she  looks !  like  a  white  water- 

lily 

Bursting  out  of  bud  on  the  rippled  river 
plains. 

When  from  bed  she  rises,  clothed  from 
neck  to  ankle 

In  her  long  night-gown,  sweet  as  boughs  of 
May, 

Beauteous  she  looks !  like  a  tall  garden  lily, 

Pure  from  the  night  and  perfect  for  the  day f 

Happy,  happy  time,  when  the  gray  star 
twinkles 

Over  the  fields  all  fresh  with  bloomy  dew  ; 

When  the  cold-cheek’d  dawn  grows  ruddy 
up  the  twilight, 

And  the  gold  sun  wakes  and  weds  her  in 
the  blue. 

Then  when  my  darling  tempts  the  early 
breezes, 

She  the  only  star  that  dies  not  with  the 
dark ! 

Powerless  to  speak  all  the  ardor  of  my 
passion, 

I  catch  her  little  hand  as  we  listen  to  the 
lark. 


144 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Shall  the  birds  in  vain  then  valentine  their 
sweethearts  ? 

Season  after  season  tell  a  fruitless  tale  ? 

Will  not  the  virgin  listen  to  their  voices? 

Take  the  honey’d  meaning,  wear  the  bridal 
veil  ? 

Fears  she  frosts  of  winter,  fears  she  the 
bare  branches  ? 

Waits  she  the  garlands  of  spring  for  her 
dower  ? 

Is  she  a  nightingale  that  will  not  be  nested 

Till  the  April  woodland  has  built  her  bridal 
bower  ? 

Then  come,  merry  April,  with  all  thy  birds 
and  beauties ! 

With  thy  crescent  brows  and  thy  flowerv, 
showery  glee ; 

With  thy  budding  leafage  and  fresh  green 
pastures ; 

And  may  thy  lustrous  crescent  grow  a  hon¬ 
eymoon  for  me ! 

Come,  merry  month  of  the  cuckoo  and  the 
violet ! 

Come,  weeping  loveliness  in  all  thy  blue 
delight ! 

Lo  !  the  nest  is  ready,  let  me  not  languish 
longer ! 

Bring  her  to  my  arms  on  the  first  May  night. 

George  Meredith. 

- K>« - 

D uncan  Gray. 

Duxcay  Gray  cam  here  to  woo, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t, 

On  blytlie  Yule  night  when  we  were  fou, 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t : 

Maggie  coost  her  head  fu’  high, 

Look’d  asklent  and  unco’  skeigh, 

Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t ! 

Duncan  fleech’d,  and  Duncan  pray’d, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t ; 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 

Duncan  sigh’d  baith  out  and  in, 

Grat  his  een  baith  bleert  an’  blin’, 

Spak  o’  lowpin  o’er  a  linn ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t; 


Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 

Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he, 

For  a  haughty  hizzie  dee? 

She  may  gae  to — France  for  me ! 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t  ; 

Meg  grew  sick — as  he  grew  heal, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings; 

And  oh,  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things ! 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o’  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t ; 

Maggie’s  was  a  piteous  case, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 

Duncan  couldna  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor’d  his  wrath ; 

Now  they’re  crouse  and  canty  baith, 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 

Robert  Burns, 

- *Ot - 

Ruth. 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasp’d  by  the  golden  light  of  morn. 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 

Who  many  a  glowing  kiss' had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripen’d  ; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 

Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Bound  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 

Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell. 
But  long  lashes  veil’d  a  light, 

That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 

Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; 

Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks  • 

Sure,  I  said,  lieav’n  did  not  mean, 
Where  I  reap  thou  sliouldst  but  glean, 
Lay  thy  sheaf  ad  own  and  come, 

Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

Thomas  Hood. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


14  5 


Phillida  and  Cor  yd  on. 

In  the  merrie  moneth  of  Maye, 

In  a  morne  by  break  of  daye, 

With  a  troope  of  damselles  playing 
Forthe  “  I  yode”  forsooth  a-maying  : 

When  anon  by  a  wood  side, 

Where  as  Maye  was  in  his  pride, 

I  espied  all  alone 
Phillida  and  Cory  don. 

Much  adoe  there  was,  god  wot ; 

He  wold  love,  and  she  wold  not. 

She  sayde,  never  man  was  trewe  ; 

He  sayes,  none  was  false  to  you. 

He  sayde,  hee  had  lovde  her  longe  : 
She  sayes,  love  should  have  no  wronge. 
Corydon  wold  kisse  her  then  : 

She  sayes,  maydes  must  kisse  no  men, 

Tyll  they  doe  for  good  and  all. 

When  she  made  the  shepperde  call 
All  the  heavens  to  wytnes  truthe, 
Never  loved  a  truer  youthe. 

Then  with  manie  a  prettie  othe, 

Yea  and  nay,  and  faith  and  trothe  ; 
Suche  as  seelie  sliepperdes  use 
When  thev  will  not  love  abuse  ; 

Love,  that  had  bene  long  deluded, 

Was  with  kisses  sweete  concluded  ; 

And  Phillida  with  garlands  gaye 
Was  made  the  lady  of  the  Maye. 

Nicholas  Breton. 

- K>« - 

Maid  of  Athens. 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 

Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart ! 

Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 

Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 

Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 

Zioti  txov ,  <rdq  dya~a>. 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 

Woo’d  by  each  iEgean  wind  ; 

By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks’  blooming  tinge, 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 

Zwrj  /xou}  aaq  &ya.7tu>. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ; 

By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 

10 


By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 

4/ 

What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 

By  love’s  alternate  joy  and  woe, 

ZiDTj  [i<w,  adq  dydTid). 

Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone  : 

Think  of  me,  sweet !  when  alone. — 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 

Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 

Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?  No ! 

Z(df]  [jlou,  ffdq  dya~d>. 

Lord  Byron. 

- K>« - 

Adelgitha. 

The  Ordeal’s  fatal  trumpet  sounded, 

And  sad,  pale  Adelgitha  came, 

When  forth  a  valiant  champion  bounded, 
And  slew  the  slanderer  of  her  fame. 

She  wept,  deliver’d  from  her  danger  ; 

But  when  he  knelt  to  claim  her  glove — 
“Seek  not,”  she  cried,  “O  gallant 
stranger, 

For  hapless  Adelgitha’s  love. 

“  For  he  is  in  a  foreign  far  land 
Whose  arm  should  now  have  set  me 
free ; 

And  I  must  wear  the  willow  garland 
For  him  that’s  dead,  or  false  to  me.” 

“  Nay !  say  not  that  his  faith  is  tainted  !”• — 
He  raised  his  visor, — at  the  sight 
She  fell  into  his  arms  and  fainted  ; 

It  was  indeed  her  own  true  knight. 

Thomas  Campbell 


Bonnie  Lesley. 

Oh  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 
As  she  gaed  o’er  the  border? 

She’s  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 

And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  never  made  anither. 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley — 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley — 

The  hearts  o’  men  adore  thee. 


146 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 

Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 

He’d  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 

And  say,  “  I  canna  wrang  thee.” 

The  powers  aboon  will  tent  thee ; 
Misfortune  sha’na  steer  thee; 

Thou’rt  like  themseP  sae  lovely, 

That  ill  thev’ll  ne’er  let  near  thee. 

V 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley  ! 

Return  to  Caledonie ! 

That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There’s  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 

Robert  Burns. 

■  ■■  ■  •<>♦- - 

The  Girl  of  Cadiz. 

Oh  never  talk  again  to  me 

Of  northern  climes  and  British  ladies ; 

It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see, 

Like  me,  the  lovely  girl  of  Cadiz. 

Although  her  eye  be  not  of  blue, 

Nor  fair  her  locks,  like  English  lasses, 

How  far  its  own  expressive  hue 
The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses  ! 

Prometheus-like,  from  heaven  she  stole 
The  fire  that  through  those  silken  lashes 

In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll, 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes ; 

And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 

In  lengthen’d  flow  her  raven  tresses, 

You’d  swear  each  clustering  lock  could  feel, 
And  curl’d  to  give  her  neck  caresses. 

Our  English  maids  are  long  to  woo, 

And  frigid  even  in  possession  ; 

And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view, 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love’s  confession  : 

But  born  beneath  a  brighter  sun, 

For  love  ordain’d  the  Spanish  maid  is, 

And  who — when  fondly,  fairly  won, — 
Enchants  you  like  the  Girl  of  Cadiz? 

The  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette, 

Nor  joys  to  see  a  lover  tremble, 

And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate, 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 

Her  heart  can  ne’er  be  bought  or  sold — 
Howe’er  it  beats,  it  beats  sincerely ; 

And,  though  it  will  not  bend  to  gold, 

’Twill  love  you  long  and  love  you  dearly,  j 


The  Spanish  girl  that  meets  your  love 
Ne’er  taunts  vou  with  a  mock  denial, 
For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 
Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 

When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain, 
She  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the 
danger ; 

And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain, 

She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love’s  avenger. 

And  when,  beneath  the  evening  star. 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  Bolero, 

Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 

Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero, 

Or  counts  her  beads  with  fairy  hand 
Beneath  the  twinkling  rays  of  Hesper, 
Or  joins  devotion’s  choral  band, 

To  chaunt  the  sweet  and  hallow’d  vesper, 

.In  each  her  charms  the  heart  must  move 
Of  all  who  venture  to  behold  her ; 

Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove 
Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder : 
Through  many  a  clime  ’tis  mine  to  roam, 
Where  many  a  soft  and  melting  maid  is. 
But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home, 

May  match  the  dark-eyed  girl  of  Cadiz, 

Lord  Byron. 

- K>« - 

I  Love  3i y  Love. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  the  song 
That  rings  so  clear  and  loud, 

Thou  nightingale  amid  the  copse, 

Thou  lark  above  the  cloud  ? 

What  says  thy  song,  thou  joyous  thrush, 
Up  in  the  walnut  tree? 

“  I  love  my  Love,  because  I  know 
My  Love  loves  me.” 

What  is  the  meaning  of  thy  thought, 

O  maiden  fair  and  young? 

There  is  such  pleasure  in  thine  eyes, 

Such  music  on  thy  tongue ; 

There  is  such  glory  on  thy  face, 

What  can  the  meaning  be? 

“  I  love  my  Love,  because  I  know 
My  Love  loves  me.” 

Oh  happy  words !  at  Beauty’s  feet 
We  sing  them  ere  our  prime, 

And  when  the  early  summers  jiass, 

And  Care  comes  on  with  Time, 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


147 


Still  be  it  ours,  in  Care’s  despite, 

To  join  the  chorus  free : 

“  I  love  my  Love,  because  I  know 

My  Love  loves  me.” 

Charles  Mackay. 

- *0* - 

Come ,  Rest  in  this  Bosom. 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken 
deer, 

Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy 
home  is  still  here ; 

Here  still  is  the  smile  that  no  cloud  can 
o’ercast, 

And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the 
last. 

Oh,  what  was  love  made  for,  if  ’tis  not  the 
same 

Through  joy  and  through  torment,  through 
glory  and  shame  ? 

I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt’s  in  that 
heart, 

I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou 
art. 

Thou  hast  call’d  me  thy  angel  in  moments 
of  bliss, 

And  thy  angel  I’ll  be  ’mid  the  horrors  of 
this, 

Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy 
steps  to  pursue, 

And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee, — or  per¬ 
ish  there  too ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

- K>« - 

The  Siller  Croun. 

u  And  ye  sail  walk  in  silk  attire, 

And  siller  hae  to  spare, 

Gin  ye’ll  consent  to  be  his  bride, 

Nor  think  o’  Donald  mair.” 

Oh  wha  wad  buy  a  silken  goun 
Wi’  a  puir  broken  heart? 

Or  what’s  to  me  a  siller  croun 
Gin  frae  my  love  I  part? 

The  mind,  whose  meanest  wish  is  pure, 
Far  dearest  is  to  me, 

And  ere  I’m  forced  to  break  my  faith, 
I’ll  lay  me  doun  an’  dee. 

For  I  hae  vow’d  a  virgin’s  vow 
My  lover’s  fate  to  share, 


An’  he  has  gi’en  to  me  his  heart, 

And  what  can  man  do  mair? 

His  mind  and  manners  won  my  heart : 

He  gratefu’  took  the  gift  ; 

And  did  I  wish  to  seek  it  back, 

It  wad  be  waur  than  theft. 

The  langest  life  can  ne’er  repay 
The  love  he  bears  to  me, 

And  ere  I’m  forced  to  break  my  faith, 
I’ll  lay  me  doun  an’  dee. 

Susanna  Blamire. 

- K>« - 

Mary  M orison. 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  ! 

It  is  the  wish’d,  the  trysted  hour  ! 

Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see 
That  make  the  miser’s  treasure  poor  : 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 

Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison  ! 

Yestreen’  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha’, 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, — 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw  : 
Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a’  the  town, 

I  sigh’d,  and  said  amang  them  a’, 

“  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.” 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 
Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee  ? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 
Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ; 

A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o’  Mary  Morison. 

Robert  Burns 

- KX - 

The  Minstrels  Song. 

Oh,  sing  unto  my  roundelay  ! 

Oh,  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me  ! 
Dance  no  more  at  holiday  ; 

Like  a  running  river  be. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death  bed, 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 


148 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night, 
White  his  neck  as  the  summer  snow, 
Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light ; 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death  bed, 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  the  throstle’s  note ; 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  can  be  ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout  ; 

Oh,  he  lies  by  the  willow  tree! 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death  bed, 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Hark !  the  raven  flaps  his  wing 
In  the  brier’ d  dell  below  ; 

Hark !  the  deatli-owl  loud  doth  sing 
To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death  bed, 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

See  !  the  white  moon  shines  on  high  ; 

Whiter  is  my  true-love’s  shroud, 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 

Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  deathbed, 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love’s  grave 
Shall  the  baren  flowers  be  laid, 

Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  coldness  of  a  maid. 

Mv  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death  bed, 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

With  my  hands  I’ll  bind  the  briers 
Round  his  holy  corse  to  gre ; 
Ouphante  fairy,  light  your  fires  ; 

Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death  bed, 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Come,  with  acorn-cup  and  thorn, 

Drain  my  heart’s  blood  all  awav  : 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 

Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death  bed, 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 


Water- witches,  crown’d  with  reytes, 
Bear  me  to  your  lethal  tide. 

I  die  !  I  come  !  my  true  love  waits. 

Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 

Thomas  Chatterton, 

- ><X - 

One  Word  is  too  often 
Profaned. 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 
For  me  to  profane  it, 

One  feeling  too  falsely  disdain’d 
For  thee  to  disdain  it. 

One  hope  is  too  like  despair 
For  prudence  to  smother, 

And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 
Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love ; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 
And  the  heavens  reject  not ; 

The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star. 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 

The  devotion  to  something  afar 
From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 
- •<>« - 

To  his  Forsaken  Mistress. 

I  do  confess  thou’rt  smooth  and  fair, 

And  I  might  have  gone  near  to  love  thee, 
Had  I  not  found  the  lightest  prayer 

That  lips  could  speak,  had  power  to 
move  thee : 

But  I  can  let  thee  now  alone, 

As  worthy  to  be  loved  by  none. 

I  do  confess  thou’rt  sweet ;  yet  find 
Thee  such  an  untlirift  of  thy  sweets, 
Thy  favors  are  but  like  the  wind, 

That  kisses  everything  it  meets  ; 

And  since  thou  canst  with  more  than  one, 
Thou’rt  worthy  to  be  kiss’d  by  none. 

The  morning  rose  that  untouch’d  stands 
Arm’d  with  her  briers,  how  sweetly 
smells ! 

But  pluck’d  and  strain’d  through  ruder 
hands, 

No  more  her  sweetness  with  her  dwells, 
But  scent  and  beauty  both  are  gone, 

And  leaves  fall  from  her,  one  by  one. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


149 


Such  fate,  erelong,  will  thee  betide, 

When  thou  hast  handled  been  a  while, — 

Like  sere  flowers  to  be  thrown  aside : 

And  I  will  sigh,  while  some  will  smile, 

To  see  thy  love  for  more  than  one 

Hath  brought  thee  to  be  loved  by  none. 

Sir  Robert  Ayton. 

- - 

Locksley  Hall. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as 
yet  ’tis  early  morn  : 

Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me, 
sound  upon  the  bugle  horn. 

’Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old, 
the  curlews  call, 

Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying 
over  Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall  that  in  the  distance  over¬ 
looks  the  sandy  tracts, 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into 
cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement, 
ere  I  went  to  rest, 

Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly 
to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising 
thro’  the  mellow  shade, 

Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in 
a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander’d,  nourish¬ 
ing  a  youth  sublime 

With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the 
long  result  of  Time  ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a 
fruitful  land  reposed  ; 

When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the 
promise  that  it  ’closed  : 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human 
eye  could  see ; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 
wonder  that  would  be. - 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon 
the  robin’s  breast ; 

In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets 
himself  another  crest : 


In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on 
the  burnish’d  dove ; 

In  the  Spring  a  young  man’s  fancy  lightly 
turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than 
should  be  for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a 
mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  “  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and 
speak  the  truth  to  me, 

Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my 
being  sets  to  thee.” 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a 
color  and  a  light, 

As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the 
northern  night. 

And  she  turn’d — her  bosom  shaken  with  a 
sudden  storm  of  sighs — 

All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark 
of  hazel  eyes — 

Saying,  “  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing 
they  should  do  me  wrong 

Saying,  “  Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ?” 
weeping,  “  I  have  loved  thee  long.” 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn’d 
it  in  his  glowing  hands  ; 

Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself 
in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote 
on  all  the  chords  with  might ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling, 
pass’d  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we 
hear  the  copses  ring, 

And  her  whisper  throng’d  my  pulses  with 
the  fullness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we 
watch  the  stately  ships, 

And  our  spirits  rush’d  together  at  the 
touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted  !  O  my 
Amy,  mine  no  more  ! 

0  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland !  O  the 
barren,  barren  shore  ! 


» 


150 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than 
all  songs  have  sung, 

Puppet  to  a  father’s  threat,  and  servile  to 
a  shrewish  tongue  ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy? — having 
known  me — to  decline 

On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  nar¬ 
rower  heart  than  mine  ! 

Yet  it  shall  be :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his 
level  day  by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to 
sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  :  thou  art 
mated  with  a  clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have 
weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall 
have  spent  its  novel  force, 

Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little 
dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this  ?  his  eyes  are  heavy :  think 
not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 

Go  to  him  :  it  is  thy  duty  :  kiss  him  :  take 
his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain 
is  overwrought ; 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch 
him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things 
to  understand — 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho’  I 
slew  thee  with  my  hand  ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from 
the  heart’s  disgrace, 

Roll’d  in  one  another’s  arms,  and  silent  in 
a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against 
the  strength  of  youth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from 
the  living  truth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from 
honest  Nature’s  rule  ! 

Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten’d 
forehead  of  the  fool ! 


Well — ’tis  well  that  I  should  bluster  ! — 
Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved — - 
Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more 
than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that 
which  bears  but  bitter  fruit  ? 

I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho’  my 
heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho’  my  mortal  summers  to  such 
length  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many  winter’d  crow  that  leads  the 
clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort  ?  in  division  of  the  rec¬ 
ords  of  the  mind  ? 

Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her. 
as  I  knew  her,  kind  ? 

I  remember  one  that  perish’d :  sweetly  did 
she  speak  and  move  : 

Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look 
at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her 
for  the  love  she  bore  ? 

No — she  never  loved  me  truly :  love  is  love 
for  evermore. 

Comfort  ?  comfort  scorn’d  of  devils  !  this 
is  truth  the  poet  sings, 

That  a  sorrow’s  crown  of  sorrow  is  remem¬ 
bering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest 
thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 

In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the 
rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou 
art  staring  at  the  wall, 

Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and 
the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  point¬ 
ing  to  his  drunken  sleep, 

To  thy  widow’d  marriage-pillows,  to  the 
tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  “  Never,  never,”  whis¬ 
per’d  by  the  phantom  years, 

And  a  sons:  from  out  the  distance  in  the 

o 

ringing  of  thine  ears ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


151 


And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient 
kindness  on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow :  get  thee 
to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace ;  for  a 
tender  voice  will  cry. 

’Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine ;  a  lip  to  drain 
thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down :  my  latest 
rival  brings  thee  rest. 

Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me 
from  the  mother’s  breast. 

Oh,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a 
dearness  not  his  due. 

Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his  :  it  will  be 
worthy  of  the  two. 

Oh,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy 
petty  part, 

With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching 
down  a  daughter’s  heart. 

“  They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings 
— she  herself  was  not  exempt — 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer’d  ” — Perish  in 
thy  self-contempt ! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet — be  happy  !  where¬ 
fore  should  I  care  ? 

I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I 
wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  light¬ 
ing  upon  days  like  these  ? 

Every  door  is  barr’d  with  gold,  and  opens 
but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng’d  with  suitors,  all  the 
markets  overflow. 

I  have  but  an  angry  fancy :  what  is  that 
which  I  should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the 
foeman’s  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll’d  in  vapour,  and 
the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the 
hurt  that  Honor  feels, 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling 
at  each  other’s  heels. 


Can  I  but  re-live  in  sadness?  I  will  turn 
that  earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  0  thou 
wondrous  Mother- Age ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt 
before  the  strife, 

When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the 
tumult  of  my  life  ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the 
coming  years  would  yield, 

Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves 
his  father’s  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway 
near  and  nearer  drawn, 

Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring 
like  a  dreary  dawn  ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone 
before  him  then, 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among 
the  throngs  of  men  : 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever 
reaping  something  new ; 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of 
the  things  that  they  shall  do ; 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human 
eye  could  see, 

Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 
wonder  that  would  be ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argo¬ 
sies  of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping 
down  with  costly  bales  ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and 
there  rain’d  a  ghastly  dew 

From  the  nations’  airy  navies  grappling  in 
the  central  blue ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the 
south  wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plung¬ 
ing  thro’  the  thunderstorm ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb’d  no  longer,  and 
the  battle-flags  were  furl’d 

In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation 
of  the  world. 


152 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall 
hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt 
in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph’d  ere  my  passion  sweeping 
thro’  me  left  me  dry, 

Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left 
me  with  the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things 
here  are  out  of  joint ; 

Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creep¬ 
ing  on  from  point  to  point ; 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion 
creeping  nigher, 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind 
a  slowly  dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  tliro’  the  ages  one  increas¬ 
ing  purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen’d  with 
the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest 
of  his  youthful  joys, 

Tho’  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for 
ever  like  a  boy’s? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and 
I  linger  on  the  shore, 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world 
is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes  but  wisdom  lingers,  and 
he  bears  a  laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the 
stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark  !  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sound- 
ing  on  the  bugle-horn, 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a 
target  for  their  scorn  ; 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such 
a  moulder’d  string? 

I  am  shamed  thro’  all  my  nature  to  have 
loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness ! 
woman’s  pleasure,  woman’s  pain, — 

Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bound¬ 
ed  in  a  shallower  brain  ; 


Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  pas¬ 
sions,  match’d  with  mine, 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as 
water  unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  Nature  sickens,  noth¬ 
ing.  Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my 
life  began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my 
father  evil-starr’d ; — 

I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish 
uncle’s  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to 
wander  far  away, 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways 
of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow 
moons  and  happy  skies, 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in 
cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an 
European  flag, 

Slides  the  bird  o’er  lustrous  woodland, 
swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag ; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom ’d  bower,  hangs 
the  heavy-fruited  tree — 

I  Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple 
spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more 
than  in  this  march  of  mind, 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the 
thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp’d  no  longer  shall 
have  scope  and  breathing-space, 

I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall 
rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew’d,  they  shall 
dive,  and  they  shall  run, 

Catch  the  wild-goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl 
their  lances  in  the  sun ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot’s  call,  and  leap  the 
rainbows  of  the  brooks, 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over 
miserable  books — 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


153 


Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy !  but  I 
know  my  words  are  wild, 

But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than 
the  Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant 
of  our  glorious  gains, 

Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a 
beast  with  lower  pains ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me 
were  sun  or  clime  ? 

I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost 
files  of  time — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should 
perish  one  by  one, 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like 
Joshua’s  moon  in  Ajalon! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  For¬ 
ward,  forward  let  us  range, 

Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the 
ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro’  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep 
into  the  younger  day: 

Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle 
of  Cathay. 

Mother- Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not),  help 
me  as  when  life  begun : 

Baft  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the 
lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun. 

Oh,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit 
hath  not  set. 

Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro’  all 
my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell 
to  Locksley  Hall ! 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now 
for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blacken¬ 
ing  over  heath  and  holt, 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its 
breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or 
hail,  or  fire  or  snow ; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  sea¬ 
ward,  and  I  go. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


The  Steadfast  Shepherd. 

! 

Hence  away,  thou  Syren  ;  leave  me 
Pish  !  unclasp  those  wanton  arms  ; 
Sugred  words  shall  ne’er  deceive  me — • 
Though  thou  prove  a  thousand  charms. 
Fie,  fie,  forbear;  no  common  snare 
Can  ever  my  affection  chain  : 

Your  painted  baits,  and  poor  deceits, 

Are  all  bestow’d  on  me  in  vain. 

I’m  no  slave  to  such  as  you  be ; 

Neither  shall  a  snowy  breast, 

Wanton  eye,  or  lip  of  ruby, 

Ever  rob  me  of  my  rest. 

Go,  go,  display  your  beauty’s  ray 
To  some  o’er-soon  enamor’d  swain  : 
Those  common  wiles,  of  sighs  and  smiles, 
Are  all  bestow’d  on  me  in  vain. 

I  have  elsewhere  vow’d  my  duty  ; 

Turn  away  your  tempting  eyes; 

Show  not  me  a  naked  beautv ; 

Those  impostures  I  despise : 

My  spirit  loathes  where  gaudy  clothes 
And  feigned  oaths  may  love  obtain  : 

I  love  her  so  whose  look  swears  no , 

That  all  your  labors  will  be  vain. 

Can  he  prize  the  tainted  posies, 

Which  on  every  breast  are  worn, 

That  may  pluck  the  spotless  roses 
From  their  never-touched  thorn? 

I  can  go  rest  on  her  sweet  breast 
That  is  the  pride  of  Cynthia’s  train  ; 
Then  hold  your  tongues ;  your  mermaid 
songs 

Are  all  bestow’d  on  me  in  vain. 

He’s  a  fool  that  basely  dallies 

Where  each  peasant  mates  with  him 
Shall  I  haunt  the  thronged  valleys, 

While  there’s  noble  hills  to  climb? 

No,  no,  though  clowns  are  scared  with 
frowns, 

I  know  the  best  can  but  disdain  : 

And  those  I’ll  prove :  so  shall  your  love 
Be  all  bestow’d  on  me  in  vain. 

Yet  I  would  not  deign  embraces 
With  the  fairest  queens  that  be, 

If  another  shared  those  graces 
Which  they  had  bestow’d  on  me. 

I’ll  grant  that  one  my  love,  where  none 
Shall  come  to  rob  me  of  my  gain  : 

The  fickle  heart  makes  tears  and  art, 

And  all,  bestow’d  on  me  in  vain. 


154 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  do  scorn  to  vow  a  duty, 

Where  each  lustful  lad  may  woo ; 

Give  me  her  whose  sunlike  beauty 
Buzzards  dare  not  soar  unto  : 

She,  she  it  is  affords  that  bliss, 

For  which  I  would  refuse  no  pain ; 

But  such  as  you,  fond  fools,  adieu, 

You  seek  to  captive  me  in  vain. 

She,  that’s  proud  in  the  beginning, 

And  disdains  each  looker-on, 

If  a  coy  one  in  the  winning, 

Proves  a  true  one,  being  won. 

Whate’er  betide,  she’ll  ne’er  divide 
The  favor  she  to  one  doth  deign  ; 

But  your  fond  love  will  fickle  prove, 

And  all,  that  trust  in  you,  are  vain. 

Therefore  know,  when  I  enjoy  one, 

And  for  love  employ  my  breath, 

She  I  court  shall  be  a  coy  one 

Though  I  win  her  with  my  breath. 

A  favor  there  few  aim  at  dare ; 

And  if,  perhaps,  some  lover  plain, 

She  is  not  won,  nor  I  undone 
By  placing  of  my  love  in  vain. 

Leave  me,  then,  thou  Syren,  leave  me ; 

Take  away  these  charmed  arms ; 

Crafty  wiles  cannot  deceive  me, 

I  am  proof  ’gainst  women’s  charms : 
You  labor  may  to  lead  astray 
The  heart,  that  constant  must  remain ; 
And  I  the  while  will  sit  and  smile 

To  see  you  spend  your  time  in  vain. 

George  Wither. 

- - 

Farewell  to  Nancy. 

Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever ! 

Ae  farewell,  and  then  for  ever ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I’ll  pledge  thee ; 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I’ll  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him, 

M  hile  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,  nae  cheerful  twinkle  lights  me ; 

Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne’er  blame  my  partial  fancy — 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy: 

But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her, 

Love  but  her  and  love  for  ever. 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 

Never  met — or  never  parted, 

We  had  ne’er  been  broken-hearted. 


Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest! 
Thine  be  ilka  jo}r  and  treasure, 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ! 

Ae  farewell,  alas  !  for  ever ! 

Deep  in  heart- wrung  tears  I’ll  pledge  thee; 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I’ll  wage  thee. 

Robert  Burns. 

- *0* - 

A  Pralse  of  his  Love. 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 

That  spent  your  boasts  and  brags  in 
vain ; 

My  lady’s  beauty  passeth  more 

The  best  of  yours,  I  dare  well  sayen, 
Than  doth  the  sun  the  candlelight, 

Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night  ; 

And  thereto  hath  a  troth  as  just 
As  had  Penelope  the  fair ; 

For  what  she  saith  ye  may  it  trust, 

As  it  by  writing  sealed  were; — 

And  virtues  hath  she  many  mo’ 

Than  I  with  pen  have  skill  to  show. 

I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I  would, 

The  whole  effect  of  Nature’s  plaint, 
When  she  had  lost  the  perfect  mould, 

The  like  to  whom  she  could  not  paint. 
With  wringing  hands,  how  did  she  cry! 
And  what  she  said,  I  know  it  aye. 

I  know  she  swore,  with  raging  mind, 

Her  kingdom  only  set  apart, 

There  was  no  loss  by  law  of  kind 

That  could  have  gone  so  near  her  heart; 
And  this  was  chiefly  all  her  pain — 

“  She  could  not  make  the  like  again.” 

Sith  Nature  thus  gave  her  the  praise 
To  be  the  chiefest  work  she  wrought, 

In  faith,  methink,  some  better  ways 
On  your  behalf  might  well  be  sought, 
Than  to  compare,  as  ye  have  done, 

To  match  the  candle  with  the  sun. 

Henry  Howard  (Earl  of  Surrey). 

- *o« - 

Sweet  are  the  Charms. 
Sweet  are  the  charms  of  her  I  love : 

More  fragrant  than  the  damask  rose, 
Soft  as  the  down  of  turtle  dove, 

Gentle  as  air  when  Zephyr  blows, 
Refreshing  as  descending  rains 
To  sunburnt  climes  and  thirsty  plains. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


155 


True  as  the  needle  to  the  pole, 

Or  as  the  dial  to  the  sun  ; 

Constant  as  gliding  waters  roll, 

Whose  swelling  tides  obey  the  moon — 
From  every  other  charmer  free, 

My  life  and  love  shall  follow  thee. 

The  lamb  the  flowery  thyme  devours, 

The  dam  the  tender  kid  pursues  ; 

Sweet  Philomel  in  shady  bowers 
Of  verdant  spring  her  note  renews  : 

All  follow  what  they  most  admire, 

As  I  pursue  my  soul’s  desire. 

Nature  must  change  her  beauteous  face, 
And  vary  as  the  seasons  rise, 

As  winter  to  the  spring  gives  place, 
Summer  tlT  approach  of  autumn  flies  : 
No  change  on  love  the  seasons  bring, — 
Love  only  knows  perpetual  spring. 

Devouring  Time  with  stealing  pace, 

Makes  lofty  oaks  and  cedars  bow  ; 

And  marble  towers  and  gates  of  brass 
In  his  rude  march  he  levels  low  ; 

But  Time,  destroying  far  and  wide, 

Love  from  the  soul  can  ne’er  divide. 

Death  only,  with  his  cruel  dart, 

The  gentle  godhead  can  remove, 

And  drive  him  from  the  bleeding  heart, 

To  mingle  with  the  blest  above, 

Where,  known  to  all  his  kindred  train, 

He  finds  a  lasting  rest  from  pain. 

Love  and  his  sister  fair,  the  Soul, 

Twin  born,  from  heaven  together  came; 
Love  will  the  universe  control 

When  dying  seasons  lose  their  name  ; 
Divine  abodes  shall  own  his  power, 

When  Time  and  Death  shall  be  no  more. 

Barton  Booth. 

- K>« - 

Genevieve. 

Maid  of  my  love,  sweet  Genevieve ; 

In  beauty’s  light  you  glide  along; 

Your  eye  is  like  the  star  of  eve, 

And  sweet  your  voice  as  seraph’s  song. 
Yet  not  your  heavenly  beauty  gives 
This  heart  with  passion  soft  to  glow ; 
Within  your  soul  a  voice  there  lives, 

It  bids  you  hear  the  tale  of  woe. 


When  sinking  low  the  sufferer  wan 
Beholds  no  hand  outstretch’d  to  save ; 
Fair  as  the  bosom  of  the  swan 
That  rises  graceful  o’er  the  wave, 

I’ve  seen  your  breast  with  pity  heave, 

And  therefore  love  I  you,  sweet  Genevieve. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

- - 

The  Miller’s  Daughter. 

It  is  the  miller’s  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 

That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  in  her  ear ; 

For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I’d  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 

In  sorrow  and  in  rest ; 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I’d  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace. 

And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 
Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp’d  at  night. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

- KX - 

The  Lass  of  Paties  Mill. 

The  lass  of  Patie’s  mill, 

Sae  bonnie,  blithe,  and  gay, 

In  spite  of  all  my  skill 
She  stole  my  heart  away. 

When  tedding  of  the  hay, 

Bareheaded  on  the  green, 

Love  ’midst  her  locks  did  play, 

And  wanton’d  in  her  een. 

Her  arms  white,  round,  and  smooth ; 

Breasts  rising  in  their  dawn  ; 

To  age  it  would  give  youth 
To  press  them  with  his  hand. 
Through  all  my  spirits  ran 
An  ecstasy  of  bliss, 

When  I  such  sweetness  fand 
Wrapt  in  a  balmy  kiss. 

Without  the  help  of  art, 

Like  flow’rs  which  grace  the  wild, 


156 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


She  did  her  sweets  impart, 

Whene’er  she  spoke  or  smiled  ; 

Her  looks  they  were  so  mild, 

Free  from  affected  pride, 

She  me  to  love  beguiled ; — 

I  wish’d  her  for  my  bride. 

Oh,  had  I  a’  the  wealth 

Hopetoun’s  high  mountains  fill, 
Insured  lang  life  and  health, 

And  pleasure  at  my  will, 

I’d  promise  and  fulfil 

That  none  hut  bonnie  she, 

The  lass  of  Patie’s  mill, 

Should  share  the  same  with  me. 

Allan  Ramsay. 

•Cx - 

Rosa  dees  Sonet  to. 

Turn  I  my  looks  unto  the  skies, 

Love  with  his  arrows  wounds  mine  eyes; 

If  so  I  look  upon  the  ground, 

Love  then  in  every  flower  is  found ; 

Search  I  the  shade  to  flee  my  pain, 

Love  meets  me  in  the  shades  again  ; 

Want  I  to  walk  in  secret  grove, 

E’en  there  I  meet  with  sacred  love ; 

If  so  I  bathe  me  in  the  spring, 

E’en  on  the  brink  I  hear  him  sing ; 

If  so  I  meditate  alone, 

He  will  be  partner  of  my  moan ; 

If  so  I  mourn,  he  weeps  with  me, 

And  where  I  am  there  will  he  be ; 

When  as  I  talk  of  Rosalind, 

The  god  from  coyness  waxeth  kind, 

And  seems  in  self-same  frame  to  fly, 
Because  he  loves  as  well  as  I. 

Sweet  Rosalind,  for  pity  me, 

For  why,  than  love  I  am  more  true  : 

He,  if  he  speed,  will  quickly  fly, 

But  in  thy  love  I  live  and  die. 

Thomas  Lodge. 

- •<>« - 

Kisses. 

My  love  and  I  for  kisses  play’d  : 

She  would  keep  stakes — I  was  content ; 
But  when  I  won,  she  would  be  paid  ; 

This  made  me  ask  her  what  she  meant. 

“  Pray,  since  I  see,”  quoth  she,  “  your 
wrangling  vein, 

Take  your  own  kisses;  give  me  mine  again.” 

William  Strode. 


A  Stolen  Kiss. 

Now  gentle  sleep  hath  closed  up  those 

eyes 

Which,  waking,  kept  my  boldest  thoughts 
in  awe ; 

And  free  access  unto  that  sweet  lip  lies, 
From  whence  I  long  the  rosy  breath  to 
draw. 

Methinks  no  wrong  it  were,  if  I  should 
steal 

From  those  melting  rubies,  one  poor 
kiss ; 

None  sees  the  theft  that  would  the  theft 
reveal, 

Nor  rob  I  her  of  aught  what  she  can 
miss  : 

Nav,  should  I  twentv  kisses  take  awav, 
There  would  be  little  sign  I  would  do 
so ; 

Why,  then,  should  I  this  robbery  delay  ? 
Oh,  she  may  wake,  and  therewith  angry 
grow ! 

Well,  if  she  do,  I’ll  back  restore  that  one, 
And  twenty  hundred  thousand  more  for 
loan. 

George  Wither. 

- »o« - 

Cupid  Carrying  Provisions. 

There  was  once  a  gentle  time 
Whenne  the  world  was  in  its  prime  ; 

And  everie  day  was  holvdaye, 

And  everie  monthe  was  lovelie  Maye. — 
Cupide  thenne  liadde  but  to  goe 
With  his  purple  winges  and  bowe  ; 

And  in  blossomede  vale  and  grove 
Everie  shepherde  knelte  to  Love. 

Then  a  rosie,  dimplede  cheeke, 

And  a  blue  eye  fonde  and  meeke  ; 

;  And  a  ringlette-wreathenne  browe, 

Like  hvacynthes  on  a  bed  of  snowe  ; 

I  And  a  lowe  voice  silverre  sweete 
From  a  lippe  without  deceite  : 

Onlie  those  the  heartes  could  move 
Of  the  simple  swaines  to  love. 

But  thatte  time  is  gone  and  paste  ; 

Canne  the  summerre  alwaves  laste  ! 

And  the  swaines  are  wiser  growne, 

And  the  liearte  is  turnede  to  stone, 

And  the  maidenne’s  rose  may  witherre  ! 

I  Cupide’s  fled,  no  manne  knowes  whitherre l 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


157 


But  anotherre  Cupide’s  come, 

With  a  browe  of  care  and  gloome  ; 

Fixede  upon  the  earthlie  moulde, 
Thinkinge  of  the  sullenne  golde  : 

In  his  hande  the  bowe  no  more, 

At  his  backe  the  householde  store, 

That  the  bridalle  colde  muste  buye  ; 
Uselesse  no  we  the  smile  ande  sighe : 

But  he  weares  the  pinion  stille, 

Flyinge  at  the  sighte  of  ille. 

Oh,  for  the  olde  true-love  time, 

Whenne  the  worlde  was  in  its  prime  ! 

George  Croly. 

-■  -  »o« - 

A  Red,  Red  Rose. 

My  luve  is  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That’s  newly  sprung  in  June; 

My  luve  is  like  the  melodie 
That’s  sweetly  play’d  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I, 

And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry; 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi’  the  sun ; 

And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o’  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  well,  my  only  Luve ! 

And  fare  thee  well  a  while, 

And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho’  ’twere  ten  thousand  mile. 

Robert  Burns. 

- »o+ - 

Stanzas. 

Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in 
story ; 

The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our 
glory, 

And  the  mvrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and 
•/  «/ 

twenty 

Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so 
plenty. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the 
brow  that  is  wrinkled? 

’Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  be¬ 
sprinkled  ; 


Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head 
that  is  hoary, — 

What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only 
give  glory  ? 

O  Fame!  if  I  e’er  took  delight  in  thv 
praises, 

’Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sound¬ 
ing  phrases 

Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one 
discover 

She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to 
love  her. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I 
found  thee; 

Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that 
surround  thee; 

When  it  sparkled  o’er  aught  that  was 
bright  in  my  story, 

I  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was 
glory. 

Lord  Byron. 

- - 

Stanzas  for  Music. 

There  be  none  of  Beauty’s  daughters 
With  a  magic  like  thee, 

And  like  music  on  the  waters 
Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me ; 

When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean’s  pausing, 

The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 

And  the  lull’d  winds  seem  dreaming. 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o’er  the  deep, 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving 
As  an  infant’s  asleep  ; 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee 
To  listen  and  adore  thee, 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer’s  ocean. 

Lord  Byron. 

- - 

Thou  hast  Sworn  by  thy  God, 
my  Jean ie. 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie, 
By  that  pretty  white  hand  o’  thine, 

And  by  a’  the  lowing  stars  in  heaven, 

That  thou  wad  ay  be  mine ; 

And  I  hae  sworn  by  my  God,  my  Jeanie. 
And  by  that  kind  heart  o’  thine, 


158 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


By  a’  the  stars  sown  thick  owre  heaven, 
That  thou  shalt  ay  be  mine. 

Then  foul  fa’  the  hands  that  wad  loose  sic 
bands, 

An’  the  heart  that  wad  part  sic  love ; 
But  there’s  nae  hand  can  loose  the  band, 
Save  the  finger  o’  God  above. 

Though  the  wee  wee  cot  maun  be  my 
bield, 

An’  my  claithing  e’er  sae  mean, 

I  wad  lap  me  up  rich  i’  the  faulds  o’  luve, 
Heaven’s  armfu’  o’  my  Jean. 

Her  white  arm  wad  be  a  pillow  to  me 
Fu’  safter  than  the  down ; 

An’  Love  wad  winnow  owre  us  his  kind 
kind  wings, 

An’  sweetly  I’d  sleep,  an’  soun’. 

Come  here  to  me,  thou  lass  o’  my  luve, 
Come  here,  an’  kneel  wi’  me, 

The  morning  is  fu’  o’  the  presence  o’ 
God, 

An’  I  canna  pray  but  thee. 

The  morn-wind  is  sweet  ’mang  the  beds  o’ 
new  flowers, 

The  wee  birds  sing  kindlie  an’  hie, 

Our  gudeman  leans  owre  his  kail-yard 
dyke, 

An’  a  blythe  auld  body  is  he. 

The  Book  maun  be  ta’en  when  the  carl 
comes  hame, 

Wi’  the  holie  psalmodie, 

An’  thou  maun  speak  o’  me  to  thy  God, 
An’  I  will  speak  o’  thee. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


The  Welcome. 
i. 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the 
morning ; 

Come  when  vou’re  looked  for,  or  come 

v  7 

without  warning ; 

Kisses  and  welcome  vou’ll  find  here  before 

%/ 

vou, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more 
I’ll  adore  you ! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were 
plighted ; 

Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  i 
blighted ; 


The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener 
than  ever, 

And  the  linnets  are  singing,  ‘'True 
lovers  don’t  sever !” 

II. 

I’ll  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you 
choose  them ! 

,  Or,  after  you’ve  kiss’d  them,  they’ll  lie  or 
my  bosom ; 

I’ll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to 
inspire  you; 

I’ll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won’t 
tire  you. 

Oh,  your  step’s  like  the  rair.  to  the 
summer-vex’d  farmer, 

Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without 
armor ; 

I’ll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars 
rise  above  me, 

Then,  wandering,  I’ll  wish  you  in  silence 
to  love  me. 

hi. 

We’ll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff 
and  the  eyrie; 

We’ll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of 
the  fairy  ; 

We’ll  look  on  the  stars,  and  we’ll  list  to 
the  river, 

Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you 
can  give  her. 

Oh,  she’ll  whisper  you, — “  Love,  as  un¬ 
changeably  beaming, 

And  trust,  when  in  secret,  most  tunefully 
streaming; 

Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us 
ghall  quiver, 

As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  eternitv’s 

„ 

river. 

IV. 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the 
morning ; 

Come  when  you’re  look’d  for,  or  come 
without  warning; 

Kisses  and  welcome  you’ll  find  here  before 
vou, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more 
I'll  adore  you ! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were 
plighted ; 

Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was 
blighted; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


159 


The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener 
than  ever, 

And  the  linnets  are  singing,  “  True 

lovers  don’t  sever !” 

Thomas  Osborne  Davis. 

-  *o+ 

The  Hermit. 

“  Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way 

To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

“  For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow; 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 

Seem  lengthening  as  I  go.” 

“Forbear,  my  son,”  the  hermit  cries, 

“  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

“  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still ; 

And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

“Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate’er  my  cell  bestows  ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 

“No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 
To  slaughter  I  condemn; 

Taught  by  that  power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them ; 

“  But  from  the  mountain’s  grassy  side 
A  guiltless  feast  I  bring; 

A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

“  Then,  pilgrim,  turn  ;  thy  cares  forego  ; 
All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong ; 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long.” 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell ; 

The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 
The  lonely  mansion  lay ; 


A  refuge  to  the  neighboring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 
Required  a  master’s  care  : 

The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 
To  take  their  evening  rest, 

The  hermit  trimm’d  his  little  fire, 

And  cheer’d  his  pensive  guest ; 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 

And  gaily  prest  and  smiled  ; 

And,  skill’d  in  legendary  lore, 

The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries ; 

The  cricket  chirrups  on  the  hearth  ; 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger’s  woe  ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  hermit  spied, 

With  answering  care  opprest : 

“  And  whence,  unhappy  youth,”  he  cried, 
“  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

“  From  better  habitations  spurn’d, 
Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 

Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn’d, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

“  Alas  !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 
Are  trifling,  and  decay  ; 

And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 
More  trifling  still  than  they. 

“  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep ; 

A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 

And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 

“  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair  one’s  jest ; 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle’s  nest. 

“  For  shame,  fond  youth!  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,”  he  said  ; 

But,  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  lovelorn  guest  betray’d. 


160 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 
Swift  mantling  to  the  view  ; 

Like  colors  o’er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 
Alternate  spread  alarms : 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  contest, 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

“  And,  ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 

A  wretch  forlorn,”  she  cried  ; 

“  Whose  feet  unliallow’d  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

“  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 

Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray  ; 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

“  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he  ; 

And  all  his  wealth  was  mark’d  as  mine, 
He  had  but  only  me. 

6  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 
Unnumber’d  suitors  came  ; 

Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 
And  felt,  or  feign’d,  a  flame. 

“  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  : 

Among  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow’d, 
But  never  talk’d  of  love. 

“  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 

But  these  were  all  to  me. 

“  And  when  beside  me  in  the  dale 
He  caroll’d  lays  of  love, 

His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 
And  music  to  the  grove. 

“  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 

Could  naught  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
With  charms  inconstant  shine; 

Their  charms  were  his,  but,  woe  to  me  ! 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 


“  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 
Importunate  and  vain  ; 

And  while  his  passion  touch’d  my  heart, 

I  triumph’d  in  his  pain : 

“  Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 

And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

“  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay  ; 

I’ll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

“  And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I’ll  lay  me  down  and  die ; 

’Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I.” 

“  Forbid  it,  Heaven  !”  the  hermit  cried, 
And  clasp’d  her  to  his  breast ; 

The  wondering  fair  one  turn’d  to  chide,— 
’Twas  Edwin’s  self  that  prest. 

“  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 

Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 
Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

“  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign  ; 

And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life — my  all  that’s  mine  ? 

“  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We’ll  live  and  love  so  true ; 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin’s  too.” 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

- *0* - 

The  Triumph  of  Char  is. 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love  ! 
Wherein  my  lady  rideth  ! 

Each  that  draws  is  a  swan,  or  a  dove — 
And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 

As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty ; 

And,  enamor’d,  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 

'  That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side 

Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither 
she  would  ride. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


161 


Do  but  look  on  her  eyes  !  they  do  light 
All  that  Love’s  world  compriseth  ; 

Do  but  look  on  her  hair  !  it  is  bright 
As  Love’s  star  when  it  riseth  ! 

Do  but  mark — her  forehead’s  smoother 
Than  words  that  soothe  her ! 

And  from  her  arch’d  brows  such  a  grace 
Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 

As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life, 

All  the  gain,  all  the  good,  of  the  elements’ 
strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow, 
Before  rude  hands  have  touch’d  it? 
Have  you  mark’d  but  the  fall  of  the  snow, 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutch’d  it  ? 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver? 

Or  swan’s  down  ever  ? 

Or  have  smelt  o’  the  bud  of  the  brier  ? 

Or  the  nard  i’  the  fire  ? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 

Oh,  so  white !  oh,  so  soft !  oh,  so  sweet  is  she ! 

Ben  Jonson. 

- »<>♦  - 

Tell  me  How  to  Woo  Thee. 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please, 

Bight  soon  I’ll  mount  my  steed  ; 

And  strong  his  arm,  and  fast  his  seat 
That  bears  frae  me  the  meed. 

I’ll  wear  thy  colors  in  my  cap, 

Thy  picture  at  my  heart ; 

And  he  that  bends  not  to  thine  eye 
Shall  rue  it  to  his  smart ! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love ; 

Oh  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee  ! 

For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I’ll  take, 
Tho’  ne’er  another  trow  me. 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye 
I’ll  dight  me  in  array  ; 

I’ll  tend  thy  chamber  door  all  night, 

And  squire  thee  all  the  day. 

If  sweetest  sounds  can  win  thine  ear, 
These  sounds  I’ll  strive  to  catch  ; 

Thy  voice  I’ll  steal  to  woo  thysell, 

That  voice  that  nane  can  match. 

But  if  fond  love  thy  heart  can  gain, 

I  never  broke  a  vow  ; 

Nae  maiden  lays  her  skaith  to  me, 

I  never  loved  but  you. 

For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  the  blue  ; 

11 


For  you  alone  I  strive  to  sing, 

Oh  tell  me  how  to  woo  ! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love ; 

Oh  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee, 

For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I’ll  take, 

Tho’  ne’er  another  trow  me. 

Robert  Graham  of  Gartmore. 

- K>«  -  - 

0  Nanny,  wllt  Thou  go  with 

Me. 

0  Nanny,  wilt  thou  go  with  me, 

Nor  sigh  to  leave  the  flaunting  town  ? 

Can  silent  glens  have  charms  for  thee, — 
The  lowly  cot  and  russet  gown  ? 

No  longer  drest  in  silken  sheen, 

No  longer  deck’d  with  jewels  rare, — 

Say,  canst  thou  quit  each  courtly  scene, 
Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

O  Nanny,  when  thou’rt  far  away, 

Wilt  thou  not  cast  a  wish  behind  ? 

Say,  canst  thou  face  the  parching  ray, 

Nor  shrink  before  the  wintry  wind  ? 

Oh,  can  that  soft  and  gentle  mien 
Extremes  of  hardship  learn  to  bear, 

Nor  sad  regret  each  courtly  scene, 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

O  Nanny,  canst  thou  love  so  true, 

Through  perils  keen  with  me  to  go  ; 

Or  when  thy  swain  mishap  shall  rue, 

To  share  with  him  the  pang  of  woe  ? 

Say,  should  disease  or  pain  befall, 

Wilt  thou  assume  the  nurse’s  care, 

Nor  wistful  those  gay  scenes  recall, 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

And  when  at  last  thy  love  shall  die, 

Wilt  thou  receive  his  parting  breath, 

Wilt  thou  repress  each  struggling  sigh, 
And  cheer  with  smiles  the  bed  of  death  ? 

And  wilt  thou  o’er  his  breathless  clay 
Strew  flowers  and  drop  the  tender  tear  , 

Nor  then  regret  those  scenes  so  gay, 
Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair? 

Thomas  Percy. 

- K>4 - 

When  Maggy  Gangs  Away. 

Oh,  what  will  a’  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

Oh,  what  will  a’  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 


162 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


There’s  no  a  heart  in  a’  the  glen 
That  disna  dread  the  day : 

Oh,  what  will  a’  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away? 

Young  Jock  has  ta’en  the  hill  for’t, 

A  waefu’  wight  is  he  ; 

Poor  Harry’s  ta’en  the  bed  for’t, 

An’  laid  him  down  to  dee  ; 

An’  Sandy’s  gane  unto  the  kirk, 

An’  learnin’  fast  to  pray : 

And  oh,  what  will  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

The  young  laird  o’  the  Lang-Shaw 
Has  drunk  her  health  in  wine ; 

The  priest  has  said — in  confidence — 
The  lassie  was  divine, 

And  that  is  mair  in  maiden’s  praise 
Than  ony  priest  should  say: 

But  oh,  what  will  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

The  wailing  in  our  green  glen 
That  day  will  quaver  high  ; 

’Twill  draw  the  redbreast  frae  the  wood, 
The  laverock  frae  the  sky ; 

The  fairies  frae  their  beds  o’  dew 
Will  rise  an’  join  the  lay : 

An’  hey !  what  a  day  ’twill  be 
When  Maggy  gangs  away ! 

James  Hogg. 


Believe  me,  if  All  those  En¬ 
dearing  Young  Charms. 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young 
charms, 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 

Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in 
my  arms, 

v  7 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 

Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored,  as  this  mo¬ 
ment  thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 

And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of 
my  heart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine 
own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 


That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be 
known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more 
dear ; 

No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never 
forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 

As  the  sun-flower  turns  on  her  god,  when 
he  sets, 

The  same  look  which  she  turn’d  when 
he  rose. 

Thomas  Moore. 


The  Young  May  Moon. 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming^  love, 

The  glow-worm’s  lamp  is  gleaming,  love, 
How  sweet  to  rove 
Through  Morna’s  grove 

When  the  drowsy  world  is  dreaming,  love ! 

Then  awake !  the  heavens  look  bright,  my 
dear, 

’Tis  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear, 
And  the  best  of  all  ways 
To  lengthen  our  days 

Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my 
dear. 

Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love, 

But  the  sage,  his  star- watch  keeping,  love, 
And  I,  whose  star, 

More  glorious  far, 

Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping, 
love. 

Then  awake !  till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear, 

The  sage’s  glass  we’ll  shun,  my  dear, 

Or,  in  watching  the  flight 
Of  bodies  of  light, 

He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my 
dear. 

Thomas  Moore. 


Go,  Pretty  Birds. 

Ye  little  birds  that  sit  and  sing 
Amidst  the  shady  valleys, 

And  see  how  Phillis  sweetly  walks 
Within  her  garden-alleys, — 

Go,  pretty  birds,  about  her  bower; 
Sing,  pretty  birds,  she  may  not  lower; 
Ah  me  !  methinks  I  see  her  frown  ! 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


163 


Go  tell  her  through  your  chirping  bills, 
As  you  by  me  are  bidden, 

To  her  is  only  known  my  love, 

Which  from  the  world  is  hidden, — 
Go,  pretty  birds,  and  tell  her  so ; 

See  that  your  notes  strain  not  too  low, 
For  still,  methinks,  I  see  her  frown. 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 

Go,  tune  your  voices’  harmony, 

And  sing  I  am  her  lover ; 

Strain  loud  and  sweet,  that  every  note 
With  sweet  content  may  move  her ; 
And  she  that  hath  the  sweetest  voice, 
Tell  her  I  will  not  change  my  choice ; 
Yet  still,  methinks,  I  see  her  frown. 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 

Oh  fly !  make  haste !  see,  see,  she  falls 
Into  a  pretty  slumber ; 

Sing  round  about  her  rosy  bed, 

That,  waking,  she  may  wonder ; 

Say  to  her  ’tis  her  lover  true 
That  sendeth  love  to  you,  to  you ; 

And  when  you  hear  her  kind  reply 

Return  with  pleasant  warblings. 

Thomas  Heywood. 

■  -  •<£>« - 

TO U JOURS  AMOUR. 

Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin, 

At  what  age  does  Love  begin  ? 

Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen, 

But  a  miracle  of  sweets, 

Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 

Show  the  little  archer  there, 

Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair  ; 

When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win  ? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 

‘  Oh !”  the  rosy  lips  reply, 

“  I  can’t  tell  you  if  I  try. 

’Tis  so  long  I  can’t  remember: 

Ask  some  younger  lass  than  I !” 

Tell,  oh  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face, 

Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace? 
When  does  hoary  Love  expire, 

When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire? 

Can  its  embers  burn  below 
All  that  chill  December  snow  ? 

Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press, 

Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless  ? 


When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase  ? 

Tell,  oh  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face! 

“  Ah !”  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 

“Youth  may  pass,  and  strength  may  die; 

But  of  Love  I  can’t  foretoken : 

Ask  some  older  sage  than  I !” 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 
- »o* - 

Sweet- and  -  Twenty. 

0,  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 

Oh,  stay  and  hear;  your  true  love’s  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low : 

Trip  no  farther,  pretty  sweeting; 

Journeys  end  in  lovers’  meeting, 

Every  wise  man’s  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?  ’tis  not  hereafter; 

Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter ; 

What’s  to  come  is  still  unsure : 

In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty ; 

Then  come  kiss  me,  Sweet-and-Twenty, 

Youth’s  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- aO* - 

Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dumb  lane. 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o’er  the  lofty  Ben- 
lomond, 

And  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside  o’er 

the  scene, 

While  lanely  I  stray  in  the  calm  simmer 
gloamin’, 

To  muse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  Flow’r  o’ 
Dumblane. 

How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi’  its  saft  fauldin’ 
blossom, 

And  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi’  its  mantle  o’ 
green  ; 

Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this 
bosom, 

Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  Flow’r  o’ 
Dumblane. 

She’s  modest  as  ony,  and  blithe  as  she’s 
bonnie, — 

For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its 
ain  ; 

And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  of  feel¬ 
ing, 

Wha’d  blight  in  its  bloom  the  sweet 
Flow’r  o’  Dumblane. 


164 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Sing  on,  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn  to 
the  e’ening! — 

Thou’rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calder- 
wood  glen  : 

Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  and 
winning, 

Is  charming  young  Jessie,  the  Flow’r  o’ 
Dumblane. 

How  lost  were  my  days  till  I  met  wi’  my 
Jessie ! 

The  sports  o’  the  city  seem’d  foolish 
and  vain : 

I  ne’er  saw  a  nymph  I  wrould  ca’  my  dear 
lassie 

Till  charm’d  wi’  sweet  Jessie,  the  Flow’r 
o’  Dumblane. 

Though  mine  were  the  station  o’  loftiest 
grandeur, 

Amidst  its  profusion  I’d  languish  in 
pain, 

And  reckon  as  naething  the  height  o’  its 
splendor, 

If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  Flow’r  o’ 
Dumblane. 

Robert  Tannahill. 


Mary  of  Castle  Cary. 

“Saw  ye  my  wee  thing,  saw  ye  my  ain 
thing, 

Saw  ye  my  true  love  down  on  yon  lea  ? 

Cross’d  she  the  meadow  yestreen  at  the 
gloaming, 

Sought  she  the  burnie  where  flowers 
the  haw  tree  ? 

Her  hair  it  is  lint-white,  her  skin  it  is 
milk-white, 

Dark  is  the  blue  of  her  saft-rolling  ee; 

Red,  red  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than 
roses — 

Where  could  my  wee  thing  wander  frae 
me?” 

’£  I  saw  nae  your  wee  thing,  I  saw  nae  your 
ain  thing, 

Nor  saw  I  your  true  love  down  bv  von 
lea ; 

But  I  met  my  bonny  thing  late  in  the 
gloaming, 

Down  bv  the  burnie  where  flowers  the 
haw  tree : 


Her  hair  it  was  lint-white,  her  skin  it 
was  milk-white, 

Dark  was  the  blue  of  her  saft-rolling  ee ; 

Red  were  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than 
roses — 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gave  to 
me.” 

“  It  was  nae  my  wee  thing,  it  was  nae  my 
ain  thing, 

It  was  nae  my  true  love  ye  met  by  the 
tree ; 

Proud  is  her  leal  heart,  and  modest  her 
nature ; 

She  never  loved  ony  till  ance  she  lo’ed 
me. 

Her  name  it  is  Mary ;  she’s  frae  Castle 
Cary; 

Aft  has  she  sat  when  a  bairn  on  my 
knee : 

Fair  as  your  face  is,  were’t  fifty  times 
fairer, 

Young  bragger,  she  ne’er  wad  gie  kisses 
to  thee.”  , 

“  It  was  then  your  Mary ;  she’s  frae  Castle 
Cary; 

It  was  then  your  true  love  I  met  by  the 
tree ; 

Proud  as  her  heart  is,  and  modest  her 
nature, 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gave  to 
me.” 

Sair  gloom’d  his  dark  brow,  blood-red  his 
cheek  grew, 

Wild  flash’d  the  fire  frae  his  red-rolling 
ee; 

“Ye’se  rue  sair  this  morning  your  boasts 
and  your  scorning, 

Defend  ye,  fause  traitor;  fu’  loudly  ye 
lie.” 

“  Away  wi’  beguiling !”  cried  the  youth, 
smiling — 

Off  went  the  bonnet,  the  lint-white 
locks  flee, 

The  belted  plaid  fa’ing,  her  white  bosom 
shawing, 

Fair  stood  the  loved  maid  wi’  the  dark¬ 
rolling  ee. 

“  Is  it  my  wee  thing,  is  it  my  ain  thing, 

Is  it  my  true  love  here  that  I  see?” 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


1G5 


u0  Jamie,  forgie  me;  your  heart’s  con¬ 
stant  to  me ; 

I’ll  never  mair  wander,  dear  laddie, 
frae  thee.” 

Hector  Macneill. 

- K>« - 

Rory  O'1  More. 

Young  Rory  O’More  courted  Kathleen 
bawn  ; 

He  was  bold  as  the  hawk,  and  she  soft  as 
the  dawn  ; 

He  wish’d  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to 
please, 

And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that 
was  to  tease. 

“  Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,”  sweet  Kathleen 
would  cry, 

Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye — 

“  With  your  tricks,  I  don’t  know,  in  troth, 
what  I’m  about ; 

Faith,  you’ve  teased  till  I’ve  put  on  my 
cloak  inside  out.” 

“  Och  !  jewel,”  says  Rory,  “  that  same  is 
the  way 

You’ve  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a 
day ; 

And  ’tis  plased  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to 
be  sure  ? 

For  ’tis  all  for  good  luck,”  says  bold  Rory 
O’More. 

“  Indeed,  then,”  says  Kathleen,  “  don’t 
think  of  the  like, 

For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering 
Mike ; 

The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I’ll  be 
bound.” 

“  Faith  !”  says  Rory,  “  I’d  rather  love  you 
than  the  ground.” 

u  Now,  Rory,  I’ll  cry  if  you  don’t  let  me 

go ; 

Sure  I  dhrame  every  night  that  I’m  hating 
you  so.” 

“  Och  !”  says  Rory,  “  that  same  I’m  de¬ 
lighted  to  hear, 

For  dhrames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my 
dear. 

So,  jewel,  keep  dhramin’  that  same  till 
you  die, 

And  bright  mornin’  will  give  dirty  night 
the  black  lie ; 


And  ’tis  plased  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to 
be  sure  ? 

Since  ’tis  all  for  good  luck,”  says  bold  Rory 
O’More. 

“  Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you’ve 
teased  me  enough  ; 

Sure  I’ve  thrash’d,  for  your  sake,  Dinny 
Grimes  and  Jim  Duff ; 

And  I’ve  made  myself,  dhrinkin’  your 
health,  quite  a  baste, 

So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the 
priest .” 

Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round 
her  neck, 

So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or 
speck ; 

And  he  look’d  in  her  eyes,  that  were 
beaming  with  light, 

And  he  kiss’d  her  sweet  lips — don’t  you 
think  he  was  right  ? 

“  Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir,  you’ll  hug  me 
no  more, 

That’s  eight  times  to-day  that  you’ve  kiss’d 
me  before.” 

“  Then  here  goes  another,”  says  he,  “  to 
make  sure, 

For  there’s  luck  in  odd  numbers,”  says 
Rory  O’More. 

Samuel  Lover. 

- K>« - 

The  Low-backed  Car. 

When  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy, 

’Twas  on  a  market-day  ; 

A  low-back’d  car  she  drove,  and  sat 
U pon  a  truss  of  hay  ; 

But  when  that  hay  was  blooming  grass, 
And  deck’d  with  flowers  of  spring, 

No  flower  was  there  that  could  compare 
With  the  blooming  girl  I  sing. 

As  she  sat  in  the  low-back’d  car, 

The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar 
Never  ask’d  for  the  toll, 

But  just  rubb’d  his  owld  poll, 

And  look’d  after  the  low-back’d  car. 

In  battle’s  wild  commotion, 

The  proud  and  mighty  Mars 

With  hostile  scythes  demands  his  tithes 
Of  death — in  warlike  cars  ; 

While  Peggy,  peaceful  goddess, 

Has  darts  in  her  bright  eye 


166 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


That  knock  men  down  in  the  market-town, 
As  right  and  left  they  fly ; 

While  she  sits  in  her  low-back’d  car, 

Than  battle  more  dangerous  far, — 

For  the  doctor’s  art 
Cannot  cure  the  heart 
That  is  hit  from  that  low-back’d  car. 

Sweet  Peggy  round  her  car,  sir, 

Has  strings  of  ducks  and  geese, 

But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters 
By  far  outnumber  these ; 

While  she  among  her  poultry  sits, 

J ust  like  a  turtle-dove, 

Well  worth  the  cage,  I  do  engage, 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  love ; 

While  she  sits  in  her  low-back’d  car, 

The  lovers  come  near  and  far, 

And  envy  the  chicken 
That  Peggy  is  pickin’, 

As  she  sits  in  her  low-back’d  car. 

Oh,  I’d  rather  own  that  car,  sir, 

With  Peggy  by  my  side, 

Than  a  coach  and  four,  and  gold  galore , 
And  a  lady  for  my  bride ; 

For  the  lady  would  sit  forninst  me, 

On  a  cushion  made  with  taste, 

While  Peggy  would  sit  beside  me, 

With  my  arm  around  her  waist, 

While  we  drove  in  the  low-back’d  car 
To  be  married  by  Father  Maher; 

Oh,  my  heart  would  beat  high 
At  her  glance  and  her  sigh, 

Though  it  beat  in  a  low-back’d  car. 

Samuel  Lover. 

- •<>« - 

Jessy. 

Here’s  a  health  to  ane  I  lo’e  dear, 

Here’s  a  health  to  ane  I  lo’e  dear ; 

Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond 
lovers  meet, 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear,  Jessy! 

Altho’  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Altho’  even  hope  is  denied, 

’Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing 
Than  aught  in  the  world  beside,  Jessy. 

I  mourn  thro’  the  gay,  gaudy  day, 

As,  hopeless,  I  muse  on  thy  charms, 
But  welcome  the  dream  o’  sweet  slumber, 
For  then  I  am  lock’d  in  thine  arms,  Jessy. 


I  guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile, 

I  guess  by  thy  love-rolling  ee ; 

But  why  urge  the  tender  confession 
’Gainst  fortune’s  fell  cruel  decree,  Jessy? 

Here’s  a  health  to  ane  I  lo’e  dear, 

Here’s  a  health  to  ane  I  lo’e  dear ; 

Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond 
lovers  meet, 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear,  Jessy. 

Robert  Burns. 


TheDuie’s  r  this  Bonnet  o’  Mine. 

The  dule’s  i’  this  bonnet  o’  mine : 

My  ribbins’ll  never  be  reet ; 

Here,  Mally,  aw’m  like  to  be  fine, 

For  Jamie’ll  be  coinin’  to-neet ; 

He  met  me  i’  th’  lone  t’  other  dav 

« / 

(Aw  wur  gooin’  for  wayter  to  th’  well), 
An’  he  begg’d  that  aw’d  wed  him  i’  May, 
Bi  tli’  mass,  if  he’ll  let  me,  aw  will ! 

When  he  took  my  two  honds  into  his, 
Good  Lord,  heaw  they  trembled  be¬ 
tween  ! 

An’  aw  durstn’t  look  up  in  his  face, 

Becose  on  him  seein’  my  e’en. 

My  cheek  went  as  red  as  a  rose ; 

There’s  never  a  mortal  con  tell 
Heaw  happy  aw  felt, — for,  time  knows, 
One  couldn’t  ha’  ax’d  him  theirsel’. 

But  th’  tale  wur  at  th’  end  o’  my  tung : 

To  let  it  eawt  wouldn’t  be  reet, 

For  aw  thought  to  seem  forrud  wur  wrung, 
So  aw  towd  him  aw’d  tell  him  to-neet. 
But,  Mally,  tliae  knows  very  weel, 

Though  it  isn’t  a  thing  one  should  own, 
Iv  aw’d  th’  pikein’  o’  th’  world  to  mysel’, 
Aw’d  oather  ha’  Jamie  or  noan. 

Neaw,  Mally,  aw’ve  towd  thae  my  mind; 

What  would  to  do  iv  it  wur  thee  ? 

“  Aw’d  tak  him  just  while  lie’se  inclined. 
An’  a  farrantly  bargain  he’ll  be ; 

For  Jamie’s  as  greadly  a  lad 
As  ever  stept  eawt  into  th’  sun. 

Go,  jump  at  thy  chance,  an’  get  wed ; 

An’  mak  th’  best  o’  th’  job  when  it’s 
done !” 

Eh,  dear!  but  it’s  time  to  be  gwon: 

Aw  shouldn’t  like  Jamie  to  wait; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


167 


Aw  connut  for  shame  be  too  soon, 

An’  aw  wouldn’t  for  tli’  wuld  be  too 
late. 

Aw’m  o’  ov  a  tremble  to  th’  heel ; 

Dost  think  ’at  my  bonnet  ’ll  do  ? 

5‘  Be  off,  lass, — thae  looks  very  weel  ; 

He  wants  noan  o’  th’  bonnet,  thae  foo !” 

Edwin  Waugh. 

- - 

When  the  Kye  comes  Hame . 

Come,  all  ye  jolly  shepherds, 

That  whistle  through  the  glen, 

I’ll  tell  ye  of  a  secret 

That  courtiers  dinna  ken ; 

What  is  the  greatest  bliss 

That  the  tongue  o’  man  can  name  ? 
’Tis  to  woo  a  bonny  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame, 

When  the  kye  conies  hame, 

’Tween  the  gloaming  and  the  mirk, 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

’Tis  not  beneath  the  coronet, 

Nor  canopy  of  state, 

’Tis  not  on  couch  of  velvet, 

Nor  arbor  of  the  great — 

’Tis  beneath  the  spreading  birk, 

In  the  glen  without  the  name, 

Wi’  a  bonny  bonny  lassie, 

When  the  kve  comes  hame. 

•  «/ 

There  the  blackbird  bigs  his  nest, 

For  the  mate  he  lo’es  to  see, 

And  on  the  topmost  bough 
Oh,  a  happy  bird  is  he ! 

Where  he  pours  his  melting  ditty, 

And  love  is  a’  the  theme, 

And  he’ll  woo  his  bonny  lassie, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  blewart  bears  a  pearl, 

And  the  daisy  turns  a  pea, 

And  the  bonny  lucken  gowan 
Has  fauldit  up  her  ee, 

Then  the  laverock,  frae  the  blue  lift, 
Drops  down  and  thinks  nae  shame 
To  woo  his  bonny  lassie 
AVhen  the  kye  comes  hame. 

See  yonder  pawkie  shepherd, 

That  lingers  on  the  hill, 


His  ewes  are  in  the  fauld, 

An’  his  lambs  are  lying  still, 

Yet  he  downa  gang  to  bed, 

For  his  heart  is  in  a  flame, 

To  meet  his  bonny  lassie 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  little  wee  bit  heart 
Rises  high  in  the  breast, 

An’  the  little  wee  bit  starn 
Rises  red  in  the  east, 

Oh,  there’s  a  joy  sae  dear 
That  the  heart  can  hardly  frame, 

Wi’  a  bonny  bonny  lassie, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

Then  since  all  Nature  joins 
In  this  love  without  alloy, 

Oh,  wha  wad  prove  a  traitor 
To  Nature’s  dearest  joy? 

Or  wha  wad  choose  a  crown, 

Wi’  its  perils  and  its  fame, 

And  miss  his  bonny  lassie, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame? 

James  Hogg. 

- - 

Maud  Muller. 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer’s  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glow’d  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mockbird  echo’d  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hillslope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  fill’d  her  breast, — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 

For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse’s  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 
Of  the  apple  trees  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that 
flow’d 

Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 


168 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


She  stoop’d  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled 
up, 

And  fill’d  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blush’d  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tatter’d  gown. 

“Thanks!”  said  the  judge;  “a  sweeter 
draught 

From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaff’d.” 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming 
bees ; 

Then  talk’d  of  the  haying,  and  wonder’d 
whether 

The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul 
weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gowm, 

And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown  ; 

And  listen’d,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Look’d  from  her  long-lash’d  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  look’d  and  sigh’d:  “Ah  me! 
That  I  the  judge’s  bride  might  be ! 

“  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

“  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat, 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

“  I’d  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each 
day. 

“And  I’d  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the 
poor, 

And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door.” 

The  judge  look’d  back  as  he  climb’d  the 
hill, 

And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

“A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet 
Ne’er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

“And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

“  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 

Like  her  a  harvester  of  hay : 


J  “  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

“  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 

And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words.” 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and 
cold, 

And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawvers  smiled  that  afternoon, 

7 

When  he  humm’d  in  court  an  old  love- 
tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 

Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth’s  bright  glow, 
He  watch’d  a  picture  come  and  go  ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller’s  hazel  eyes 
Look’d  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  long’d  for  the  wayside  well  instead ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnish’d  rooms. 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover- blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sigh’d,  with  a  secret 
pain, 

“  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  ! — 

“  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her 
hay.” 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearn’d  and  poor, 
And  many  children  play’d  round  her 
door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

i 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple  tree  again 
!  She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


169 


And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 

She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretch’d  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turn'd, 

The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burn’d, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o’er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 

And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  “  It  might  have  been.” 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  forjudge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge! 

God  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all, 

Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these :  “It  might  have 
been !” 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

-  ■■♦<>»  - 

Tiie  Power  of  Love . 

Hear  ye,  ladies  that  despise 
What  the  mighty  Love  has  done ; 
Fear  examples  and  be  wise  : 

Fair  Calisto  was  a  nun  : 

Leda,  sailing  on  a  stream, 

To  deceive  the  hopes  of  man, 

Love  accounting  but  a  dream, 

Doted  on  a  silver  swan  ; 

Danae  in  a  brazen  tower, 

Where  no  love  was,  loved  a  shower. 

Hear  ye,  ladies  that  are  coy, 

What  the  mighty  Love  can  do  ; 

Fear  the  fierceness  of  the  boy; 

The  chaste  moon  he  makes  to  woo  ; 
Vesta,  kindling  holy  fires, 

Circled  round  about  with  spies, 

Never  dreaming  loose  desires, 

Doting  at  the  altar  dies ; 


Ilion,  in  a  short  hour,  higher 

He  can  build,  and  once  more  fire. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher^ 


The  Brookside. 

I  wander’d  by  the  brookside, 

I  wander’d  by  the  mill ; 

I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still : 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 
No  chirp  of  any  bird  ; 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm  tree, 

I  watch’d  the  long,  long  shade, 

And  as  it  grew  still  longer 
I  did  not  feel  afraid  ; 

For  I  listen’d  for  a  footfall, 

I  listen’d  for  a  word  : 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not — no,  he  came  not, — 
The  night  came  on  alone, — 

The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne  ; 

The  evening  air  pass’d  by  my  cheek, 
The  leaves  above  were  stirr’d  ; 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast,  silent  tears  were  flowing, 
When  something  stood  behind  ; 

A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 

I  knew  its  touch  was  kind  ; 

It  drew  me  nearer,  nearer — 

We  did  not  speak  one  word  ; 

But  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 

Richard  Monckton  Milnes 
(Lord  Houohton). 


The  Shepherd’s  Resolution. 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 

Die  because  a  woman’s  fair  ? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 
’Cause  another’s  rosy  are? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day 
Or  the  flowery  meads  of  May, 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? 


170 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  pinecl 
’Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ; 

Or  a  well-disposed  nature 
Joined  to  a  lovely  feature? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder  than 
Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be  ? 

Shall  a  woman’s  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 

Or  her  merit’s  value  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  my  own  ? 

Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest, 

Which  may  gain  her  name  of  Best ; 

If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 

What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 

’Cause  her  fortunes  seem  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 

Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 

Think  what  with  them  they  would  do 
That  without  them  dare  to  woo ; 

And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 

What  care  I  how  great  she  be? 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 

I  will  ne’er  the  more  despair ; 

If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 

I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve ; 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 

I  can  scorn  and  bid  her  go ; 

For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 

What  care  I  for  whom  she  be? 

George  Wither. 

- »ot - 

Sonnet. 

Since  there’s  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss 
and  part, — 

Nay,  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of 
me, 

And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my 
heart, 

That  thus  so  clearly  I  myself  can  free  ; 
Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 
And,  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows, 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 
Now,  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love’s  latest 
breath, 

When,  his  pulse  failing,  Passion  speech¬ 
less  lies, 


When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of 
death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 
Now,  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have  given 
him  over, 

From  death  to  life  thou  mightst  him  yet 
recover. 

Michael  Drayton. 


Song. 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dying, 

Blossoms  all  around  me  sighing, 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying, 
Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing, 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress: 

I  am  sick  of  loneliness. 

Thou  to  whom  I  love  to  hearken, 

Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken ; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thou’rt  true,  and  I’ll  believe  thee  ; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul’s  intent ! 

Let  me  think  it  innocent ! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure  : 

All  I  ask  is  friendship’s  pleasure  : 

Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling, 

Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  S2)arkling ; 

Gifts  and  gold  are  naught  to  me : 
I  would  only  look  on  thee ! 

Tell  .to  thee  the  high-wrought  feeling, 
Ecstasy  but  in  revealing  ; 

Paint  to  thee  the  deep  sensation, 
Rapture  in  participation, 

Yet  but  torture,  if  comprest 
In  a  lone  unfriended  breast. 

Absent  still?  Ah!  come  and  bless  me! 
Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee  ; 

Once,  in  caution,  I  could  fly  thee : 

Now,  I  nothing  could  deny  thee  : 

In  a  look  if  death  there  be, 

Come  and  I  will  gaze  on  thee  ! 

Maria  Brooks. 


The  Banks  o>  Boon. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o’  bonnie  Boon, 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  weary  fu’  o’  care ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


171 


Thou’ll  break  my  heart,  thou  warb¬ 
ling  bird, 

That  wantons  thro’  the  flowering 
thorn  : 

Thou  minds  me  o’  departed  joys, 
Departed  never  to  return. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine 
twine ; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o’  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o’  mine ; 

Wi’  lightsome  heart  I  pu’d  a  rose, 
Fu’  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree  ! 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  my  rose, 
But  ah !  he  left  the  thorn  wi’ 
me. 

Robert  Burns. 


Florence  Vane. 

1  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 
Florence  Vane ; 

My  life’s  bright  dream  and  early 
Hath  come  again ; 

I  renew  in  my  fond  vision 
My  heart’s  dear  pain, 

My  hopes  and  thy  derision, 
Florence  Vane ! 

The  ruin,  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old, 

Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 
At  even  told, 

That  spot,  the  hues  elysian 
Of  sky  and  plain 

I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane ! 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 
In  their  prime ; 

Thy  voice  excell’d  the  closes 
Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 

Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 
Without  a  main, 

Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 
Florence  Vane. 

But  fairest,  coldest  wonder ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 

Lieth  the  green  sod  under; 

Alas  the  day  ! 


And  it  boots  not  to  remember 
Thy  disdain, 

To  quicken  love’s  pale  ember, 
Florence  Vane ! 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 

The  daisies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep. 

May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 
Never  wane 

Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 
Florence  Vane. 

Philip  Pendleton  Cooke. 

- K>« - 

1  Prithee  send  me  back  my 
Heart. 

I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart, 

Since  I  cannot  have  thine, 

For  if  from  yours  you  will  not  part. 
Why,  then,  shouldst  thou  have  mine? 

Yet  now  I  think  on’t,  let  it  lie; 

To  And  it  were  in  vain; 

For  thou’st  a  thief  in  either  eye 
Would  steal  it  back  again. 

Why  should  two  hearts  in  one  breast  lie, 
And  yet  not  lodge  together? 

O  Love !  where  is  thy  sympathy, 

If  thus  our  breasts  thou  sever? 

But  love  is  such  a  mystery, 

I  cannot  find  it  out ; 

For  when  I  think  I’m  best  resolved, 

I  then  am  in  most  doubt. 

Then  farewell  care,  and  farewell  woe, 

I  will  no  longer  pine ; 

For  I’ll  believe  I  have  her  heart, 

As  much  as  she  has  mine. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 

- K>« - 

The  Nun. 

If  you  become  a  nun,  dear, 

A  friar  I  will  be ; 

In  any  cell  you  run,  dear, 

Pray  look  behind  for  me. 

The  roses  all  turn  pale,  too ; 

The  doves  all  take  the  veil,  too; 

The  blind  will  see  the  show ; 


172 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


What!  you  become  a  nun,  my  dear? 
I’ll  not  believe  it,  no  ! 

If  you  become  a  nun,  dear, 

The  bishop  Love  will  be ; 

The  Cupids  every  one,  dear, 

Will  chant,  “  We  trust  in  thee!” 

The  incense  will  go  sighing, 

The  candles  fall  a-dying, 

The  water  turn  to  wine  : 

What!  you  go  take  the  vows,  my  dear? 
You  may — but  they’ll  be  mine. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


She  is  not  Fair  to  Outward 
View. 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 
As  many  maidens  be ; 

Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 
Until  she  smiled  on  me. 

Oh  then  I  saw  her  eve  was  bright, 

A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 

To  mine  they  ne’er  reply, 

And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 
The  love-light  in  her  eye : 

Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 

Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 

-  --  «o« - 

Sonnet. 

Time  wasteth  years,  and  months,  and 
hours  ; 

Time  doth  consume  fame,  honor,  wit, 
and  strength ; 

Time  kills  the  greenest  herbs  and  sweetest 
flowers ; 

Time  wears  out  Youth  and  Beauty’s 
looks  at  length ; 

Time  doth  convey  to  ground  both  foe 
and  friend, 

And  each  thing  else  but  Love,  which 
hath  no  end. 

Time  maketh  every  tree  to  die  and  rot ; 

Time  turneth  oft  our  pleasure  into 
pain ; 

Time  causeth  wars  and  wrongs  to  be  for¬ 
got ; 

Time  clears  the  sky  which  first  hung  full 
of  rain ; 


Time  makes  an  end  of  all  humane 
desire, 

But  only  this  which  sets  my  heart  on 
fire. 

Time  turneth  into  naught  each  princely 
state ; 

Time  brings  a  flood  from  new-resolved 
snow ; 

Time  calms  the  sea  where  tempest  was  of 
late ; 

Time  eats  whate’er  the  moon  can  see 
below  : 

And  yet  no  time  prevails  in  my  be¬ 
hoof, 

Nor  any  time  can  make  me  cease  to 
love ! 

Thomas  Watson. 


The  Awakening  of  Endymion. 

Lone  upon  a  mountain,  the  pine  trees 
wailing  round  him, 

Lone  upon  a  mountain  the  Grecian  youth 
is  laid ; 

Sleep,  mystic  sleep,  for  many  a  year  has 
bound  him, 

Yet  his  beauty,  like  a  statue’s,  pale  and 
fair,  is  undecay’d. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

When  will  he  awaken  ?  a  loud  voice  hath 
been  crying, 

Night  after  night,  and  the  cry  has  been 
in  vain  ; 

Winds,  woods,  and  waves  found  echoes  for 
replying, 

But  the  tones  of  the  beloved  one  were 
never  heard  again. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

Asked  the  midnight’s  silver  queen. 

Never  mortal  eye  has  look’d  upon  his 
sleeping ; 

Parents,  kindred,  comrades,  have  mourn’d 
for  him  as  dead ; 

By  day  the  gather’d  clouds  have  had  him 
in  their  keeping, 

And  at  night  the  solemn  shadows  round 
his  rest  are  shed. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


173 


Long  lias  been  the  cry  of  faithful  love’s 
imploring ; 

Long  has  hope  been  watching  with  soft 
eyes  fix’d  above ; 

When  will  the  fates,  the  life  of  life  restor¬ 
ing, 

Own  themselves  vanquish’d  by  much- 
enduring  love? 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

Asks  the  midnight’s  weary  queen. 

Beautiful  the  sleep  that  she  has  watch’d 
untiring, 

Lighted  up  with  visions  from  yonder  ra¬ 
diant  sky, 

Full  of  an  immortal’s  glorious  inspiring, 

Soften’d  by  the  woman’s  meek  and  lov¬ 
ing  sigh. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

He  has  been  dreaming  of  old  heroic 
stories, 

And  the  poet’s  passionate  world  has 
enter’d  in  his  soul ; 

He  has  grown  conscious  of  life’s  ancestral 
glories, 

When  sages  and  when  kings  first  upheld 
the  mind’s  control. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

Asks  the  midnight’s  stately  queen. 

Lo,  the  appointed  midnight!  the  present 
hour  is  fated ! 

It  is  Endvmion’s  planet  that  rises  on  the 
air , 

How  long,  how  tenderly  his  goddess-love 
has  waited, 

Waited  with  a  love  too  mighty  for 
despair ! 

Soon  he  will  awaken. 

Soft  amid  the  pines  is  a  sound  as  if  of  sing¬ 
ing, 

Tones  that  seem  the  lute’s  from  the 
breathing  flowers  depart ; 

Not  a  wind  that  wanders  o’er  Mount  Latmos 
but  is  bringing 

Music  that  is  murmur’d  from  nature’s 
inmost  heart. 

Soon  he  will  awaken 

To  his  and  midnight’s  queen  ! 


Lovely  is  the  green  earth, — she  knows  the 
hour  is  holy ; 

Starry  are  the  heavens,  lit  with  eternal 

joy; 

Light  like  their  own  is  dawning  sweet  and 
slowly 

O’er  the  fair  and  sculptured  forehead  of 
that  yet  dreaming  boy. 

Soon  he  will  awaken  ! 

Red  as  the  red  rose  toward  the  morning 
turning, 

Warms  the  youth’s  lip  to  the  watcher’s 
near  his  own ; 

While  the  dark  eyes  open,  bright,  intense, 
and  burning 

With  a  life  more  glorious  than,  ere  they 
closed,  was  known. 

Yes,  he  has  awaken’d 

For  the  midnight’s  happy  queen  ! 

What  is  this  old  history,  but  a  lesson 
given, 

How  true  love  still  conquers  by  the 
deep  strength  of  truth — 

How  all  the  impulses,  whose  native  home 
is  heaven, 

Sanctify  the  visions  of  hope,  and  faith, 
and  youth  ? 

’Tis  for  such  they  waken  ! 

When  every  worldly  thought  is  utterly  for¬ 
saken, 

Comes  the  starry  midnight,  felt  by  life’s 
gifted  fewr ; 

Then  will  the  spirit  from  its  earthly  sleep 
awaken 

To  a  being  more  intense,  more  spiritual, 
and  true. 

So  doth  the  soul  awaken, 

Like  that  youth  to  night’s  fair  queen  ! 

Lastitia  Elizabeth  Landon  Maclean. 

-  ♦<>♦ - 

A  Pastoral. 

My  time,  O  ye  Muses,  was  happily  spent, 

When  Phoebe  went  with  me  wherever  I 
went  ; 

Ten  thousand  sweet  pleasures  I  felt  in  my 
breast ; 

Sure  never  fond  shepherd  like  Colin  was 
blest. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  now  she  is  gone,  and  has  left  me  be-  ' 
hind, 

What  a  marvellous  change  on  a  sudden  I 
find ! 

When  things  were  as  fine  as  could  possibly 
be, 

I  thought  ’twas  the  spring ;  but,  alas !  it  was  j 
she. 

With  such  a  companion,  to  tend  a  few 
sheep, 

To  rise  up  and  play,  or  to  lie  down  and 
sleep, 

I  was  so  good-humor’d,  so  cheerful  and  gay, 

My  heart  was  as  light  as  a  feather  all  day. 

But  now  I  so  cross  and  so  peevish  am 
grown, 

So  strangely  uneasy  as  never  was  known. 

My  fair  one  is  gone,  and  my  joys  are  all 
drown’d, 

And  my  heart — I  am  sure  it  weighs  more 
than  a  pound. 

The  fountain  that  wont  to  run  sweetly 
along, 

And  dance  to  soft  murmurs  the  pebbles 
among ; 

Thou  know’st,  little  Cupid,  if  Phoebe  were 
there, 

’Twas  pleasure  to  look  at,  ’twas  music  to 
hear , 

But  now  she  is  absent,  I  walk  by  its  side, 

And  still  as  it  murmurs  do  nothing  but 
chide. 

Must  you  be  so  cheerful  while  I  go  in 
pain? 

Peace  there  with  your  bubbling,  and  hear 
me  complain. 

When  my  lambkins  around  me  would 
oftentimes  play, 

And  when  Phoebe  and  I  were  as  joyful  as 
they, 

How  pleasant  their  sporting,  how  happy 
the  time, 

When  spring,  love,  and  beauty  were  all  in 
their  prime? 

But  now  in  their  frolics  when  by  me  they 

pass, 

I  fling  at  their  fleeces  a  handful  of  grass : 

Be  still,  then  I  cry ;  for  it  makes  me  quite 
mad, 

To  see  you  so  merry  while  I  am  so  sad. 


My  dog  I  was  ever  well  pleased  to  see 

Come  wagging  his  tail  at  my  fair  one  and 
me : 

And  Phoebe  was  pleased  too,  and  to  my  dog 
said, 

“Come  hither,  poor  fellow;”  and  patted  his 
head. 

But  now,  when  he’s  fawning,  I  with  a  sour 
look 

Cry,  Sirrah!  and  give  him  a  blow  with  my 
crook. 

And  I’ll  give  him  another ;  for  why  should 
not  Tray 

Be  as  dull  as  his  master,  when  Phoebe’s 
away? 

When  walking  with  Phoebe,  what  sights 
have  I  seen ! 

How  fair  was  the  flower,  how  fresh  was  the 
green ! 

What  a  lovely  appearance  the  trees  and 
the  shade, 

The  corn-fields  and  hedges,  and  every¬ 
thing  made ! 

But  now  she  has  left  me,  though  all  are 
still  there, 

They  none  of  them  now  so  delightful  appear : 

’Twas  naught  but  the  magic,  I  find,  of  her 

eyes, 

Made  so  many  beautiful  prospects  arise. 

Sweet  music  went  with  us  both  all  the  wood 
through, 

The  lark,  linnet,  throstle  and  nightingale 
too; 

Winds  over  us  whisper’d,  flocks  by  us  did 
bleat, 

And  chirp !  went  the  grasshopper  under  our 
feet. 

But  now  she  is  absent,  though  still  they 
sing  on, 

The  woods  are  but  lonely,  the  melody’s 
gone : 

Her  voice  in  the  concert,  as  now  I  have 
found, 

Gave  everything  else  its  agreeable  sound. 

Rose,  what  is  become  of  thy  delicate  hue? 

And  where  is  the  violet’s  beautiful  blue? 

Does  aught  of  its  sweetness  the  blossom 
beguile? 

That  meadow,  those  daisies,  why  do  they 
not  smile? 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


175 


Ah !  rivals,  I  see  what  it  was  that  you 
dress’d 

And  made  yourselves  fine  for — a  place  in 
her  breast ; 

You  put  on  your  colors  to  pleasure  her 
eye, 

To  be  pluck’d  by  her  hand,  on  her  bosom 
to  die. 

How  slowly  Time  creeps,  till  my  Phoebe 
return  ! 

While  amidst  the  soft  zephyr’s  cool  breezes 
I  burn ! 

Methinks  if  I  knew  whereabouts  he  would 
tread, 

I  could  breathe  on  his  wings,  and  ’twould 
melt  down  the  lead. 

Fly  swifter,  ye  minutes,  bring  hither  my 
dear, 

And  rest  so  much  longer  for’t  when  she  is 
here. 

Ah,  Colin  !  old  Time  is  full  of  delay, 

Nor  will  budge  one  foot  faster  for  all  thou 
canst  say. 

Will  no  pitying  power  that  hears  me  com¬ 
plain, 

Or  cure  my  disquiet  or  soften  my  pain  ? 

To  be  cured  thou  must,  Colin,  thy  passion 
remove ; 

But  what  swain  is  so  silly  to  live  without 
love? 

No,  deity,  bid  the  dear  nymph  to  return, 

For  ne’er  was  poor  shepherd  so  sadly  for¬ 
lorn. 

Ah!  what  shall  I  do?  I  shall  die  with 
despair ! 

Take  heed,  all  ye  swains,  how  ye  part  with 
your  fair. 

John  Byrom. 

- •<>♦ - 

William  and  Margaret. 

’Twas  at  the  silent,  solemn  hour, 

When  night  and  morning  meet; 

In  glided  Margaret’s  grimly  ghost, 

And  stood  at  William’s  feet. 

Her  face  was  like  an  April  morn, 

Clad  in  a  wintry  cloud  ; 

And  clay-cold  was  her  lily  hand, 

That  held  her  sable  shroud. 


So  shall  the  fairest  face  appear, 

When  youth  and  years  are  flown : 

Such  is  the  robe  that  kings  must  wear, 
When  death  has  reft  their  crown. 

Her  bloom  was  like  the  springing  flower, 
That  sips  the  silver  dew  ; 

The  rose  was  budded  in  her  cheek, 

Just  opening  to  the  view. 

But  love  had,  like  the  canker-worm, 
Consumed  her  early  prime ; 

The  rose  grew  pale,  and  left  her  cheek — 
She  died  before  her  time. 

“Awake,”  she  cried,  “thy  true  love  calls, 
Come  from  her  midnight  grave ; 

Now  let  thy  pity  hear  the  maid, 

Thy  love  refused  to  save. 

“This  is  the  dark  and  dreary  hour, 

When  injured  ghosts  complain  ; 

When  yawning  graves  give  up  their  dead, 
To  haunt  the  faithless  swain. 

“  Bethink  thee,  William,  of  thy  fault, 
Thy  pledge  and  broken  oath  ! 

And  give  me  back  my  maiden  vow, 

And  give  me  back  my  troth. 

“  Why  did  you  promise  love  to  me, 

And  not  that  promise  keep  ? 

Why  did  you  swear  my  eyes  were  bright, 
Yet  leave  those  eyes  to  weep? 

“  How  could  you  say  my  face  was  fair, 
And  yet  that  face  forsake  ? 

How  could  you  win  my  virgin  heart, 

Yet  leave  that  heart  to  break? 

“  Why  did  you  say  my  lip  was  sweet, 

And  made  the  scarlet  pale? 

And  why  did  I,  young  witless  maid ! 
Believe  the  flatt’ring  tale  ? 

“That  face,  alas!  no  more  is  fair, 

Those  lips  no  longer  red ; 

Dark  are  my  eyes  now  closed  in  death, 
And  every  charm  is  fled. 

“  The  hungry  worm  my  sister  is ; 

This  winding-sheet  I  wear : 

And  cold  and  weary  lasts  our  night. 

Till  that  last  morn  appear. 


176 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  But  hark!  the  cock  has  warn’d  me  hence; 
A  long  and  last  adieu ! 

Come  see,  false  man,  how  low  she  lies, 
Who  died  for  love  of  you.” 

The  lark  sung  loud ;  the  morning  smiled 
With  beams  of  rosy  red ; 

Pale  William  quaked  in  every  limb, 

And  raving  left  his  bed. 

He  hied  him  to  the  fatal  place, 

Where  Margaret’s  body  lay  ; 

And  stretch’d  him  on  the  green  grass  turf, 
That  wrapt  her  breathless  clay. 

And  thrice  he  call’d  on  Margaret’s  name, 
And  thrice  he  wept  full  sore ; 

Then  laid  his  cheek  to  her  cold  grave, 

And  word  spake  never  more. 

David  Mallet. 

- - 

WHERE  SHALL  THE  LOVER  REST? 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest 
Whom  the  Fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden’s  breast 
Parted  for  ever? 

Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high 
Sounds  the  far  billow, 

Where  early  violets  die 
Under  the  willow. 

Eleu  loro 

Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 

There,  through  the  summer  day 
Cool  streams  are  laving, 

There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving ; 

There  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  for  ever, 

Never  again  to  wake 
Never,  oh  never! 

Eleu  loro 
Never,  oh  never ! 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver, 

Who  could  win  maiden’s  breast, 

Ruin,  and  leave  her? 

In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 


Where  mingles  war’s  rattle 
With  groans  of  the  dying  ; 

Eleu  loro 

There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 
O’er  the  false-hearted ; 

His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap 
Ere  life  be  parted  : 

Shame  and  dishonor  sit 
By  his  grave  ever ; 

Blessing  shall  hallow  it 
Never,  oh  never ! 

Eleu  loro 
Never,  oh  never ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

■  —  >Ot  ■ 

The  Outlaw. 

Oh,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 

And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton  Hall 
Beneath  the  turrets  high, 

A  Maiden  on  the  castle-wall 
Was  singing  merrily: 

“  Oh  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 

I’d  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 
Than  reign  our  English  queen.” 

“  If,  Maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me, 
To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 

Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we 
That  dwell  by  dale  and  down. 

And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 

Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed 
As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May.” 

Yet  sung  she  “  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green  ; 

I’d  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 
Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

“  I  read  you  by  your  bugle-horn 
And  by  your  palfrey  good, 

I  read  you  for  a  Ranger  sworn 
To  keep  the  king’s  greenwood.” 

“  A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  ’tis  at  peep  of  light ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE . 


177 


His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night.” 

Yet  sung  she  “  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  gay ; 

I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there 
To  reign  his  Queen  of  May ! 

“  With  burnish’d  brand  and  musketoon 
So  gallantly  you  come, 

I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum.” 

“  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear ; 

But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum 
My  comrades  take  the  spear. 

And  oh  !  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair 
And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 

Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 
Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May. 

“  Maiden  !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I’ll  die! 

The  fiend  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead 
Were  better  mate  than  I ! 

And  when  I’m  with  my  comrades  met  ■ 
Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, 

What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now.” 

Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green, 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

■  -  •<>♦■ —  ■ 

Bedouin  Song. 

From  the  desert  I  come  to  thee, 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire  ; 

And  the  winds  are  left  behind 
In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 

Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry  : 

I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee, 

With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 

And  the  stars  are  old, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

Look  from  thy  window,  and  see 
My  passion  and  my  pain  ; 

I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 

%f 

12 


Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 
With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 

And  the  stars  are  old, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 

By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 

To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 
The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 

And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 

And  the  stars  are  old, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

Bayard  Taylor. 

- K>« - 

Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown ! 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 
Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves, 

On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, — 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 
The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 

All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr’ci 
To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune, — 

Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird. 
And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  “  There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.” 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 
And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 


178 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 
The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  “  The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 


For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 

But  mine,  but  mine/’  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 
“  For  ever  and  ever  mine  !” 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my 
blood, 

As  the  music  clash’d  in  the  hall  ; 

And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 
the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so 
sweet 

That  whenever  a  March  wind  sighs, 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet, 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 
One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 

The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 
As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 

But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 

The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh’d  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with 
curls, 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 

She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ! 

The  red  rose  cries,  “  She  is  near,  she  is 
near 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  “She  is  late;” 
The  larkspur  listens,  “  I  hear,  I  hear  ;” 
And  the  lily  whispers,  “  I  wait.” 


She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ! 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 

My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

W ere  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 

My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 

Would  startle  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 
And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


The  Call. 

Awake  thee,  my  lady-love, 

Wake  thee  and  rise ; 

The  sun  through  the  bower  peeps 
Into  thine  eyes. 

Behold  how  the  early  lark 
Springs  from  the  corn ; 

Hark,  hark  !  how  the  flower-bird 
Winds  her  wee  horn. 

The  swallow’s  glad  shriek  is  heard 
All  through  the  air, 

The  stock-dove  is  murmuring 
Loud  as  she  dare. 

Apollo’s  wing’d  bugleman 
Cannot  contain, 

But  peals  his  loud  trumpet-call 
Once  and  again. 

Then  wake  thee,  my  lady-love, 

Bird  of  my  bower, 

The  sweetest  and  sleepiest 
Bird  at  this  hour. 

George  Darley, 

- - 

A  Health. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 
Of  loveliness  alone, 

A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 
The  seeming  paragon ; 

To  whom  the  better  elements 
And  kindly  stars  have  given 

A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

’Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music’s  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 

And  something  more  than  melody 
Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


179 


The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows, 

As  one  may  see  the  burden’d  bee 
Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours, 

Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers ; 

And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — 

The  idol  of  past  years  ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 
A  picture  on  the  brain, 

And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 
A  sound  must  long  remain  ; 

But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 

When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 
Will  not  be  life’s,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 
Of  loveliness  alone, 

A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 
The  seeming  paragon  ; — 

Her  health  !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 
Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 

That  life  might  all  be  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney. 

Caspar  a. 

Like  the  violet,  which  alone 
Prospers  in  some  happy  shade, 

My  Castara  lives  unknown, 

To  no  ruder  eye  betray’d  ; 

For  she’s  to  herself  untrue 
Who  delights  i’  the  public  view. 

Such  is  her  beauty  as  no  arts 

Have  enrich’d  with  borrow’d  grace. 
Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts, 

For  she  blushes  in  her  place. 

Folly  boasts  a  glorious  blood, — 

She  is  noblest  being  good. 

Cautious,  she  knew  never  yet 
What  a  wanton  courtship  meant ; 

Nor  speaks  loud  to  boast  her  wit, 

In  her  silence  eloquent. 


Of  herself  survey  she  takes, 

But  ’tween  men  no  difference  makes. 

She  obeys  with  speedy  will 

Her  grave  parents’  wise  commands ; 
And  so  innocent,  that  ill 
She  nor  acts,  nor  understands. 
Women’s  feet  run  still  astray 
If  to  ill  they  know  the  way. 

She  sails  by  that  rock,  the  court, 

Where  oft  virtue  splits  her  mast ; 

And  retiredness  thinks  the  port, 

Where  her  fame  may  anchor  cast. 
Virtue  safely  cannot  sit 
Where  vice  is  enthroned  for  wit. 

She  holds  that  day’s  pleasure  best 
Where  sin  waits  not  on  delight; 
Without  mask,  or  ball,  or  feast, 

Sweetly  spends  a  winter’s  night. 

O’er  that  darkness  whence  is  thrust 
Prayer  and  sleep,  oft  governs  lust. 

She  her  throne  makes  reason  climb. 

While  wild  passions  captive  lie ; 

And  each  article  of  time, 

Her  pure  thoughts  to  heaven  fly ; 

All  her  vows  religious  be, 

And  she  vows  her  love  to  me. 

William  Habington. 

- »o* - 

Superstition. 

I  care  not  though  it  be 

By  the  preciser  sort  thought  popery ; 

We  poeft*  can  a  license  show 
For  everything  we  do: 

Hear,  then,  my  little  saint,  I’ll  pray  to 
thee. 

If  now  thy  happy  mind 
Amid  its  various  joys  can  leisure  find 
To  attend  to  anything  so  low 
As  what  I  say  or  do, 

Regard,  and  be  what  thou  wast  ever — kind. 

Let  not  the  bless’d  above 
Engross  thee  quite,  but  sometimes  hither 
rove  ; 

Fain  would  I  thy  sweet  image  see, 

And  sit  and  talk  with  thee; 

Nor  is  it  curiosity,  but  love. 


180 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Ah  !  what  delight  ’twould  be 
Wouldst  thou  sometimes  by  stealth  con¬ 
verse  with  me ! 

How  should  I  thine  sweet  commune  prize, 
And  other  joys  despise! 

Come,  then  ;  I  ne’er  was  yet  denied  by  thee. 

I  would  not  long  detain 
Thy  soul  from  bliss,  nor  keep  thee  here  in 
pain  ; 

Nor  should  thy  fellow-saints  e’er  know 
Of  thy  escape  below  : 

Before  thou’rt  miss’d  thou  shouldst  return 
again. 

Sure,  heaven  must  needs  thy  love 
As  well  as  other  qualities  improve ; 

Come,  then,  and  recreate  my  sight 
With  rays  of  thy  pure  light: 

’Twill  cheer  my  eyes  more  than  the  lamps 
above. 

But  if  Fate’s  so  severe 
As  to  confine  thee  to  thy  blissful  sphere 
(And  by  thy  absence  I  shall  know 
Whether  thy  state  be  so), 

Live  happy,  but  be  mindful  of  me  there. 

John  Norris. 

- - 

Light. 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  dav  but  one : 

«.  7 

Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies, 
With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eves, 

And  the  heart  but  one ; 

Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies, 

When  love  is  done. 

Francis  W.  Bourdillon. 

- KX - 

Disdain  Returned . 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 

Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 
Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires, — 

As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 

So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 
Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires. 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 
Lovely  cheeks,  or  lips,  or  eyes. 


No  tears,  Celia,  now  shall  win 
My  resolved  heart  to  return ; 

I  have  search’d  thy  soul  within, 

And  find  naught  but  pride  and  scorn ; 
I  have  learn’d  thy  arts,  and  now 
Can  disdain  as  much  as  thou. 

Some  power,  in  my  revenge,  convey 
That  love  to  her  I  cast  away. 

Thomas  Carew. 

- *<>♦ - 

AUX  IT  ALIENS. 

At  Paris  it  was,  at  the  opera  there ; — 

And  she  look’d  like  a  queen  in  a  book 
that  night, 

With  the  wreath  of  pearl  in  her  raven 
hair, 

And  the  brooch  on  her  breast  so  bright. 

Of  all  the  operas  that  Verdi  wrote, 

The  best,  to  my  taste,  is  the  Trovatore ; 
And  Mario  can  soothe,  with  a  tenor  note, 
The  souls  in  purgatory. 

The  moon  on  the  tower  slept  soft  as  snow ; 
And  who  was  not  thrill’d  in  the  stran¬ 
gest  way, 

As  we  heard  him  sing,  while  the  gas 
burn’d  low, 

“  Non  ti  scordar  di  me  ”  ? 

The  emperor  there,  in  his  box  of  state, 
Look’d  grave,  as  if  he  had  just  then 

seen 

The  red  flag  wave  from  the  city  gate, 
Where  his  eagles  in  bronze  had  been. 

The  empress,  too,  had  a  tear  in  her  eye : 
You’d  have  said  that  her  fancy  had  gone 
back  again, 

For  one  moment,  under  the  old  blue  sky, 
To  the  old  glad  life  in  Spain. 

Well,  there  in  our  front-row  box  we  sat 
Together,  my  bride  betroth’d  and  I ; 

My  gaze  was  fixed  on  my  opera-hat, 

And  hers  on  the  stage  hard  by. 

And  both  were  silent,  and  both  were  sad ; 
Like  a  queen  she  lean’d  on  her  full 
white  arm, 

With  that  regal,  indolent  air  she  had, 

So  confident  of  her  charm ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


181 


I  have  not  a  doubt  she  was  thinking  then 
Of  her  former  lord,  good  soul  that  he 
was, 

Who  died  the  richest  and  roundest  of 
men, 

The  Marquis  of  Carabas. 

I  hope  that,  to  get  to  the  kingdom  of 
heaven, 

Through  a  needle’s  eye  he  had  not  to 
pass ; 

I  wish  him  well,  for  the  jointure  given 
To  my  lady  of  Carabas. 

Meanwhile,  I  was  thinking  of  my  first 
love, 

As  T  had  not  been  thinking  of  aught  for 
vears, 

Till  over  my  eyes  there  began  to  move 
Something  that  felt  like  tears. 

I  thought  of  the  dress  that  she  wore  last 
time, 

When  we  stood  ’neath  the  cypress  trees  to¬ 
gether, 

In  that  lost  land,  in  that  soft  clime, 

In  the  crimson  evening  weather ; 

Of  that  muslin  dress  (for  the  eve  was 
hot), 

And  her  warm  white  neck  in  its  golden 
chain, 

And  her  full,  soft  hair,  just  tied  in  a  knot, 
And  falling  loose  again  ; 

And  the  jasmine  flower  in  her  fair  young 
breast, 

(Oh,  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of  that  jasmine 
flower ! ) 

And  the  one  bird  singing  alone  to  his  nest, 
And  the  one  star  over  the  tower. 

I  thought  of  our  little  quarrels  and  strife, 
And  the  letter  that  brought  me  back  my 
ring ; 

And  it  all  seem’d  then,  in  the  waste  of 
life, 

Such  a  very  little  thing ! 

For  I  thought  of  her  grave  below  the  hill, 
Which  the  sentinel  cypress  tree  stands 
over, 

And  I  thought,  “Were  she  only  living 
still, 

How  I  could  forgive  her,  and  love  her !” 


And  I  swear,  as  I  thought  of  her  thus,  in 
that  hour, 

And  of  how,  after  all,  old  things  were 
best, 

That  I  smelt  the  smell  of  that  jasmine 
flower 

Which  she  used  to  wear  in  her  breast. 

It  smelt  so  faint,  and  it  smelt  so  sweet, 

It  made  me  creep,  and  it  made  me 
cold ; 

Like  the  scent  that  steals  from  the  crum¬ 
bling  sheet 

Where  a  mummy  is  half  unroll’d. 

And  I  turn’d  and  look’d :  she  was  sitting 
there, 

In  a  dim  box  over  the  stage,  and  drest 

In  that  muslin  dress,  with  that  full,  soft 
hair, 

And  that  jasmine  in  her  breast. 

I  was  here :  and  she  was  there  : 

And  the  glittering  horse-shoe  curved  be- 
tween, 

From  my  bride  betroth’d,  with  her  raven 
hair, 

And  her  sumptuous,  scornful  mien, 

To  my  early  love,  with  her  eyes  downcast, 

And  over  her  primrose  face  the  shade. 

(In  short,  from  the  future  back  to  the 
past 

There  was  but  a  step  to  be  made.) 

To  my  early  love  from  my  future  bride 

One  moment  I  look’d.  Then  I  stole  to 
the  door, 

I  traversed  the  passage,  and  down  at  her 
side 

I  was  sitting,  a  moment  more. 

My  thinking  of  her,  or  the  music’s  strain, 

Or  something  which  never  will  be  ex- 
prest, 

Had  brought  her  back  from  the  grave 
again, 

With  the  jasmine  in  her  breast. 

She  is  not  dead,  and  she  is  not  wed, 

Hut  she  loves  me  now,  and  she  loved  me 
then  ! 

And  the  very  first  word  that  her  sweet 
lips  said, 

My  heart  grew  youthful  again. 


182 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Marchioness  there,  of  Carabas, 

Bhe  is  wealthy,  and  young,  and  hand¬ 
some  still, 

And  but  for  her, — well,  we’ll  let  that 
pass — 

She  may  marry  whomever  she  will. 

But  I  will  marry  my  own  first  love, 

With  her  primrose  face,  for  old  things 
are  best, 

And  the  flower  in  her  bosom,  I  prize  it 
above 

The  brooch  in  my  lady’s  breast. 

The  world  is  fill’d  with  folly  and  sin, 

And  love  must  cling  where  it  can,  I 
say, 

For  beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win, 

But  one  isn’t  loved  every  day. 

And  I  think,  in  the  lives  of  most  women 
and  men, 

There’s  a  moment  when  all  would  go 
smooth  and  even, 

If  only  the  dead  could  find  out  when 
To  come  back  and  be  forgiven. 

But  oh,  the  smell  of  that  jasmine  flower ! 

And  oh,  that  music !  and  oh,  the  way 
That  voice  rang  out  from  the  donjon 
tower : 

Non  ti  scorclar  di  me, 

Non  ti  scordar  di  me  ! 

Robert  Bulwer  Lytton. 

- - 

To  Sigh,  yet  Feel  no  Pain. 

To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain, 

To  weep,  yet  scarce  know  why  ; 

To  sport  an  hour  with  beauty’s  chain, 
Then  throw  it  idly  by  ; 

To  kneel  at  many  a  shrine, 

Yet  lay  the  heart  on  none  ; 

To  think  all  other  charms  divine, 

But  those  we  just  have  won  ; 

This  is  love,  faithless  love, 

Such  as  kindleth  hearts  that  rove. 

To  keep  one  sacred  flame, 

Through  life  unchill’d,  unmoved, 

To  love  in  wintry  age  the  same 
As  first  in  youth  we  loved  ; 

To  feel  that  we  adore, 

Ev’n  to  such  fond  excess, 


That,  though  the  heart  would  break  with 
more, 

It  could  not  live  with  less  ; 

This  is  love,  faithful  love, 

Such  as  saints  might  feel  above. 

Thomas  Moore. 

- »o» - 

A  PASTORAL. 

On  a  hill  there  grows  a  flower, 

Fair  befall  the  dainty  sweet ! 

By  that  flower  there  is  a  bower, 

Where  the  heavenly  Muses  meet. 

In  that  bower  there  is  a  chair, 

Fringed  all  about  with  gold, 

Where  doth  sit  the  fairest  fair 
That  ever  eye  did  yet  behold. 

It  is  Phillis,  fair  and  bright, 

She  that  is  the  shepherds’  joy, 

She  that  Venus  did  despite, 

And  did  blind  her  little  boy. 

This  is  she,  the  wise,  the  rich, 

That  the  world  desires  to  see ; 

This  is  ipsa  quae,  the  which 
There  is  none  but  only  she. 

Who  would  not  this  face  admire  ? 
Who  would  not  this  saint  adore  ? 

Who  would  not  this  sight  desire, 
Though  he  thought  to  see  no  more  ? 

0  fair  eyes,  yet  let  me  see 

One  good  look,  and  I  am  gone; 

Look  on  me,  for  I  am  he, 

The  poor  silly  Corydon. 

Thou  that  art  the  shepherds’  queen, 
Look  upon  thy  silly  swain  ; 

By  thy  comfort  have  been  seen 

Dead  men  brought  to  life  again. 

Nicholas  Bretox. 

-  •<>♦ - 

The  Silent  Lover. 

Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods  and 
streams, 

The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deep  are 
dumb ; 

So  when  affection  yields  discourse,  it  seems 

The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence  they 
come ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


183 


They  that  are  rich  in  words  must  needs 
discover 

They  are  but  poor  in  that  which  makes 
a  lover. 

Wrong  not,  sweet  mistress  of  my  heart, 
The  merit  of  true  passion, 

With  thinking  that  he  feels  no  smart 
Who  sues  for  no  compassion. 

Since  if  my  plaints  were  not  t’  approve 
The  conquest  of  thy  beauty, 

It  comes  not  from  defect  of  love, 

But  fear  t’  exceed  my  duty. 

For,  knowing  that  I  sue  to  serve 
A  saint  of  such  perfection 
As  all  desire,  but  none  deserve 
A  place  in  her  affection, 

I  rather  choose  to  want  relief 
Than  venture  the  revealing  : — 

Where  glory  recommends  the  grief, 
Despair  disdains  the  healing. 

Thus  those  desires  that  boil  so  high 
In  any  mortal  lover, 

When  reason  cannot  make  them  die, 
Discretion  them  must  cover. 

Yet  when  discretion  doth  bereave 
The  plaints  that  I  should  utter, 

Then  your  discretion  may  perceive 
That  silence  is  a  suitor. 

Silence  in  love  bewrays  more  woe 
Than  words,  though  ne’er  so  witty : 

A  beggar  that  is  dumb,  you  know, 

May  challenge  double  pity. 

Then  wrong  not,  dearest  to  my  heart, 
My  love,  for  secret  passion  : 

He  smarteth  most  that  hides  his  smart, 
And  sues  for  no  compassion. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 

- 4<>« - 

The  Groomsman  to  tiie  Brides¬ 
maid . 

Every  wedding,  says  the  proverb, 
Makes  another,  soon  or  late  ; 

Never  yet  was  any  marriage 
Enter’d  in  the  book  of  fate, 

But  the  names  were  also  written 
Of  the  patient  pair  that  wait. 

Blessings,  then,  upon  the  morning 
When  my  friend,  with  fondest  look, 


By  the  solemn  rites’  permission, 

To  his  heart  his  true  love  took, 

And  the  destinies  recorded 
Other  two  within  their  book. 

While  the  priest  fulfill’d  his  office, 

Still  the  ground  the  lovers  eyed, 

And  the  parents  and  the  kinsmen 
Aim’d  their  glances  at  the  bride  ; 

But  the  groomsmen  eyed  the  virgins 
Who  were  waiting  at  her  side. 

Three  there  were  that  stood  beside  her ; 

One  was  dark,  and  one  was  fair  ; 

But  nor  fair  nor  dark  the  other, 

Save  her  Arab  eyes  and  hair ; 

Neither  dark  nor  fair  I  call  her, 

Yet  she  was  the  fairest  there. 

While  the  groomsman — shall  I  own  it  ? 

Yes  to  thee,  and  only  thee — 

Gazed  upon  this  dark-eyed  maiden 
Who  was  fairest  of  the  three, 

Thus  lie  thought :  “  How  blest  the  bridal 
Where  the  bride  were  such  as  she  !” 

• 

Then  I  mused  upon  the  adage, 

Till  my  wisdom  was  perplex’d, 

And  I  wonder’d,  as  the  churchman 
Dwelt  upon  his  holy  text, 

Which  of  all  who  heard  his  lesson 
Should  require  the  service  next. 

Whose  will  be  the  next  occasion 
For  the  flowers,  the  feast,  the  wine? 
Thine,  perchance,  my  dearest  lady  ; 

Or,  who  knows  ? — it  may  be  mine, 

What  if  ’twere — forgive  the  fancy — 

What  if  ’twere — both  mine  and  thine? 

Thomas  William  Parsons. 

- K>« - 

Zara's  Ear-Rings. 

My  ear-rings!  my  ear-rings!  they’ve 
dropp’d  into  the  well, 

And  what  to  say  to  Mu§a,  I  cannot,  cannot 
tell— 

’Twas  thus,  Granada’s  fountain  by,  spoke 
Albuharez’  daughter : — 

The  well  is  deep — far  down  they  lie,  be¬ 
neath  the  cold  blue  water ; 


184 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


To  me  did  Muca  give  them  when  he  spake 
his  sad  farewell, 

And  what  to  say  when  he  comes  back, 
alas  !  I  cannot  tell. 

My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  ! — they  were 
pearls  in  silver  set, 

That,  when  my  Moor  was  far  away,  I  ne’er 
should  him  forget  ; 

That  1  ne’er  to  other  tongues  should  list, 
nor  smile  on  other’s  tale, 

But  remember  he  my  lips  had  kiss’d,  pure 
as  those  ear-rings  pale. 

When  he  comes  back,  and  hears  that  I 
have  dropp’d  them  in  the  well, 

Oh,  what  will  Muga  think  of  me? — I  can¬ 
not,  cannot  tell ! 

My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  ! — he’ll  say 
they  should  have  been, 

Not  of  pearl  and  of  silver,  but  of  gold 
and  glittering  sheen, 

Of  jasper  and  of  onyx,  and  of  diamond 
shining  clear, 

Changing  to  the  changing  light,  with 
radiance  insincere ; 

That  changeful  mind  unchanging  gems  are 
not  befitting  well, 

Thus  will  he  think — and  what  to  say,  alas! 
I  cannot  tell. 

He’ll  think  when  I  to  market  went  I 
loiter’d  by  the  way  ; 

He’ll  think  a  willing  ear  I  lent  to  all  the 
lads  might  say  ; 

He’ll  think  some  other  lover’s  hand,  among 
my  tresses  noosed, 

From  the  ears  where  he  had  placed  them 
my  rings  of  pearl  unloosed  ; 

He’ll  think  when  I  was  sporting  so  beside 
this  marble  well 

My  pearls  fell  in — and  what  to  say,  alas  ! 
I  cannot  tell. 

He’ll  say  I  am  a  woman,  and  we  are  all 
the  same ; 

He’ll  say  I  loved  when  he  was  here  to 
whisper  of  his  flame — 

But  when  he  went  to  Tunis,  my  virgin 
troth  had  broken, 

And  thought  no  more  of  Muga,  and  cared 
not  for  his  token. 


My  ear-rings!  my  ear-rings!  0  luckless, 
luckless  well, — 

For  what  to  say  to  Muga — alas !  I  cannot 
tell. 

I’ll  tell  the  truth  to  Muga — and  I  hope  he 
will  believe — 

That  I  thought  of  him  at  morning  and 
thought  of  him  at  eve ; 

That,  musing  on  my  lover,  when  down  the 
sun  was  gone, 

His  ear-rings  in  my  hand  I  held,  by  the 
fountain  all  alone  ; 

And  that  my  mind  was  o’er  the  sea,  when 
from  my  hand  they  fell, 

And  that  deep  his  love  lies  in  my  heart,  as 
they  lie  in  tfie  well. 

(From  the  .Spanish.) 
John  Gibson  Lockhart. 

- »o« - 

Look  Out ,  Bright  Eyes. 

Look  out,  bright  eyes,  and  bless  the  air! 
Even  in  shadows  you  are  fair. 

Shut-up  beauty  is  like  fire, 

That  breaks  out  clearer  still  and  higher. 
Though  your  beauty  be  confined, 

And  soft  Love  a  prisoner  bound, 

Yet  the  beauty  of  your  mind 

Neither  check  nor  chain  hath  found. 
Look  out  nobly,  then,  and  dare 
Even  the  fetters  that  you  wear. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

- K>« - 

Take,  oh  Take  those  Lips 
A  wa  y. 

Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn, 

And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn  ! 

But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Seals  of  love,  though  seal’d  in  vain. 

Hide,  oh  hide  those  hills  of  snow 
Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears, 

On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 
Are  yet  of  those  that  April  wears. 

But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free, 

Bound  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

- *>♦ - 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


185 


Go,  Lovely  Rose. 

“  Go,  lovely  rose  ! 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 
That  now  she  knows 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

“  Tell  her  that’s  young, 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 
That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

“  Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired : 

Bid  her  come  forth, 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

“  Then  die  !  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 
Mav  read  in  thee, 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 

That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair.” 

Edmund  Waller. 

- *o« - 

Music,  when  Soft  Voices  Die. 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 

Vibrates  in  the  memory — 

Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 

Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 

Are  heap’d  for  the  beloved’s  bed ; 

And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art 
gone, 

Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

-  «<>• - 

To  his  Mistress,  the  Queen  of 
Bohemia. 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  nigh  t, 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light — 
You  common  people  of  the  skies — 
What  are  you  when  the  moon  shall  rise? 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  wood, 

That  warble  forth  dame  Nature’s  lays, 
Thinking  your  passions  understood 


By  your  weak  accents  —  what’s  your 
praise 

When  Philomel  her  voice  shall  raise  ? 

You  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known, 
Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 

As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own — 
What  are  you  when  the  rose  is  blown? 

So  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind ; 

By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  queen — 

Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  design’d 
Th’  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind  ? 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 

- K>« - 

On  a  Girdle. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind; 

No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown, 

His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  heaven’s  extremest  sphere, 

The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer : 

My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 

Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that’s  good,  and  all  that’s 
fair. 

Give  me  but  what  this  ribbon  bound, 

Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round ! 

Edmund  Waller. 

- - 

There  is  a  Garden  in  her  Face : 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face, 

Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow ; 

A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 

Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  grow  ; 
There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy, 
Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 
Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 

Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 
They  look  like  rosebuds  filled  with 
snow ; 

Yet  them  no  peer  nor  prince  may  buy, 

Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still. 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand. 


186 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Threatening  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 
These  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 

Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Richard  Alison. 

- *>« - 

Jenny  Kissed  Me. 

Jenny  kiss’d  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in ; 
Time,  you  thief!  who  love  to  get 
Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 

Say  I’m  weary,  say  I’m  sad  ; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  miss’d 
me ; 

Say  I’m  growing  old,  but  add — 

Jenny  kiss’d  me ! 

Leigh  Hunt. 

- *04 - 

Allen- a-D ale. 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spinning, 
Yet  Allen-a-Dale  has  red  gold  for  the  Avin- 
ning. 

Come,  read  me  my  riddle!  come,  hearken 
my  tale ! 

And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravenswortli  prances  in  pride, 
And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkindale 
side, 

The  mere  for  his  net,  and  the  land  for  his 
game, 

The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park  for 
the  tame ; 

Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake,  and  the  deer  of  the 
vale, 

Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allen-a- 
Dale  ! 

Allen-a-Dale  was  ne’er  belted  a  knight, 
Though  his  spur  be  as  sharp,  and  his  blade 
be  as  bright ; 

Allen-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord, 

Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at  his 
word ; 

And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bonnet  will 
veil, 

Who  at  Rere-cross  on  Stanmore  meets 
Allen-a-Dale. 


Allen-a-Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come ; 

The  mother,  she  ask’d  of  his  household 
and  home  : 

“  Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand 
fair  on  the  hill, 

My  hall,”  quoth  bold  Allen,  “  shows  gal- 
lanter  still ; 

’Tis  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with  its 
crescent  so  pale, 

And  with  all  its  bright  spangles!”  said 
Allen-a-Dale. 

The  father  was  steel,  and  the  mother  Avas 
stone ; 

They  lifted  the  latch,  and  they  bade  him 
be  gone; 

But  loud,  on  the  morrow,  their  wail  and 
their  cry  ; 

He  had  laugh’d  on  the  lass  with  his  bonny 
black  eye, 

And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love- 
tale, 

And  the  vouth  it  was  told  by  was  Allen-a- 
Dale! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

■  ■ 1  1  »o» - 

The  Hea  th  this  Night  must  be 
my  Bed. 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed, 

The  bracken  curtain  for  my  head, 

My  lullaby  the  warder’s  tread, 

Far,  far  from  love  and  thee,  Mary; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid, 

My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid, 

My  vesper  song  thy  wail,  sAveet  maid  ! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary ! 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 
The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow ; 

I  dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow, 

And  all  it  promised  me,  Mary. 

No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know; 

When  bursts  Clan-Alpine  on  the  foe, 

His  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow, 

His  foot  like  arroAv  free,  Mary. 

A  time  will  come  with  feeling  fraught ! 

For,  if  I  fall  in  battle  fought, 

Thy  hapless  lover’s  dying  thought 
Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


187 


And  if  return’d  from  conquer’d  foes, 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close, 
How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repose 

To  my  young  bride  and  me,  Mary  ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

- - 

Sigh  no  More ,  Ladies. 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more  ; 

Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 

One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore, 

To  one  thing  constant  never  : 

Then  sigh  not  so, 

But  let  them  go, 

And  be  you  blythe  and  bonny ; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into,  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mo 
Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy ; 

The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 

Since  summer  first  was  leavy  : 

Then  sigh  not  so, 

But  let  them  go, 

And  be  you  blythe  and  bonny ; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into,  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 

William  Shakespeare. 
_— *<>• - 

Love  Not. 

Love  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of 
clay  ! 

Hope’s  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of 
earthly  flowers — 

Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away 
Ere  they  have  blossom’d  for  a  few  short 
hours. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not !  the  thing  ye  love  may  change  ! 

•  The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you, 
The  kindly-beaming  eye  grow  cold  and 
strange, 

The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not !  the  thing  you  love  may  die — 
May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome 
earth ; 

The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky, 
Beam  o’er  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  birth. 

Love  not ! 


Love  not !  oh,  warning  vainly  said 
In  present  hours  as  in  years  gone  by ; 
Love  flings  a  halo  round  the  dear  one’s 
head, 

Faultless,  immortal,  till  they  change  or 
die. 

Love  not ! 

Caroline  Norton. 

■  -  -  »o»  ■■■  ~ 

A  T Y Oman's  Question . 

Before  I  trust  my  Fate  to  thee, 

Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 

Before  I  let  thy  Future  give 
Color  and  form  to  mine, 

Before  I  peril  all  for  thee,  question  thy 
soul  to-night  for  me. 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 
A  shadow  of  regret  : 

Is  there  one  link  within  the  Past 
That  holds  thy  spirit  yet  ? 

Or  is  thy  Faith  as  clear  and  free  as  that 
which  I  can  pledge  to  thee  ? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest  dreams 
A  possible  future  shine, 

Wherein  thy  life  could  henceforth 
breathe, 

Untouch’d,  unshared  by  mine? 

If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost,  oh  tell  me  before 
all  is  lost. 

Look  deeper  still.  If  thou  canst  feel 
Within  thy  inmost  soul, 

That  thou  hast  kept  a  portion  back, 
While  I  have  staked  the  whole  ; 

Let  no  false  pity  spare  the  blow,  but  in 
true  mercy  tell  me  so. 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 
That  mine  cannot  fulfil  ? 

One  chord  that  any  other  hand 
Could  better  wake  or  still  ? 

Speak  now — lest  at  some  future  day  my 
whole  life  wither  and  decay. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 
The  demon-spirit  Change, 

Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 
On  all  things  new  and  strange  ? 

It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone — but  shield 
my  heart  against  thy  own. 


188 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one  day 
And  answer  to  my  claim, 

That  Fate,  and  that  to-day’s  mistake — 
Not  thou — had  been  to  blame  ? 

Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus;  but 
thou  wilt  surely  warn  and  save  me 
now. 

Nay,  answer  not, — I  dare  not  hear, 

The  words  would  come  too  late  ; 

Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  remorse, 

So  comfort  thee,  my  Fate — 

Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall — remem¬ 
ber,  I  would  risk  it  all ! 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 

- - 

A  Womans  Answer. 

I  will  not  let  you  say  a  woman’s  part 

Must  be  to  give  exclusive  love  alone ; 

Dearest,  although  I  love  you  so,  my  heart 

Answers  a  thousand  claims  besides  your 
own. 

I  love — what  do  I  not  love?  Earth  and 
air 

Find  space  within  my  heart,  and  myriad 
things 

You  would  not  deign  to  heed  are  cherish’d 
there, 

And  vibrate  on  its  very  inmost  strings. 

I  love  the  Summer,  with  her  ebb  and  flow 

Of  light,  and  warmth,  and  music,  that 
have  nursed 

Her  tender  buds  to  blossoms  .  .  .  and  you 
know 

It  was  in  summer  that  I  saw  you  first. 


I  love  the  flowers ;  happy  hours  lie 
Shut  up  within  their  petals  close  and 
fast : 

You  have  forgotten,  dear;  but  they  and  I 
Keep  every  fragment  of  the  golden  past. 

I  love,  too,  to  be  loved ;  all  loving  praise 
Seems  like  a  crown  upon  my  life, — to 
make 

It  better  worth  the  giving,  and  to  raise 
Still  nearer  to  your  own  the  heart  you 
take. 

I  love  all  good  and  noble  souls ; — I  heard 
One  speak  of  you  but  lately,  and  for 
days, 

Only  to  think  of  it,  my  soul  was  stirr’d 
In  tender  memory  of  such  generous 
praise. 

I  love  all  those  who  love  you  ;  all  who  owe 
Comfort  to  you ;  and  I  can  find  regret 

Even  for  those  poorer  hearts  who  once 
could  know, 

And  once  could  love  you,  and  can  now 
forget. 

Well,  is  my  heart  so  narrow, — I,  who  spare 
Love  for  all  these  ?  Do  I  not  even  hold 

My  favorite  books  in  special  tender  care, 
And  prize  them  as  a  miser  does  his  gold  ? — 

The  poets  that  you  used  to  read  to  me 
While  summer  twilights  faded  in  the 
sky; 

But  most  of  all  I  think  Aurora  Leigh, 
Because  —  because  —  do  you  remember 
why? 


I  love  the  WTinter  dearly  too,  .  .  .  but  then 

I  owe  it  so  much ;  on  a  winter’s  day, 

Bleak,  cold,  and  stormy,  you  return’d 
again, 

When  you  had  been  those  weary  months 
away. 

I  love  the  Stars  like  friends;  so  many 
nights 

I  gazed  at  them,  when  you  were  far  from 
me, 

Till  I  grew  blind  with  tears  ;  .  .  .  those  far- 
off  lights 

Could  watch  you,  whom  I  long’d  in  vain 
to  see. 


Will  you  be  jealous?  Did  you  guess  be¬ 
fore 

I  loved  so  many  things? — Still  you  the 
best : — 

Dearest,  remember  that  I  love  you  more, 
Oh  more  a  thousand  times,  than  all  the 
rest ! 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 


Maude  Clare. 

Out  of  the  church  she  follow’d  them 
With  a  lofty  step  and  mien : 

His  bride  was  like  a  village  maid, 
Maude  Clare  was  like  a  queen. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


189 


“  Son  Thomas/’  his  lady  mother  said, 
With  smiles,  almost  with  tears : 

“  May  Nell  and  you  but  live  as  true 
As  wre  have  done  for  years ; 

“  Your  father  thirty  years  ago 
Had  just  your  tale  to  tell ; 

But  he  wras  not  so  pale  as  you, 

Nor  I  so  pale  as  Nell.” 

My  lord  was  pale  with  inwrard  strife, 

And  Nell  wras  pale  with  pride ; 

My  lord  gazed  long  on  pale  Maude  Clare 
Or  ever  he  kiss’d  the  bride. 

“  Lo,  I  have  brought  my  gift,  my  lord, 
Have  brought  my  gift,”  she  said  : 

“  To  bless  the  hearth,  to  bless  the  board, 
To  bless  the  marriage-bed. 

“Here’s  my  half  of  the  golden  chain 
You  wore  about  your  neck, 

That  day  we  waded  ankle-deep 
For  lilies  in  the  beck : 

“  Here’s  my  half  of  the  faded  leaves 
We  pluck’d  from  budding  bough, 

With  feet  amongst  the  lily-leaves, — 

The  lilies  are  budding  now.” 

He  strove  to  match  her  scorn  wTith  scorn, 
He  falter’d  in  his  place: 

“  Lady,”  he  said, — “  Maude  Clare,”  he 
said, — 

“  Maude  Clare:” — and  hid  his  face. 

She  turn’d  to  Nell :  “  My  Lady  Nell, 

I  have  a  gift  for  you ; 

Though  were  it  fruit,  the  bloom  wrere  gone, 
Or,  wrere  it  flowers,  the  dew. 

“Take  my  share  of  a  fickle  heart, 

Mine  of  a  paltry  love  : 

Take  it  or  leave  it  as  you  will, 

I  wash  my  hands  thereof.” 

“  And  what  you  leave,”  said  Nell,  “  I’ll  take, 
And  what  you  spurn,  I’ll  -wear  ; 

For  he’s  my  lord  for  better  and  worse, 

And  him  I  love,  Maude  Clare. 

“  Yea,  though  you’re  taller  by  the  head, 
More  wise,  and  much  more  fair ; 

I’ll  love  him  till  he  loves  me  best, 

Me  best  of  all,  Maude  Clare.” 

Christina  Georgina  Rossetti. 


A  Serenade. 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 

The  orange-flower  perfumes  the  bowTer, 
The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 

The  lark,  his  lay  who  trill’d  all  day, 

Sits  hush’d  his  partner  nigh  ; 

Breeze,  bird,  and  flow7er  confess  the  hour, 
But  where  is  County  Guy? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade, 
Her  shepherd’s  suit  to  hear  ; 

To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  cavalier. 

The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 

Nowr  reigns  o’er  earth  and  sky, 

And  high  and  low7  the  influence  know, 

But  w'here  is  County  Guv? 

Sir  W'alter  Scott. 

- •<>♦ - - 

To  a  Very  Young  Lady. 

Ah,  Chloris !  could  I  now7  but  sit 
As  unconcern’d  as  when 
Your  infant  beauty  could  beget 
No  happiness  or  pain  ! 

When  I  the  dawn  used  to  admire. 

j 

And  praised  the  coming  day, 

I  little  thought  the  rising  fire 
Would  take  my  rest  away. 

Your  charms  in  harmless  childhood  lay 
Like  metals  in  a  mine ; 

Age  from  no  face  takes  more  aw7ay 
Than  youth  conceal’d  in  thine. 

But  as  your  charms  insensibly 
To  their  perfection  prest, 

So  love  as  unperceived  did  fly, 

And  centred  in  my  breast. 

My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew. 

While  Cupid  at  my  heart 
Still  as  his  mother  favor’d  you 
Threw  a  new7  flaming  dart ; 

Each  gloried  in  their  wanton  part; 

To  make  a  lover  he 
Employ’d  the  utmost  of  his  art — 

To  make  a  beauty,  she. 

Though  now7  I  slowdy  bend  to  love 
Uncertain  of  my  fate, 

If  your  fair  self  my  chains  approve, 

I  shall  my  freedom  hate. 


190 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Lovers,  like  dying  men,  may  well 
At  first  disorder’d  be, 

Since  none  alive  can  truly  tell 

Wliat  fortune  they  must  see. 

Sir  Charles  Sedley. 

- •<>♦ - 

Sonnet. 

Like  as  the  culver,  on  the  bared  bough, 

Sits  mourning  for  the  absence  of  her 
mate, 

And  in  her  songs  sends  many  a  wishful 
vow 

For  his  return  that  seems  to  linger  late ; 

So  I  alone,  now  left  disconsolate, 

Mourn  to  myself  the  absence  of  my 
love, 

And,  wand’ring  here  and  there,  all  deso¬ 
late, 

Seek  with  my  plaints  to  match  that 
mournful  dove ; 

Ne  joy  of  aught  that  under  heaven  doth 
hove 

Can  comfort  me  but  her  own  joyous 
sight, 

Whose  sweet  aspect  both  God  and  men 
can  move, 

In  her  unspotted  pleasures  to  delight. 

Dark  is  my  day,  whiles  her  fair  light  I 
miss, 

And  dead  my  life,  that  wants  such  lively 
bliss. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


Sonnet. 

Since  I  did  leave  the  presence  of  my 
love, 

Many  long,  weary  days  I  have  outworn, 

And  many  nights  that  slowly  seem’d  to 
move 

Their  sad  protract  from  evening  until 
morn. 

For,  when  as  day  the  heaven  doth  adorn, 

I  wish  that  night  the  noyous  day  would 
end, 

And  when  as  night  hath  us  of  light  for¬ 
lorn, 

I  wish  that  day  would  shortly  reascend. 

Thus  I  the  time  with  expectation  spend, 

And  fain  my  grief  with  changes  to  be¬ 
guile, 


That  further  seems  his  term  still  to  ex¬ 
tend, 

And  maketh  every  minute  seem  a  mile. 

So  sorrow  still  doth  seem  too  long  to  last, 

But  joyous  hours  do  fly  away  too  fast. 

Edmund  Spenser. 

•O*  ■■■■■  • 

A  Renunciation. 

If  women  could  be  fair,  and  yet  not  fond, 

Or  that  their  love  were  firm,  not  fickle 
still, 

I  would  not  marvel  that  they  make  men 
bond 

By  service  long  to  purchase  their  good¬ 
will, 

But  when  I  see  how  frail  those  creatures 
are, 

I  muse  that  men  forget  themselves  so  far. 

To  mark  the  choice  they  make,  and  how 
they  change, 

How  oft  from  Phoebus  they  do  flee  to 
Pan, 

Unsettled  still,  like  haggards  wild  they 
range, 

These  gentle  birds  that  fly  from  man  to 
man  ; 

Who  would  not  scorn  and  shake  them 
from  the  fist, 

And  let  them  fly,  fair  fools,  which  way 
they  list. 

Yet  for  disport  we  fawn  and  flatter  both. 

To  pass  the  time  when  nothing  else  can 
please, 

And  train  them  to  our  lure  with  subtle 
oath, 

Till,  weary  of  their  wiles,  ourselves  we 
ease ; 

And  then  we  say  when  we  their  fancy 

try, 

To  play  with  fools,  oh,  what  a  fool  was  I : 

Edward  Vere,  Earl  of  Oxford. 

•o* - 

Blame  not  my  Lute. 

Blame  not  my  Lute  !  for  he  must  sound 

Of  this  or  that  as  liketh  me ; 

For  lack  of  wit  the  Lute  is  bound 

To  give  such  tunes  as  pleaseth  me ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


191 


Though  my  songs  be  somewhat  strange, 
And  speak  such  words  as  touch  my  change, 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

My  Lute,  alas  !  doth  not  offend, 

Though  that  perforce  he  must  agree 
To  sound  such  tunes  as  I  intend 
To  sing  to  them  that  heareth  me ; 

Then  though  my  songs  be  somewhat  plain, 
And  toucheth  some  that  use  to  feign, 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

My  Lute  and  strings  may  not  deny, 

But  as  I  strike  they  must  obey  ; 

Break  not  them  so  wrongfully, 

But  wreak  thyself  some  other  way  ; 

And  though  the  songs  which  I  indite 
Do  quit  thy  change  with  rightful  spite, 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

Spite  asketh  spite,  and  changing  change, 
And  falsfed  faith  must  needs  be  known  ; 
The  faults  so  great,  the  case  so  strange  ; 

Of  right  it  must  abroad  be  blown  : 

Then  since  that  by  thine  own  desert 
My  songs  do  tell  how  true  thou  art, 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

Blame  but  thyself  that  hast  misdone, 

And  well  deserved  to  have  blame  ; 
Change  thou  thy  way,  so  evil  begone, 

And  then  my  Lute  shall  sound  that  same ! 
But  if  till  then  my  fingers  play, 

By  thy  desert  their  wonted  way, 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

Farewell,  unknown;  for  though  thou  break 
My  strings  in  spite  with  great  disdain, 
Yet  have  I  found  out,  for  thy  sake, 

Strings  for  to  string  my  Lute  again  : 

And  if  perchance  this  silly  rhyme 
Do  make  thee  blush  at  any  time, 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

Sir  Tiiomas  Wyatt. 

- K>« - 

Sonnet. 

0  happy  Thames  that  didst  my  Stella 
bear ! 

I  saw  myself  with  many  a  smiling  line 
Upon  thy  cheerful  face,  joy’s  livery  wear, 
While  those  fair  planets  on  thy  streams 
did  shine ; 


The  boat  for  joy  could  not  to  dance  for¬ 
bear  ; 

While  wanton  winds,  with  beauties  so 
divine 

Ravish’d,  staid  not  till  in  her  golden  hair 
They  did  themselves,  O  sweetest  prison ! 
twine  ; 

And  fain  those  Eol’s  youth  there  would 
their  stay 

Have  made,  but  forced  by  Nature  still  to 

%, 

First  did  with  puffing  kiss  those  locks  dis¬ 
play. 

She  so  dishevell’d,  blush’d : — from  win¬ 
dow  I, 

With  sight  thereof,  cried  out,  O  fair  dis¬ 
grace  ! 

Let  honor’s  self  to  thee  grant  highest  place. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

- •<>• - 

The  Re -cured  Lover  Exult eth 
in  his  Freedom. 

I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  be : 

But  how  that  I  am  none  knoweth  truly. 

Be  it  ill,  be  it  well,  be  I  bond,  be  I  free, 

I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  be. 

I  lead  my  life  indifferently  ; 

I  mean  nothing  but  honesty ; 

And  though  folks  judge  full  diversely, 

I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  die. 

I  do  not  rejoice  nor  yet  complain, 

Both  mirth  and  sadness  I  do  refrain, 

And  use  the  means  since  folks  will  feign  , 
Yet  I  am  as  I  am,  be  it  pleasant  or  pain. 

Divers  do  judge  as  they  do  trow, 

Some  of  pleasure  and  some  of  woe, 

Yet  for  all  that,  nothing  they  know  ; 

But  I  am  as  I  am,  wheresoever  I  go. 

But  since  judgers  do  thus  decay, 

Let  every  man  his  judgment  say ; 

I  will  it  take  in  sport  and  play, 

For  I  am  as  I  am,  whosoever  say  nay. 

Who  judgetli  well,  well  God  them  send ; 
Who  judgeth  evil,  God  them  amend; 

To  judge  the  best  therefore  intend, 

For  I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  end. 


192 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Yet  some  there  be  that  take  delight, 

To  judge  folks’  thought  for  envy  and  spite  ; 
But  whether  they  judge  me  wrong  or  right, 
I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  do  I  write. 


j  ’Twas  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 

i  * 

And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast : 

!  For  Avhile  I  gazed,  in  transport  tost, 

My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost. 


Praying  you  all  that  this  do  read, 

To  trust  it  as  you  do  your  creed ; 

And  not  to  think  I  change  my  weed, 

For  I  am  as  I  am,  however  I  speed. 

But  how  that  is  I  leave  to  you  ; 

Judge  as  ye  list,  false  or  true, 

Ye  know  no  more  than  afore  ye  knew, 

Yet  I  am  as  I  am,  whatever  ensue. 

And  from  this  mind  I  will  not  flee, 

But  to  you  all  that  misjudge  me, 

I  do  protest,  as  ye  may  see, 

That  I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  be. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt. 

— - »o# - 

Sonnet. 

Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my 
lance 

Guided  so  well,  that  I  obtain’d  the  prize, 
Both  by  the  judgment  of  the  English  eyes, 
And  of  some  sent  from  that  sweet  enemy 
France ; 

Horsemen  my  skill  in  horsemanship  ad¬ 
vance  ; 

Townfolks  my  strength;  a  daintier  judge 
applies 

His  praise  to  sleight  which  from  good  use 
doth  rise ; 

Some  lucky  wits  impute  it  but  to  chance ; 

Others,  because  of  both  sides  I  do  take 
Mv  blood  from  them  who  did  excel  in  this, 
Think  Nature  me  a  man  of  arms  did 
make. 

How  far  they  shot  awry !  the  true  cause  is 
Stella  look’d  on,  and  from  her  heavenly 
face 

Sent  forth  the  beams  which  made  so  fair 
my  race. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 
- •<>* - 

A  Fragment  from  Sappho. 

Blest  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 

The  youth  who  fondlv  sits  bv  thee, 

And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak  and  sweetly  smile. 


My  bosom  glow’d  ;  the  subtle  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame  : 
O’er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung  ; 

My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chill’d ; 

My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrill’d  • 

My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play — 

I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 

Ambrose  Philips. 

— «o» - 

Ask  Me  no  More. 

Ask  me  no  more:  the  moon  may  draw  the 
sea ; 

The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and 
take  the  shape, 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape  ; 
But,  oh  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer’d 
thee  ? 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more :  what  answer  should  I 
give  ? 

I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye ; 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee 
die  ! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee 
live  ; 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine  are 
seal’d. 

I  strove  against  the  stream,  and  all  in 
vain. 

Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main. 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield  ; 

Ask  me  no  more  ! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

- *o« - - 

Ask  m e  no  More  where  Jove 
Besto  irs. 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  hiding  rose; 

For  in  your  beauties,  orient  deep, 

These  flow’rs,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


193 


Ask  me  no  more,  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 

For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  past; 

For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  those  stars  light, 
That  downward  fall  in  dead  of  night ; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixkd  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  Phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest ; 

For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 

And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

Thomas  Carew. 


My  Dear  and  Only  Love. 

Part  First. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray, 

This  noble  world  of  thee 
Be  govern’d  by  no  other  sway 
But  purest  monarchic. 

For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhore, 

And  hold  a  synod  in  thy  heart, 

I’ll  never  love  thee  more. 

Like  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone, 

My  thoughts  shall  evermore  disdain 
A  rival  on  my  throne. 

He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 

That  puts  it  not  unto  the  touch, 

To  win  or  lose  it  all. 

But  I  must  rule  and  govern  still, 

And  always  give  the  law, 

And  have  each  subject  at  my  will, 
And  all  to  stand  in  awe. 

But  ’gainst  my  battery  if  I  find 
Thou  shun’st  the  prize  so  sore 
As  that  thou  set’st  me  up  a  blind, 

I’ll  never  love  thee  more. 

If  in  the  empire  of  thy  heart, 

Where  I  should  solelv  be, 

13 


Another  do  pretend  a  part, 

And  dares  to  vie  with  me ; 

Or  if  committees  thou  erect, 

And  go  on  such  a  score, 

I’ll  sing  and  laugh  at  thy  neglect, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

But  if  thou  wilt  be  constant  then, 

And  faithful  of  thy  word, 

I’ll  make  thee  glorious  by  my  pen, 
And  famous  by  my  sword. 

I’ll  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 
Was  never  heard  before  ; 

I’ll  crown  and  deck  thee  all  with  bays. 
And  love  thee  evermore. 

Part  Second. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  take  heed, 

Lest  thou  thyself  expose, 

And  let  all  longing  lovers  feed 
Upon  such  looks  as  those. 

A  marble  wall  then  build  about, 

Beset  without  a  door ; 

But  if  thou  let  thy  heart  fly  out, 

I’ll  never  love  thee  more. 

Let  not  their  oaths,  like  volleys  shot. 
Make  any  breach  at  all ; 

Nor  smoothness  of  their  language  plot 
Which  way  to  scale  the  wall ; 

Nor  balls  of  wild-fire  love  consume 
The  shrine  which  I  adore ; 

For  if  such  smoke  about  thee  fume, 
I’ll  never  love  thee  more. 

I  think  thy  virtues  be  too  strong 
To  suffei:  by  surprise ; 

Those  victualed  by  my  love  so  long. 
The  siege  at  length  must  rise, 

And  leave  thee  ruled  in  that  health 
And  state  thou  wast  before  ; 

But  if  thou  turn  a  commonwealth, 

I’ll  never  love  thee  more. 

Or  if  by  fraud,  or  by  consent, 

Thy  heart  to  mine  come, 

I’ll  sound  no  trumpet  as  I  wont, 

Nor  march  by  tuck  of  drum  ; 

But  hold  my  arms,  like  ensigns,  up, 
Thy  falsehood  to  deplore, 

And  bitterly  will  sigh  and  weep, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 


194 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I’ll  do  with  thee  as  Nero  did, 

When  Rome  was  set  on  fire, 

Not  only  all  relief  forbid, 

But  to  a  hill  retire, 

And  scorn  to  shed  a  tear  to  see 
Thy  spirit  grown  so  poor; 

But  smiling  sing,  until  I  die, 

I’ll  never  love  thee  more. 

Yet,  for  the  love  I  bare  thee  once, 

Lest  that  thy  name  should  die, 

A  monument  of  marble-stone 
The  truth  shall  testifie : 

That  every  pilgrim  passing  by 
May  pity  and  deplore 
My  case,  and  read  the  reason  why 
I  can  love  thee  no  more. 

The  golden  laws  of  love  shall  be 
Upon  this  pillar  hung, — 

A  simple  heart,  a  single  eye, 

A  true  and  constant  tongue  ; 

Let  no  man  for  more  love  pretend 
Than  he  has  hearts  in  store; 

True  love  begun  shall  never  end ; 

Love  one  and  love  no  more. 

Then  shall  thy  heart  be  set  by  mine, 

But  in  far  different  case ; 

But  mine  was  true,  so  was  not  thine, 

But  lookt  like  Janus’  face. 

For  as  the  waves  with  every  wind, 

So  sail’st  thou  every  shore, 

And  leav’st  my  constant  heart  behind, — 
How  can  I  love  thee  more? 

My  heart  shall  with  the  sun  be  fix’d 
For  constancy  most  strange, 

And  thine  shall  with  the  moon  be  mix’d, 
Delighting  aye  in  change. 

Thy  beauty  shined  at  first  more  bright, 
And  woe  is  me  therefore, 

That  ever  I  found  thy  love  so  light 
I  could  love  thee  no  more ! 

The  misty  mountains,  smoking  lakes, 
The  rocks’  resounding  echo, 

The  whistling  wind  that  murmur  makes 
Shall  with  me  sing  hey  ho  ! 

The  tossing  seas,  the  tumbling  boats, 
Tears  dropping  from  each  shore, 

Shall  tune  with  me  their  turtle  notes — 
I’ll  never  love  thee  more. 


As  doth  the  turtle,  chaste  and  true. 

Her  fellow’s  death  regrete, 

And  daily  mourns  for  his  adieu, 

And  ne’er  renews  her  mate ; 

So,  though  thy  faith  was  never  fast. 
Which  grieves  me  wondrous  sore, 

Yet  I  shall  live  in  love  so  chast, 

That  I  shall  love  no  more. 

And  when  all  gallants  ride  about 
These  monuments  to  view, 

Whereon  is  written,  in  and  out, 

Thou  traitorous  and  untrue ; 

Then  in  a  passion  they  shall  pause, 

And  thus  say,  sighing  sore, 

“Alas!  he  had  too  just  a  cause, 

Never  to  love  thee  more.” 

And  when  that  tracing  goddess  Fame 
From  east  to  west  shall  flee, 

She  shall  record  it  to  thy  shame, 

How  thou  hast  loved  me: 

And  how  in  odds  our  love  was  such 
As  few  have  been  before : 

Thou  loved  too  many,  and  I  too  much, 
So  I  can  love  no  more. 

James  Graham,  Marquis  of  Montrose. 
- •<>♦— 

Oh,  had  we  some  Bright  Little 
Isle  of  our  Own / 

Oh,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our 
own, 

In  a  blue  summer  ocean,  far  off  and 
alone, 

Where  a  leaf  never  dies  in  the  still  bloom¬ 
ing  bowers, 

And  the  bee  banquets  on  through  a  whole 
year  of  flowers ; 

Where  the  sun  loves  to  pause 
With  so  fond  a  delay, 

That  the  night  only  draws 
A  thin  veil  o’er  the  day. 

Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  breathe,  that 
we  live, 

Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere 
can  give. 

There,  with  souls  ever  ardent  and  pure  as 
the  clime, 

We  should  love  as  they  loved  in  the  first 
golden  time ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


195 


The  glow  of  the  sunshine,  the  balm  of  the  air, 
Would  steal  to  our  hearts  and  make  all 
summer  there. 

With  affection  as  free 

From  decline  as  the  bowers, 

And  with  hope,  like  the  bee, 

Living  always  on  flowers, 

Our  life  should  resemble  a  long  day  of  light, 
And  our  death  come  on,  holy  and  calm  as 
the  night. 

Thomas  Moore. 

- K>« - 

To  Celia. 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine  ; 

Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I’ll  not  look  for  wine. 

The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 
Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 

But  might  I  of  Jove’s  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 

As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 
It  could  not  wither’d  be; 

But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 
And  sent’st  it  back  to  me  ; 

Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 
Not  of  itself,  but  thee ! 

(From  the  Greek.) 

Ben  Jonson. 


At  Setting  Day  and  Rising 
Morn. 

At  setting  day  and  rising  morn, 

With  soul  that  still  shall  love  thee, 
I’ll  ask  of  Heaven  thy  safe  return, 
With  all  that  can  improve  thee. 

I’ll  visit  aft  the  birken  bush, 

Where  first  thou  kindly  told  me 
Sweet  tales  of  love,  and  hid  thy  blush, 
Whilst  round  thou  didst  enfold  me. 
To  all  our  haunts  I  will  repair, 

By  greenwood  shaw  or  fountain, 

Or  where  the  summer  day  I’d  share 
With  thee  upon  yon  mountain  ; 

There  will  I  tell  the  trees  and  flowers, 
From  thoughts  unfeign’d  and  tender, 
By  vows  you’re  mine,  by  love  is  yours 
A  heart  that  cannot  wander. 

Allan  Ramsay. 


Song  of  Margaret. 

Ay,  I  saw  her,  we  have  met ; — 

Married  eyes,  how  sweet  they  be ! 

Are  you  happier,  Margaret, 

Than  you  might  have  been  with  me  ? 

Silence  !  make  no  more  ado  ! 

Did  she  think  I  should  forget? 

Matters  nothing,  though  I  knew, 
Margaret,  Margaret. 

Once  those  eyes,  full  sweet,  full  shy, 

Told  a  certain  thing  to  mine ; 

What  they  told  me  I  put  by, 

Oh,  so  careless  of  the  sign. 

Such  an  easy  thing  to  take, 

And  I  did  not  want  it  then ; 

Fool !  I  wish  my  heart  would  break ; 
Scorn  is  hard  on  hearts  of  men. 

Scorn  of  self  is  bitter  work, — 

Each  of  us  has  felt  it»now ; 

Bluest  skies  she  counted  mirk, 
Self-betrav’d  of  eyes  and  brow ; 

As  for  me,  I  went  my  way, 

And  a  better  man  drew  nigh, 

Fain  to  earn,  with  long  essay, 

What  the  winner’s  hand  threw  by. 

Matters  not  in  deserts  old, 

What  was  born,  and  wax’d,  and  yearn'd, 

Year  to  year  its  meaning  told, 

I  am  come, — its  deeps  are  learn’d  ; 

Come,  but  there  is  naught  to  say, — 
Married  eyes  with  mine  have  met. 

Silence !  Oh,  I  had  my  day, 

Margaret,  Margaret. 

Jean  Ingelow. 

- •<>+ - • 

Lochaber  no  More. 

Farewell  to  Lochaber,  and  farewell,  my 
Jean, 

Where  heartsome  with  thee  I  liae  monv 
day  been ! 

For  Lochaber  no  more,  Lochaber  no  more, 

We’ll  maybe  return  to  Lochaber  no  more ! 

These  tears  that  I  shed,  they  are  a’  for 
my  dear, 

And  no  for  the  dangers  attending  on 
war, 

Though  borne  on  rough  seas  to  a  far  bloody 
shore, 

Maybe  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Though  hurricanes  rise,  and  rise  every 
wind, 

They’ll  ne’er  make  a  tempest  like  that  in 
my  mind ; 

Though  loudest  of  thunder  on  louder 
waves  roar, 

That’s  naething  like  leaving  my  love  on 
the  shore. 

To  leave  thee  behind  me  my  heart  is  sair 
pain’d  ; 

By  ease  that’s  inglorious  no  fame  can  be 
gain’d ; 

And  beauty  and  love’s  the  reward  of  the 
brave, 

And  I  must  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then  glory,  my  Jeany,  maun  plead  my  ex¬ 
cuse  ; 

Since  honor  commands  me,  how  can  I  re¬ 
fuse  ? 

Without  it  I  ne’er  can  have  merit  for 
thee, 

And  without  thy  favor  I’d  better  not  be. 

I  gae  then,  my  lass,  to  win  honor  and 
fame, 

And  if  I  should  luck  to  come  gloriously 
hame, 

I’ll  bring  a  heart  to  thee  with  love  run¬ 
ning  o’er, 

And  then  I’ll  leave  thee  and  Lochaber  no 
more. 

Allan  Ramsay. 

Ternissa. 

Ternissa,  von  are  fled  ! 

I  say  not  to  the  dead, 

But  to  the  happy  ones  who  rest  below ; 
For,  surely,  surely,  where 
Your  voice  and  graces  are, 

Nothing  of  death  can  any  feel  or  know. 
Girls  who  delight  to  dwell 
Where  grows  most  asphodel, 

Gather  to  their  calm  breasts  each  word  you 
speak ; 

The  mild  Persephone 
Places  you  on  her  knee, 

And  your  cool  palm  smooths  down  stern 
Pluto’s  cheek. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


Evelyn  Hope. 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 

That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  pluck’d  that  piece  of  geranium* 
flower, 

Beginning  to  die,  too,  in  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think  ; 
The  shutters  are  shut — no  light  may  pass. 
Save  two  long  rays  thro’  the  hinges’ 
chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my 
name — 

It  was  not  her  time  to  love ;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares ; 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir — 

Till  God’s  hand  beckon’d  unawares, 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What !  your  soul  was  pure  and  true  ; 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 
Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew  ; 

And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so 
wide, 

Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 
We  were  fellow-mortals — naught  beside? 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love ; 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love’s  sake ! 
Delay’d,  it  may  be,  for  more  lives  yet, 
Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a 
few; 

Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 
Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come — at  last  it  will — 
When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I  shall 
say, 

In  the  lower  earth — in  the  years  long  still — 
That  body  and  soul  so  gay  ? 

Why  your  hair  was  amber  I  shall  divine, 
And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium’s 
red — 

And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 
In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one’s 
stead. 


40^ 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


197 


I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  since 
then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 

Gain’d  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 
Ransack’d  the  ages,  spoil’d  the  climes ; 
Yet  one  thing — one  —  in  my  soul’s  full 
scope, 

Either  I  miss’d  or  itself  miss’d  me — 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope ! 
What  is  the  issue?  let  us  see ! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while ; 

My  heart  seem’d  full  as  it  could  hold — 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank 
young  smile 

And  the  red  young  mouth  and  the  hair’s 
young  gold. 

So  hush  !  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep  ; 
See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet,  cold 
hand. 

There,  that  is  our  secret !  go  to  sleep ; 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and'  un¬ 
derstand. 

Robert  Browning. 

- K>« - 

Come  away,  Come  away,  Death. 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death, 

And  in  sad  cypres  let  me  be  laid ; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 

I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 

My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

Oh  prepare  it ! 

My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet 

On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown  ; 
Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 

My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall 
be  thrown : 

A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  oh  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 

To  weep  there. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- K>« - 

Colin  and  Lucy. 

Of  Leinster,  famed  for  maidens  fair, 

Bright  Lucy  was  the  grace ; 

Nor  e’er  did  Liffy’s  limpid  stream 
Reflect  so  fair  a  face. 


I  Till  luckless  love  and  pining  care 
Impair’d  her  rosy  hue, 

Her  coral  lip,  and  damask  cheek, 

And  eyes  of  glossy  blue. 

Oh,  have  you  seen  a  lily  pale, 

When  beating  rains  descend  ? 

So  droop’d  the  slow-consuming  maid  ; 

Her  life  now  near  its  end. 

By  Lucy  warn’d,  of  flattering  swains 
Take  heed,  ye  easy  fair  ; 

Of  vengeance  due  to  broken  vows 
Ye  perjured  swains  beware. 

Three  times,  all  in  the  dead  of  night, 

A  bell  was  heard  to  ring; 

And  at  her  window,  shrieking  thrice, 

The  raven  flapp’d  his  wing. 

Too  well  the  love-lorn  maiden  knew 
That  solemn  boding  sound  ; 

And  thus  in  dying  words  bespoke 
The  virgins  weeping  round  : 

“  I  hear  a  voice  you  cannot  hear, 

Which  says  I  must  not  stay  ; 

I  see  a  hand  you  cannot  see, 

Which  beckons  me  away. 

“  By  a  false  heart  and  broken  vows, 

In  early  youth  I  die. 

Am  I  to  blame  because  his  bride 
Is  thrice  as  rich  as  I  ? 

“  Ah,  Colin  !  give  not  her  thy  vows, 

Vows  due  to  me  alone : 

Nor  thou,  fond  maid,  receive  his  kiss, 

Nor  think  him  all  thy  own. 

“  To-morrow  in  the  church  to  wed, 
Impatient,  both  prepare, 

But  know,  fond  maid,  and  know,  false  vouth( 
That  Lucy  will  be  there. 

“  Then  bear  my  corse,  ye  comrades,  bear, 
The  bridegroom  blithe  to  meet; 

He  in  his  wedding-trim  so  gay, 

I  in  my  winding-sheet.” 

She  spoke,  she  died; — her  corse  was  borne 
The  bridegroom  blithe  to  meet; 

He  in  his  wedding-trim  so  gay, 

She  in  her  winding-sheet. 


198 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Then  what  were  perjured  Colin’s  thoughts? 

How  were  those  nuptials  kept? 

The  bride-men  flock’d  round  Lucy  dead, 
And  all  the  village  wept. 

Confusion,  shame,  remorse,  despair, 

At  once  his  bosom  swell ; 

The  damps  of  death  bedew’d  his  brow, 

He  shook,  he  groan’d,  he  fell. 

From  the  vain  bride  (ah,  bride  no  more!) 

The  varying  crimson  fled, 

When,  stretch’d  before  her  rival’s  corse, 
She  saw  her  husband  dead. 

Then  to  his  Lucy’s  new-made  grave, 
Convey’d  by  trembling  swains, 

One  mould  with  her  beneath  one  sod, 

For  ever  now  remains. 

Oft  at  their  grave  the  constant  hind 
And  plighted  maid  are  seen ; 

With  garlands  gay,  and  true-love  knots 
They  deck  the  sacred  green. 

But,  swain  forsworn,  whoe’er  thou  art, 
This  hallow’d  spot  forbear, 

Eemember  Colin’s  dreadful  fate, 

And  fear  to  meet  him  there.  ■ 

Thomas  Tickell. 


Lord  lovel. 

Lord  Lovel  he  stood  at  his  castle-gate 
Combing  his  milk-white  steed ; 

When  up  came  Lady  Nancy  Belle, 

To  wish  her  lover  good  speed,  speed, 

To  wish  her  lover  good  speed. 

“Where  are  you  going,  Lord  Lovel?”  she 
said, 

“  Oh  !  where  are  you  going  ?”  said  she ; 

“  I’m  going,  my  Lady  Nancy  Belle, 
Strange  countries  for  to  see,  to  see, 
Strange  countries  for  to  see.” 

w  When  will  you  be  back,  Lord  Lovel  ?” 
she  said ; 

“  Oh  !  when  will  you  come  back  ?”  said 
she ; 

u  In  a  year  or  two — or  three,  at  the  most, 
I’ll  return  to  my  fair  Nancy-cy, 

I’ll  return  to  my  fair  Nancy.” 


But  he  had  not  been  gone  a  year  and  a 
day, 

Strange  countries  for  to  see, 

When  languishing  thoughts  came  into  his 
head, 

Lady  Nancy  Belle  he  would  go  see,  see, 
Lady  Nancy  Belle  he  would  go  see. 

So  he  rode  and  he  rode  on  his  milk-white 
steed, 

Till  he  came  to  London  town, 

And  there  he  heard  St.  Pancras’  bells, 

And  the  people  all  mourning,  round, 
round, 

And  the  people  all  mourning  round. 

“  Oh  !  what  is  the  matter?”  Lord  Lovel  he 
said, 

“  Oh  !  what  is  the  matter?”  said  he  ; 

“  A  lord’s  lady  is  dead,”  a  woman  replied, 
“And  some  call  her  Ladv  Nancv-cv, 
And  some  call  her  Lady  Nancy.” 

So  he  order’d  the  grave  to  be  open’d  wide, 
And  the  shroud  he  turned  down, 

And  there  he  kiss’d  her  clay-cold  lips, 

Till  the  tears  came  trickling  down,  down, 
Till  the  tears  came  trickling  down. 

Lady  Nancy  she  died  as  it  might  be  to-day, 
Lord  Lovel  he  died  as  to-morrow ; 

Lady  Nancy  she  died  out  of  pure,  pure 
grief, 

Lord  Lovel  he  died  out  of  sorrow,  sor¬ 
row, 

Lord  Lovel  he  died  out  of  sorrow. 

Lady  Nancy  was  laid  in  St.  Pancras’ 
church, 

Lord  Lovel  was  laid  in  the  choir ; 

And  out  of  her  bosom  there  grew  a  red 
rose, 

And  out  of  her  lover’s  a  brier,  brier, 
And  out  of  her  lover’s  a  brier. 

They  grew,  and  they  grew,  to  the  church- 
steeple  top, 

And  then  they  could  grow  no  higher : 

So  there  they  entwined  in  a  true-lover’s 
knot, 

For  all  lovers  true  to  admi re-mire, 

For  all  lovers  true  to  admire. 

Author  Unknown. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


199 


Annie  Laurie. 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie 
Where  early  fa’s  the  dew, 

And  it’s  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gie’d  me  her  promise  true — 

Gie’d  me  her  promise  true,' 

Which  ne’er  forgot  will  be  ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I’d  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift; 

Her  throat  is  like  the  swan ; 

Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 
That  e’er  the  sun  shone  on — 

That  e’er  the  sun  shone  on — 

And  dark  blue  is  her  ee  ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I’d  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

• 

Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 
Is  the  fa’  o’  her  fairy  feet ; 

And  like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing, 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet — 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet — 

And  she’s  a’  the  world  to  me ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I’d  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Author  Unknown. 

- »o«  —  - 

What  Ails  this  Heart  o>  Mine? 

What  ails  this  heart  o’  mine? 

What  ails  this  watery  ee? 

What  gars  me  a’  turn  pale  as  death 
When  I  take  leave  o’  thee? 

When  thou  art  far  awa’, 

Thou’lt  dearer  grow  to  me  ; 

But  change  o’  place  and  change  o’  folk 
May  gar  thy  fancy  jee. 

When  I  gae  out  at  e’en, 

Or  walk  at  morning  air, 

Ilka  rustling  bush  will  seem  to  say, 

I  used  to  meet  thee  there. 

Then  I’ll  sit  down  and  cry, 

And  live  aneath  the  tree, 

And  when  a  leaf  fa’s  i’  my  lap, 

I’ll  ca’  ’t  a  word  frae  thee. 

I’ll  hie  me  to  the  bower 
That  thou  wi’  roses  tied, 

And  where  wi’  monv  a  blushing  bud 
I  strove  mvself  to  hide. 


I’ll  doat  on  ilka  spot 

Where  I  hae  been  wi’  thee ; 

And  ca’  to  mind  some  kindly  word, 

By  ilka  burn  and  tree. 

Susanna  Blamire. 

- »<>• - 

The  Portrait. 

Midnight  past !  Not  a  sound  of  aught 
Through  the  silent  house,  but  the  wind 
at  his  prayers. 

I  sat  by  the  dying  fire,  and  thought 
Of  the  dear  dead  woman  up  stairs. 

A  night  of  tears !  for  the  gusty  rain 

Had  ceased,  but  the  eaves  were  dripping 
yet; 

And  the  moon  look’d  forth,  as  though  in 
pain, 

With  her  face  all  white  and  wet  : 

Nobody  with  me,  my  watch  to  keep, 

But  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man  I 
love : 

And  grief  had  sent  him  fast  to  sleep 
In  the  chamber  up  above. 

Nobody  else,  in  the  country  place 

All  round,  that  knew  of  my  loss  beside, 
But  the  good  young  Priest  with  the  Ra- 
phael-face, 

Who  confess’d  her  when  she  died. 

That  good  young  Priest  is  of  gentle  nerve. 
And  my  grief  had  moved  him  beyond 
control ; 

For  his  lip  grew  white,  as  I  could  observe, 
When  he  speeded  her  parting  soul. 

I  sat  by  the  dreary  hearth  alone : 

I  thought  of  the  pleasant  days  of  yore: 

I  said,  “  The  staff  of  my  life  is  gone : 

The  woman  I  loved  is  no  more. 

“  On  her  cold  dead  bosom  my  portrait  lies, 
Which  next  to  her  heart  she  used  to 
wear — 

Haunting  it  o’er  with  her  tender  eyes 
When  my  own  face  was  not  there. 

“  It  is  set  all  round  with  rubies  red, 

And  pearls  which  a  Peri  might  have  kept. 
For  each  ruby  there  my  heart  hath  bled . 
For  each  pearl  my  eyes  have  wept.” 


200 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  I  said — “  The  thing  is  precious  to  me : 
They  will  burv  her  soon  in  the  church¬ 
yard  clay ; 

Tt  lies  on  her  heart,  and  lost  must  be 
If  I  do  not  take  it  away.” 

I  lighted  my  lamp  at  the  dying  flame, 

And  crept  up  the  stairs  that  creak’d  for 
fright, 

Till  into  the  chamber  of  death  I  came, 
Where  she  lay  all  in  white. 

The  moon  shone  over  her  winding-sheet, 
There  stark  she  lay  on  her  carven  bed : 
Seven  burning  tapers  about  her  feet, 

And  seven  about  her  head. 

As  I  stretch’d  my  hand,  I  held  my  breath  ; 

I  turn’d  as  I  drew  the  curtains  apart: 

I  dared  not  look  on  the  face  of  death : 

I  knew  where  to  find  her  heart. 

I  thought  at  first,  as  my  touch  fell  there, 

It  had  warm’d  that  heart  to  life,  with 
love ; 

For  the  thing  I  touch’d  was  warm,  I  swear, 
And  I  could  feel  it  move. 

’Twas  the  hand  of  a  man,  that  was  moving 
slow 

O’er  the  heart  of  the  dead, — from  the 
other  side : 

And  at  once  the  sweat  broke  over  my 
brow : 

“  Who  is  robbing  the  corpse  ?”  I  cried. 

Opposite  me  by  the  tapers’  light, 

The  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man  I 
loved, 

Stood  over  the  corpse,  and  all  as  white, 
And  neither  of  us  moved. 

“  What  do  you  here,  my  friend?”  .  .  .  The 
man 

Look’d  first  at  me,  and  then  at  the  dead. 
“  There  is  a  portrait  here,”  he  began  ; 

“  There  is.  It  is  mine,”  I  said. 

Said  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  “Yours,  no 
doubt, 

The  portrait  was,  till  a  month  ago, 

When  this  suffering  angel  took  that  out, 
And  placed  mine  there,  I  know. 


“  This  woman,  she  loved  me  well,”  said  I. 

“  A  month  ago,”  said  my  friend  to  me : 

“And  in  your  throat,”  I  groan’d,  “you 
lie !” 

He  answer’d,  .  .  .  “  Let  us  see.” 

“  Enough !”  I  return’d,  “  let  the  dead  de¬ 
cide  : 

And  whose  soever  the  portrait  prove, 

His  shall  it  be,  when  the  cause  is  tried, 

Where  Death  is  arraign’d  by  Love.” 

We  found  the  portrait  there,  in  its  place: 

We  open’d  it  by  the  tapers’  shine: 

The  gems  were  all  unchanged :  the  face 

Was — neither  his  nor  mine. 

“  One  nail  drives  out  another,  at  least ! 

The  face  of  the  portrait  there,”  I  cried, 

“  Is  our  friend’s  the  Kaphael-faced  young 
Priest,  • 

Who  confess’d  her  when  she  died.” 

The  setting  is  all  of  rubies  red, 

And  pearls  which  a  Peri  might  have 
kept. 

For  each  ruby  there  my  heart  hath  bled : 

For  each  pearl  my  eyes  have  wept. 

Robert  Bulwer  Lytton. 

(Owen  Meredith.) 

- K>*  ■  — 

Amy nt a. 

My  sheep  I  neglected,  I  broke  my  sheep- 
hook, 

And  all  the  gay  haunts  of  my  youth  I 
forsook ; 

No  more  for  Amynta  fresh  garlands  I 
wove : 

For  ambition,  I  said,  would  soon  cure  me 
of  love. 

Oh,  what  had  my  youth  with  ambition 
to  do? 

Why  left  I  Amynta  ?  Why  broke  I  mv 
vow? 

Oh,  give  me  my  sheep,  and  my  sheep- 
hook  restore, 

And  I’ll  wander  from  love  and  Amynta 
no  more. 

Through  regions  remote  in  vain  do  I 
rove, 

And  bid  the  wide  ocean  secure  me  from 
love ! 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


201 


O  fool !  to  imagine  that  aught  could  subdue 

A  love  so  well  founded,  a  passion  so  true ! 

Oh,  what  had  my  youth  with  ambition 
to  do  ? 

Why  left  I  Amynta  ?  Why  broke  I  my 
vow? 

Oh,  give  me  my  sheep,  and  my  sheep- 
hook  restore, 

And  I’ll  wander  from  love  and  Amynta 
no  more. 

Alas  !  ’tis  too  late  at  thy  fate  to  repine  ; 

Poor  shepherd,  Amynta  can  never  be 
thine : 

Thy  tears  are  all  fruitless,  thy  wishes  are 
vain, 

The  moments  neglected  return  not  again. 

Oh,  what  had  my  youth  with  ambition 
to  do  ? 

Why  left  I  Amynta  ?  Why  broke  I  my 
vow? 

Oh,  give  me  my  sheep,  and  my  sheep- 
hook  restore, 

And  I’ll  wander  from  love  and  Amynta 
no  more. 

Sir  Gilbert  Elliot. 

- K>« - 

The  Lord  of  Burleigh. 

Lsr  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

“  If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell, 

Maiden,  I  have  watch’d  thee  daily, 

And  I  think  thou  lov’st  me  well.” 

She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

“  There  is  none  I  love  like  thee.” 

He  is  but  a  landscape-painter, 

And  a  village  maiden  she. 

He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter, 

Presses  his  without  reproof : 

Leads  her  to  the  village  altar, 

And  they  leave  her  father’s  roof. 

u  I  can  make  no  marriage  present ; 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife. 

Love  will  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 
And  I  love  thee  more  than  life.” 

They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 
See  the  lordly  castles  stand ; 

Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing, 
Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 

From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses, 
Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 

“  Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 
Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell.” 


So  she  goes,  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse, 

Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 
Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers : 

Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 
Parks  and  order’d  gardens  great, 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady, 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 

All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer  : 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  growing  nearer, 

Where  they  twain  will  spend  their  days. 
Oh  but  she  will  love  him  truly ! 

He  shall  have  a  cheerful  home; 

She  will  order  all  things  duly, 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns 
With  armorial  bearings  stately, 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns ; 

Sees  a  mansion  more  majestic 
Than  all  those  she  saw  before  : 

Many  a  gallant  gay  domestic 
Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 

And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur, 
When  they  answer  to  his  call, 

While  he  treads  with  footstep  firmer, 
Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 

And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly, 
Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 

Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

“  All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine.” 

Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty, 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free, 

Not  a  lord  in  all  the  county 
Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 

All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin  • 

As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes, 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 

Then  her  countenance  all  over 
Pale  again  as  death  did  prove ; 

But  he  clasp’d  her  like  a  lover, 

And  he  cheer’d  her  soul  with  love. 

So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tho’  at  times  her  spirit  sank  : 

Shaped  her  heart  with  woman’s  meekness 
To  all  duties  of  her  rank  : 

And  a  gentle  consort  made  he, 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady, 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  a  trouble  weigh’d  upon  her, 

And  perplex’d  her,  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burden  of  an  honor 
Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 

Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter, 

As  she  murmur’d,  “  Oh,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape-painter 
Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me !” 
So  she  droop’d  and  droop’d  before  him, 
Fading  slowly  from  his  side : 

Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 
Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early, 
Walking  up  and  pacing  down, 

Deeply  mourn’d  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 
Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town. 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her, 

And  he  look’d  at  her  and  said, 

“  Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her, 

That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed.” 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading, 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


My  Only  Jo  and  Dearie,  0. 
Thy  cheek  is  o’  the  rose’s  hue, 

My  only  jo  and  dearie,  0  ; 

Thy  neck  is  like  the  siller  dew 
Upon  the  banks  sae  briery,  O  ; 

Thy  teeth  are  o’  the  ivory, 

Oh,  sweet’s  the  twinkle  o’  thine  ee ! 
Nae  joy,  nae  pleasure,  blinks  on  me, 
My  only  jo  and  dearie,  O. 

The  birdie  sings  upon  the  thorn 
Its  sang  o’  joy,  fu’  cheerie,  O, 
Rejoicing  in  the  summer  morn, 

Nae  care  to  make  it  eerie,  O  ; 

But  little  kens  the  sangster  sweet 
Aught  o’  the  cares  I  hae  to  meet, 

That  gar  my  restless  bosom  beat, 

My  only  jo  and  dearie,  0. 

Whan  we  were  bairnies  on  yon  brae, 
And  youth  was  blinking  bonny,  0, 
Aft  we  wad  daff  the  lee-lang  day, 

Our  joys  fu’  sweet  and  mony,  O  ; 
Aft  I  wad  chase  thee  o’er  the  lee, 

And  round  about  the  thorny  tree, 

Or  pu’  the  wild-flowers  a’  for  thee, 

My  only  jo  and  dearie,  0. 


I  hae  a  wish  I  canna  tine 

’Mang  a’  the  cares  that  grieve  me,  O ; 

I  wish  thou  wert  for  ever  mine, 

And  never  mair  to  leave  me,  O : 

Then  I  wad  daut  thee  night  and  day, 

Nor  ither  warldly  care  wad  hae, 

Till  life’s  warm  stream  forgot  to  play, 
My  only  jo  and  dearie,  O. 

Exchard  Gall. 

-  +o« - 

LUCY’S  Fiat  tin. 

’Twas  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the  birk 
tree  was  fa’in, 

And  Martinmas  dowie  had  wound  up 
the  year, 

That  Lucy  rowed  up  her  wee  kist  wi’  her 
a’  in’t, 

And  left  her  auld  maister  and  neibours 
sae  dear : 

For  Lucy  had  served  i’  the  glen  a’  the 
simmer ; 

She  cam  there  afore  the  bloom  cam  on 
the  pea ; 

An  orphan  was  she,  and  they  had  been 
gude  till  her, 

Sure  that  was  the  thing  brocht  the  tear 
to  her  ee. 

She  gaed  by  the  stable  where  Jamie  was 
stannin’  ; 

Riclit  sair  was  his  kind  heart  her  flittin’ 
to  see. 

“Fare  ye  weel,  Lucy!”  quo’  Jamie,  and 
ran  in ; 

The  gatherin’,  tears  trickled  fast  frae 
her  ee. 

As  down  the  burnside  she  gaed  slow  wi’ 
her  flittin’, 

“  Fare  ye  weel,  Lucy !”  was  ilka  bird’s 
sang ; 

She  heard  the  craw  sayin’t,  high  on  the 
tree  sittin’, 

And  the  robin  was  chirpin’t  the  brown 
leaves  amang. 

“  Oh,  what  is’t  that  pits  my  puir  heart  in 
a  flutter? 

And  what  gars  the  tears  come  sae  fast 
to  my  ee? 

If  I  wasna  ettled  to  be  ony  better, 

Then  what  gars  me  wish  ony  better  to 
be? 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


203 


I’m  just  like  a  lammie  that  loses  its 
mither ; 

Nae  mither  or  friend  the  puir  lammie 
can  see ; 

I  fear  I  hae  tint  my  puir  heart  a’thegither, 

Nae  wonder  the  tear  fa’s  sae  fast  frae 
my  ee. 

“  Wi’  the  rest  o’  my  claes  I  hae  rowed  up 
the  ribbon, 

The  bonnie  blue  ribbon  that  Jamie  gae 
me ; 

Yestreen,  when  he  gae  me’t,  and  saw  I  was 
sabbin’, 

I’ll  never  forget  the  wae  blink  o’  his  ee. 

Though  now  he  said  naething  but  4  Fare 
ye  weel,  Lucy !’ 

It  made  me  I  neither  could  speak,  hear, 
nor  see : 

He  couldna  say  mair  but  just,  ‘Fare  ye 
weel,  Lucy !’ 

YTet  that  I  will  mind  till  the  day  that 
I  dee.” 

The  lamb  likes  the  gowan  wi’  dew  when 
it’s  droukit ; 

The  hare  likes  the  brake  and  the  braird 
on  the  lea ; 

But  Lucy  likes  Jamie ; — she  turn’d  and 
she  lookit, 

She  thocht  the  dear  place  she  wad  never 
mair  see. 

Ah,  weel  may  young  Jamie  gang  dowie 
and  cheerless! 

And  weel  may  he  greet  on  the  bank  o’ 
the  burn ! 

For  bonnie  sweet  Lucy,  sae  gentle  and 
peerless, 

Lies  cauld  in  her  grave,  and  will  never 
return ! 

William  Laidlaw. 


Lilian. 

Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 

When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 
Laughing  all  she  can  : 

She’ll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 
Cruel  little  Lilian. 


When  my  passion  seeks 
Pleasance  in  love-sighs, 

She,  looking  thro’  and  thro’  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks : 

So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gather’d  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 

Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 
The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks  ; 

Then  away  she  flies. 

Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian  ! 

Gayety  without  eclipse 
Wearieth  me,  May  Lilian  : 

Thro’  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 
When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth  : 

Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian. 

Praying  all  I  can, 

If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 

Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 
- »o« - 

Love  and  Death. 

Glories,  pleasures,  pomps,  delights,  and 
ease, 

Can  but  please 

The  outward  senses,  when  the  mind 
Is  or  untroubled,  or  by  peace  refined. 
Crowns  may  flourish  and  decay, 

Beauties  shine,  but  fade  away. 

Youth  may  revel,  yet  it  must 
Lie  down  in  a  bed  of  dust. 

Earthly  honors  flow  and  waste, 

Time  alone  doth  change  and  last. 

Sorrows  mingled  with  contents,  prepare 
Rest  for  care ; 

Love  only  reigns  in  death ;  though  art 
Can  find  no  comfort  for  a  broken  heart. 

John  Ford. 


Langley  Lane. 

In  all  the  land,  range  up,  range  down, 

Is  there  ever  a  place  so  pleasant  and 
sweet 

As  Langley  Lane,  in  London  town, 

Just  out  of  the  bustle  of  square  and 
street  ? 


204 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Little  white  cottages,  all  in  a  row, 
Gardens,  where  bachelors’-buttons  grow, 
Swallows’  nests  in  roof  and  wall, 

And  up  above  the  still  blue  sky, 

Where  the  woolly-white  clouds  go  sailing 

by  — 

I  seem  to  be  able  to  see  it  all ! 

For  now,  in  summer,  I  take  my  chair, 

And  sit  outside  in  the  sun,  and  hear 
The  distant  murmur  of  street  and  square, 
And  the  swallows  and  sparrows  chirping 
near ; 

And  Fanny,  who  lives  just  over  the  way, 
Comes  running  many  a  time  each  day, 
With  her  little  hand’s-touch  so  warm 
and  kind ; 

And  I  smile  and  talk,  with  the  sun  on  my 
cheek, 

And  the  little  live  hand  seems  to  stir  and 
speak, — 

For  Fanny  is  dumb  and  I  am  blind. 

Fanny  is  sweet  thirteen,  and  she 

Has  fine  black  ringlets,  and  dark  eyes 
clear, 

And  I  am  older  by  summers  three, — 

Why  should  we  hold  one  another  so 
dear? 

Because  she  cannot  utter  a  word, 

Nor  hear  the  music  of  bee  or  bird, 

The  water-cart’s  splash,  or  the  milkman’s 
call. 

Because  I  have  never  seen  the  sky, 

Nor  the  little  singers  that  hum  and  fly, — 
Yet  know  she  is  gazing  upon  them  all. 

For  the  sun  is  shining,  the  swallows  fly, 
The  bees  and  the  blue-flies  murmur  low, 
And  I  hear  the  water-cart  go  by, 

With  its  cool  splash-splash  down  the 
dusty  row ; 

And  the  little  one,  close  at  my  side,  per¬ 
ceives 

Mine  eyes  upraised  to  the  cottage  eaves, 
Where  birds  are  chirping  in  summer 
shine, 

And  I  hear,  though  I  cannot  look,  and 
she, 

Though  she  cannot  hear,  can  the  singers 
see, — 

And  the  little  soft  fingers  flutter  in 
mine. 


Hath  not  the  dear  little  hand  a  tongue, 

When  it  stirs  on  my  palm  for  the  love  of 
me? 

Do  I  not  know  she  is  pretty  and  young? 

Hath  not  my  soul  an  eye  to  see  ? 

’Tis  pleasure  to  make  one’s  bosom  stir, 

To  wonder  how  things  appear  to  her, 

That  I  only  hear  as  they  pass  around ; 

And  as  long  as  we  sit  in  the  music  and 
light, 

She  is  happy  to  keep  God’s  sight, 

And  I  am  happy  to  keep  God’s  sound. 

Why,  I  know  her  face,  though  I  am 
blind— 

I  made  it  of  music  long  ago : 

Strange  large  eyes,  and  dark  hair  twined 

Round  the  pensive  light  of  a  brow  of 
snow  ; 

And  when  I  sit  by  my  little  one, 

And  hold  her  hand,  and  talk  in  the  sun, 

And  hear  the  music  that  haunts  the 
place, 

I  know  she  is  raising  her  eyes  to  me, 

And  guessing  how  gentle  my  voice  must 
be, 

And  seeing  the  music  upon  my  face. 

Though,  if  ever  Lord  God  should  grant 
me  a  prayer 

(I  know  the  fancy  is  only  vain), 

I  should  pray :  Just  once,  when  the  weather 
is  fair, 

To  see  little  Fanny  and  Langley  Lane; 

Though  Fanny,  perhaps,  would  pray  to 
hear 

The  voice  of  the  friend  that  she  holds  so 
dear, 

The  song  of  the  birds,  the  hum  of  the 
street, — 

It  is  better  to  be  as  we  have  been, — 

Each  keeping  up  something,  unheard,  un¬ 
seen, 

To  make  God’s  heaven  more  strange  and 
sweet. 

Ah  !  life  is  pleasant  in  Langley  Lane! 

There  is  always  something  sweet  to 
hear ! 

Chirping  of  birds,  or  patter  of  rain ; 

And  Fanny^  my  little  one,  always  near ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


205 


And  though  I  am  weak,  and  cannot  live 
long, 

And  Fanny,  my  darling,  is  far  from  strong, 
And  though  we  can  never  married  be, — 
What  then  ? — since  we  hold  one  another  so 
dear, 

For  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  one  cannot 
hear, 

And  the  pleasure  that  only  one  can  see? 

Robert  Buchanan. 

- »o* - 

A  Pastoral  Ballad. 

IN  FOUR  PARTS. 

I.  Absence. 

Ye  shepherds  so  cheerful  and  gay, 

Whose  flocks  never  carelessly  roam  ; 
Should  Corvdon’s  happen  to  stray, 

Oh  call  the  poor  wanderers  home. 

Allow  me  to  muse  and  to  sigh, 

Nor  talk  of  the  change  that  ye  find ; 
None  once  was  so  watchful  as  I : 

I  have  left  my  dear  Phillis  behind. 

Now  I  know  what  it  is,  to  have  strove 
With  the  torture  of  doubt  and  desire  ; 
What  it  is,  to  admire  and  to  love, 

And  to  leave  her  we  love  and  admire. 
Ah  lead  forth  my  flock  in  the  morn, 

And  the  damps  of  each  ev’ning  repel ; 
Alas!  I  am  faint  and  forlorn: 

I  have  bade  my  dear  Phyllis  farewell. 

Since  Phillis  vouchsafed  me  a  look, 

I  never  once  dreamt  of  my  vine ; 

May  I  lose  both  my  pipe  and  my  crook, 

If  I  knew  of  a  kid  that  was  mine. 

I  prized  every  hour  that  went  by, 

Beyond  all  that  had  pleased  me  before ; 
But  now  they  are  past,  and  I  sigh ; 

And  I  grieve  that  I  prized  them  no  more. 

But  why  do  I  languish  in  vain  ? 

Why  wander  thus  pensively  here? 

Oh,  why  did  I  come  from  the  plain, 

Where  I  fed  on  the  smiles  of  my  dear? 
They  tell  me  my  favorite  maid, 

The  pride  of  that  valley,  is  flown  ; 

Alas !  where  with  her  I  have  stray’d, 

I  could  wander  with  pleasure,  alone. 

When  forced  the  fair  nymph  to  forego, 
What  anguish  I  felt  at  my  heart ! 


Yet  I  thought — but  it  might  not  be  so — 
’Twas  with  pain  that  she  saw  me  depart. 
She  gazed,  as  I  slowly  withdrew ; 

My  path  I  could  hardly  discern  ; 

So  sweetly  she  bade  me  adieu, 

I  thought  that  she  bade  me  return. 

The  pilgrim  that  journeys  all  day 
To  visit  some  far-distant  shrine, 

If  he  bear  but  a  relic  away, 

Is  happy,  nor  heard  to  repine. 

Thus  widely  removed  from  the  fair, 

Where  my  vows,  my  devotion,  I  owe, 
Soft  hope  is  the  relic  1  bear, 

And  my  solace  wherever  I  go. 

II.  Hope. 

My  banks  they  are  furnish’d  with  bees, 

Whose  murmur  invites  one  to  sleep  ; 

My  grottos  are  shaded  with  trees, 

And  my  hills  are  white-over  with  sheep. 

I  seldom  have  met  with  a  loss, 

Such  health  do  mv  fountains  bestow — 

«/ 

My  fountains  all  border’d  with  moss. 
Where  the  harebells  and  violets  grow. 

Not  a  pine  in  my  grove  is  there  seen, 

But  with  tendrils  of  woodbine  is  bound  : 
Not  a  beech’s  more  beautiful  green, 

But  a  sweetbrier  entwines  it  around. 

Not  my  fields,  in  the  prime  of  the  year, 
More  charms  than  my  cattle  unfold  : 

Not  a  brook  that  is  limpid  and  clear, 

But  it  glitters  with  fishes  of  gold. 

One  would  think  she  might  like  to  retire 
To  the  bow'r  I  have  labor’d  to  rear ; 

Not  a  shrub  that  I  heard  her  admire, 

But  I  hasted  and  planted  it  there. 

Oh  how  sudden  the  jessamine  strove 
With  the  lilac  to  render  it  gay ! 

Already  it  calls  for  my  love, 

To  prune  the  wild  branches  away. 

From  the  plains,  from  the  woodlands  and 
groves, 

What  strains  of  wild  melody  flow  ? 

How  the  nightingales  warble  their  loves 
From  the  thickets  of  roses  that  blow ! 
And  when  her  bright  form  shall  appear, 
Each  bird  shall  harmoniously  join 
In  a  concert  so  soft  and  so  clear, 

As — she  may  not  be  fond  to  resign. 


206 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair ; 

I  have  found  where  the  wood-pigeons 
breed : 

But  let  me  that  plunder  forbear, 

She  will  say  ’twas  a  barbarous  deed. 

For  he  ne’er  could  be  true,  she  averr’d, 
Who  could  rob  a  poor  bird  of  its  young; 
And  I  loved  her  the  more,  when  I  heard 
Such  tenderness  fall  from  her  tongue. 

I  have  heard  her  with  sweetness  unfold 
How  that  pity  was  due  to — a  dove : 

That  it  ever  attended  the  bold, 

And  she  called  it  the  sister  of  Love. 

But  her  words  such  a  pleasure  convey, 

So  much  I  her  accents  adore, 

Let  her  speak,  and  whatever  she  say, 
Methinks  I  should  love  her  the  more. 

Can  a  bosom  so  gentle  remain 

Unmoved  when  her  Corydon  sighs? 

Will  a  nymph  that  is  fond  of  the  plain, 
These  plains  and  this  valley  despise  ? 
Dear  regions  of  silence  and  shade ! 

Soft  scenes  of  contentment  and  ease ! 
Where  I  could  have  pleasingly  stray’d, 

If  aught,  in  her  absence,  could  please. 

But  where  does  my  Phyllida  stray  ? 

And  where  are  her  grots  and  her  bo’wrs? 
Are  the  groves  and  the  valleys  as  gay, 

And  the  shepherds  as  gentle  as  ours? 
The  groves  may  perhaps  be  as  fair, 

And  the  face  of  the  valleys  as  fine ; 

The  swains  may  in  manners  compare, 

But  their  love  is  not  equal  to  mine. 

III.  Solicitude. 

Why  will  you  my  passion  reprove? 

Why  term  it  a  folly  to  grieve  ? 

Ere  I  show  you  the  charms  of  my  love, 
She  is  fairer  than  you  can  believe. 

With  her  mien  she  enamors  the  brave; 

With  her  wit  she  engages  the  free ; 

With  her  modesty  pleases  the  grave ; 

She  is  ev’ry  way  pleasing  to  me. 

O  you  that  have  been  of  her  train, 

Come  and  join  in  my  amorous  lays  ; 

I  could  lay  down  my  life  for  the  swain 
That  will  sing  but  a  song  in  her  praise. 


When  he  sings,  may  the  nymphs  of  the 
town 

Come  trooping,  and  listen  the  while  ; 
Nay,  on  him  let  not  Phyllida  frown  ; 

— But  I  cannot  allow  her  to  smile. 

For  when  Paridel  tries  in  the  dance 
Any  favor  with  Phyllis  to  find, 

Oh  how,  with  one  trivial  glance, 

Might  she  ruin  the  peace  of  my  mind  ! 
In  ringlets  he  dresses  his  hair, 

And  his  crook  is  bestudded  around ; 
And  his  pipe — oh  may  Phyllis  beware 
Of  a  magic  there  is  in  the  sound ! 

’Tis  his  with  mock  passion  to  glow ; 

’Tis  his  in  smooth  tales  to  unfold, 

“How  her  face  is  as  bright  as  the  snow, 
And  her  bosom,  be  sure,  is  as  cold  ! 

How  the  nightingales  labor  the  strain, 
With  the  notes  of  his  charmer  to  vie ; 
How  they  vary  their  accents  in  vain, 
Repine  at  her  triumphs,  and  die.” 

To  the  grove  or  the  garden  he  strays, 

And  pillages  every  sweet ; 

Then,  suiting  the  wreath  to  his  lays, 

He  throws  it  at  Phyllis’s  feet. 

“  0  Phyllis,”  he  whispers,  “  more  fair, 
More  sweet  than  the  jessamine’s  flow’r  ! 
What  are  pinks,  in  a  morn,  to  compare? 
What  is  eglantine,  after  a  show’r  ? 

“  Then  the  lily  no  longer  is  white, 

Then  the  rose  is  deprived  of  its  bloom. 
Then  the  violets  die  with  despite, 

And  the  woodbines  give  up  their  per¬ 
fume. ” 

Thus  glide  the  soft  numbers  along, 

And  he  fancies  no  shepherd  his  peer, 
Yet  I  never  should  envy  the  song, 

Were  not  Phyllis  to  lend  it  an  ear. 

Let  his  crook  be  with  hyacinths  bound, 

So  Phyllis  the  trophy  despise ; 

Let  his  forehead  with  laurels  be  crown  d, 
So  they  shine  not  in  Phyllis’s  eyes. 

The  language  that  flows  from  the  heart 
Is  a  stranger  to  Paridel’s  tongue, 

Yet  may  she  beware  of  his  art, 

Or  sure  I  must  envy  the  song. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


207 


IV.  Disappointment. 

Ye  shepherds,  give  ear  to  my  lay, 

And  take  no  more  heed  of  my  sheep ; 
They  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  stray, — 

I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  weep. 

Yet  do  not  my  folly  reprove; 

She  was  fair — and  my  passion  begun ; 
She  smiled — and  I  could  not  but  love ; 

She  is  faithless — and  I  am  undone. 

Perhaps  I  was  void  of  all  thought ; 

Perhaps  it  was  plain  to  foresee, 

That  a  nymph  so  complete  would  be 
sought 

By  a  swain  more  engaging  than  me. 

Ah  !  love  every  hope  can  inspire ; 

It  banishes  wisdom  the  while, 

And  the  lip  of  the  nymph  we  admire 
Seems  for  ever  adorn’d  with  a  smile. 

She  is  faithless,  and  I  am  undone ; 

Ye  that  witness  the  woes  I  endure, 

Let  reason  instruct  you  to  shun 

What  it  cannot  instruct  you  to  cure. 
Beware  how  ye  loiter  in  vain 

Amid  nymphs  of  a  higher  degree ; 

It  is  not  for  me  to  explain 
How  fair  and  how  fickle  they  be. 

Alas !  from  the  day  that  we  met, 

What  hope  of  an  end  to  my  woes, 

When  I  cannot  endure  to  forget 
The  glance  that  undid  my  repose  ? 

Yet  time  may  diminish  the  pain  ; 

The  flow’r,  and  the  shrub,  and  the  tree, 
Which  I  rear’d  for  her  pleasure  in  vain, 

In  time  may  have  comfort  for  me. 

The  sweets  of  a  dew-sprinkled  rose, 

The  sound  of  a  murmuring  stream, 

The  peace  which  from  solitude  flows, 
Henceforth  shall  be  Corydon’s  theme. 
High  transports  are  shown  to  the  sight, 
But  we  are  not  to  find  them  our  own  ; 
Fate  never  bestow’d  such  delight 
As  I  with  my  Phyllis  had  known. 

O  ye  woods,  spread  your  branches  apace ; 

To  your  deepest  recesses  I  fly ; 

I  would  hide  with  the  beasts  of  the  chase ; 
I  would  vanish  from  every  eye. 


Yet  my  reed  shall  resound  thro’  the 
grove 

With  the  same  sad  complaint  it  begun ; 
How  she  smiled,  and  I  could  not  but 
love ; 

Was  faithless,  and  I  am  undone ! 

William  Shenstone. 

- •<>•  - 

Her  Letter. 

* 

I’m  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 

Dress’d  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance, 
In  a  robe  even  you  would  admire — 

It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France  ; 

I’m  be-diamonded  out  of  all  reason, 

My  hair  is  done  up  in  a  cue : 

In  short,  sir,  “  the  belle  of  the  season  ” 

Is  wasting  an  hour  on  you. 

A  dozen  engagements  I’ve  broken  ; 

I  left  in  the  midst  of  a  set ; 

Likewise  a  proposal,  half  spoken, 

That  waits — on  the  stairs — for  me  yet. 
They  say  he’ll  be  rich — when  he  grows 
up— 

And  then  he  adores  me  indeed ; 

And  you,  sir,  are  turning  your  nose  up, 
Three  thousand  miles  off,  as  you  read. 

“  And  how  do  I  like  my  position  ?” 

“And  what  do  I  think  of  New  York  ?” 

“  And  now,  in  my  higher  ambition, 

With  whom  do  I  waltz,  flirt,  or  talk  ?” 

“  And  isn’t  it  nice  to  have  riches, 

And  diamonds  and  silks,  and  all 
that  ?” 

“  And  aren’t  it  a  change  to  the  ditches 
And  tunnels  of  Poverty  Flat?” 

Well,  yes — if  you  saw  us  out  driving 
Each  day  in  the  park,  four-in-hand— 

If  you  saw  poor  dear  mamma  contriving 
To  look  supernaturally  grand — 

If  you  saw  papa’s  picture,  as  taken 
By  Brady,  and  tinted  at  that, — 

You’d  never  suspect  he  sold  bacon 
And  flour  at  Poverty  Flat. 

And  yet  just  this  moment,  when  sitting 
In  the  glare  of  the  grand  chandelier — 
In  the  bustle  and  glitter  befitting 
The  “  finest  soiret  of  the  year,” 


208 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


In  the  mists  of  a  yazc  de  Chambtry, 

And  the  hum  of  the  smallest  of  talk — 
Somehow,  Joe,  I  thought  of  the  “  Ferry,” 
And  the  dance  that  we  had  on  “The 
Fork ;” 

Of  Harrison’s  barn,  with  its  muster 
Of  flags  festoon’d  over  the  wall  ; 

Of  the  candles  that  shed  their  soft  lustre 
And  tallow  on  head-dress  and  shawl ; 

Of  the  steps  that  we  took*to  one  fiddle ; 

Of  the  dress  of  my  queer  vis-a-vis, 

And  how  I  once  went  down  the  middle 
With  the  man  that  shot  Sandy  McGee  ; 

Of  the  moon  that  was  quietly  sleeping 
On  the  hill,  when  the  time  came  to  go  ; 
Of  the  few  baby  peaks  that  were  peeping 
From  under  their  bedclothes  of  snow  ; 
Of  that  ride — that  to  me  was  the  rarest ; 

Of — the  something  you  said  at  the  gate  : 
Ah,  Joe,  then  I  wasn’t  an  heiress 
To  “  the  best-paying  lead  in  the  State.” 

Well,  well,  it’s  all  past ;  yet  it’s  funny 
To  think,  as  I  stood  in  the  glare 
Of  fashion  and  beauty  and  money, 

That  I  should  be  thinking,  right  there, 
Of  some  one  who  breasted  high  water, 
And  swam  the  North  Fork,  and  all  that, 
Just  to  dance  with  old  Folinsbee’s  daugh¬ 
ter, 

The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat. 

But  goodness!  what  nonsense  I’m  writing  ! 

(Mamma  says  my  taste  still  is  low), 
Instead  of  my  triumphs  reciting, 

I’m  spooning  on  Joseph — heigh-ho! 

And  I’m  to  be  “  finish’d  ”  by  travel — 
Whatever’s  the  meaning  of  that — 

Oh,  why  did  papa  strike  pay  gravel 
In  drifting  on  Poverty  Flat  ? 

Good-night — here’s  the  end  of  my  paper  ; 

Good-night — if  the  longitude  please — 
For  maybe,  while  wasting  my  taper, 

Your  sun’s  climbing  over  the  trees. 

But  know,  if  you  haven’t  got  riches, 

And  are  poor,  dearest  Joe,  and  all  that, 
That  my  heart’s  somewhere  there  in  the 
ditches, 

And  you’ve  struck  it — on  Poverty  Flat. 

F.  Bret  IIarte. 


My  Love. 

Not  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear ; 

Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star ; 

And  yet  her  breast  is  ever  near. 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own, 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know  ; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 

And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 

Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 

Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair ; 

No  simplest  duty  is  forgot; 

Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

I  She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 

Which  most  leave  undone  or  despise; 
For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 
And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 

Is  low-esteemkd  in  her  eyes. 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things ; 

And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  entwines  and  clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 

Blessing  she  is  ;  God  made  her  so  ; 

And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
F all  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow ; 

Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 

She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize ; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne’er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue, 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 

She  is  a  woman — one  in  whom 

The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 

Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears. 

I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river’s  peaceful  might, 
Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Goes  wandering  at  its  own  will, 

And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


209 


And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene, 

Like  quiet  isles,  my  duties  lie ; 

It  flows  around  them  and  between, 

And  makes  them  fresh  and  fair  and  green — 
Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

- »o« - 

The  Bridal  of  and  all  a. 

“  Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa !  lay  the  golden 
cushion  down ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze 
with  all  the  town ! 

From  gay  guitar  and  violin  the  silver  notes 
are  flowing, 

And  the  lovely  lute  doth  speak  between 
the  trumpet’s  lordly  blowing, 

And  banners  bright  from  lattice  light  are 
waving  everywhere, 

And  the  tall,  tall  plume  of  our  cousin’s 
bridegroom  floats  proudly  in  the  air. 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the  golden 
cushion  down ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze 
with  all  the  town  ! 

“  Arise,  arise,  Xarifa !  I  see  Andalla’s 
face — 

He  bends  him  to  the  people  with  a  calm 
and  princely  grace ; 

Through  all  the  land  of  Xeres  and  banks 
of  Guadalquiver 

Rode  forth  bridegroom  so  brave  as  he,  so 
brave  and  lovely,  never. 

Yon  tall  plume  waving  o’er  his  brow,  of 
purple  mixed  with  white, 

I  guess  ’twas  wreath’d  by  Zara,  whom  he 
will  wed  to-night. 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the  golden 
cushion  down  ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze 
with  all  the  town ! 

“  What  aileth  thee,  Xarifa — what  makes 
thine  eyes  look  down? 

Why  stay  ye  from  the  window  far,  nor 
gaze  with  all  the  town? 

I’ve  heard  you  say  on  many  a  day — and 
sure  you  said  the  truth — 

Andalla  rides  without  a  peer  among  all 

Granada’s  youth : 

14 


Without  a  peer  he  rideth,  and  yon  milk- 
white  horse  doth  go 

Beneath  his  stately  master  with  a  stately 
step  and  slow  : — 

Then  rise — oh  rise,  Xarifa,  lay  the  golden 
cushion  down  ; 

Unseen  here  through  the  lattice  you  may 
gaze  with  all  the  town  !” 

The  Zegri  lady  rose  not,  nor  laid  her 
cushion  down, 

Nor  came  she  to  the  window  to  gaze  with 
all  the  town ; 

But  though  her  eyes  dwelt  on  her  knee,  in 
vain  her  fingers  strove, 

And  though  her  needle  press’d  the  silk, 
no  flower  Xarifa  wove  ; 

One  bonny  rosebud  she  had  traced  before 
the  noise  drew  nigh — 

That  bonny  bud  a  tear  effaced,  slow  droop¬ 
ing  from  her  eye — 

“  No — no  !”  she  sighs — “  bid  me  not  rise, 
nor  lay  my  cushion  down, 

To  gaze  upon  Andalla  with  all  the  gazing 
town!” 

“  Why  rise  ye  not,  Xarifa,  nor  lay  your 
cushion  down? 

Why  gaze  ye  not,  Xarifa,  with  all  the 
gazing  town  ? 

Hear,  hear  the  trumpet  how  it  swells,  and 
how  the  people  cry ; 

He  stops  at  Zara’s  palace-gate — why  sit  ye 
still — oh,  why?” 

— “  At  Zara’s  gate  stops  Zara’s  mate ;  in 
him  shall  I  discover 

The  dark-eyed  youth  pledged  me  his  truth 
with  tears,  and  was  my  lover? 

I  will  not  rise,  with  weary  eyes,  nor  lay 
my  cushion  down, 

To  gaze  on  false  Andalla  with  all  the  gaz¬ 
ing  town !” 

From  the  Spanish. 

John  Gibson  Lockhart. 


The  Captive  Bee. 

As  Julia  once  a-slumbering  lay, 

It  chanced  a  bee  did  fly  that  way. 
After  a  dew,  or  dew-like  shower, 

To  tipple  freely  in  a  flower. 

For  some  rich  flower  he  took  the  lip 
Of  Julia,  and  began  to  sip  : 


210 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  when  he  felt  he  suck’d  from  thence 
Honey,  and  in  the  quintessence, 

He  drank  so  much  he  scarce  could  stir ; 
So  Julia  took  the  pilferer — 

And  thus  surprised,  as  filchers  use, 

He  thus  began  himself  t’  excuse : 

“  Sweet  Lady-flower,  I  never  brought 
Hither  the  least  one  thieving  thought; 
But,  taking  those  rare  lips  of  yours 
For  some  fresh,  fragrant,  luscious  flowers, 
I  though  I  might  there  take  a  taste 
Where  so  much  syrup  ran  at  Avaste. 
Besides,  know  this, — I  never  sting 
The  flower  that  gives  me  nourishing: 
But  with  a  kiss  or  thanks,  do  pay 
For  honey  that  I  bear  away.” 

This  said,  he  laid  his  little  scrip 
Of  honey  Tore  her  ladyship  ; 

And  told  her,  as  some  tears  did  fall, 
That  that  he  took,  and  that  was  all. 

At  which  she  smiled,  and  bade  him  go 
And  take  his  bag,  but  thus  much  know : 
When  next  he  came  a-pilfering  so, 

He  should  from  her  full  lips  derive 
Honey  enough  to  fill  his  hive. 

Robert  Herrick. 

* 

- - 

To  Dianeme. 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes, 
Which,  star-like,  sparkle  in  their  skies; 
Nor  be  you  proud,  that  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives,  yours  yet  free  ; 

Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  haire, 
Which  wantons  with  the  love-sick  aire  ; 
When  as  that  ruble  which  you  weare, 

Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  eare, 

Will  last  to  be  a  precious  stone, 

When  all  your  world  of  beautie’s  gone. 

Robert  Herrick. 

- KX - 

The  Maidens  Choice. 

Genteel  in  personage, 

Conduct  and  equipage; 

Noble  by  heritage ; 

Generous  and  free ; 

Brave,  not  romantic; 

Learn’d,  not  pedantic ; 


Frolic,  not  frantic — 

This  must  he  be. 

Honor  maintaining, 

Meanness  disdaining, 

Still  entertaining, 

Engaging,  and  new; 

Neat,  but  not  finical ; 

Sage,  but  not  cynical; 

Never  tyrannical, 

But  ever  true, 

Henry  Carey 

•  <>♦ - 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere. . 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown  ; 

You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 
For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 

At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 
I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired : 

The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 
A  heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms. 

A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 

For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 

You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 
And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 

The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 
Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Lauience  dead. 
Oh,  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies: 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be ; 

But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


211 


Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother’s  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed,  I  heard  one  bitter  word 
That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 

Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall : 

The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door  : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  you  fixed  a  vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent, 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe’er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

’Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 

Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere : 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers : 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 
Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 

In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 
But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 

You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

Y ou  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 

Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands? 

Oh  teach  the  orphan  boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan  girl  to  sew, 

Pray  heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

——♦<>• - - 

At  the  Church  Gate. 

Although  I  enter  not, 

Yet  round  about  the  spot 
Ofttimes  I  hover  ; 

And  near  the  sacred  gate, 

With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 


The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city’s  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming  ; 
They’ve  hush’d  the  minster  bell : 
The  organ  ’gins  to  swell : 

She’s  coming,  she’s  coming  ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 

Timid,  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 

With  modest  eyes  downcast : 

She  comes — she’s  here — she’s  past — 
May  Heaven  go  with  her  ! 

Kneel  undisturb’d,  fair  saint ! 

Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 
Meekly  and  duly ; 

I  will  not  enter  there, 

To  sully  your  pure  prayer 
With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 
Lingering  a  minute, 

Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven’s  gate 
Angels  within  it. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

- +C* - 

In  a  Year. 

Never  any  more 
While  I  live, 

Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 
As  before. 

Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive, — 

Bitterly  we  re-embrace, 

Single  still. 

Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 

Vex’d  him?  was  it  touch  of  hand, 
Turn  of  head  ? 

Strange  !  that  very  way 
Love  begun. 

I  as  little  understand 
Love’s  decay. 

When  I  sew’d  or  drew, 

I  recall 

How  he  look’d  as  if  I  sang 
— Sweetly  too. 


2]  2 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


if  I  spoke  a  word, 

First  of  all 

Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprang, 

Then  he  heard. 

Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet, 

So  he  breathed  the  air  I  breathed, 
Satisfied ! 

I,  too,  at  love’s  brim 

Touch’d  the  sweet. 

I  would  die  if  death  bequeath’d 
Sweet  to  him. 

“  Speak, — I  love  thee  best !” 

He  exclaim’d, — 

Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell.” 

I  confess’d : 

“  Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 
Now  unblamed, 

Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 
Hangeth  mine !” 

Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth  ? 

Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 
His  alone  ? 

I  had  wealth  and  ease, 

Beauty,  youth, — 

Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  these. 

That  was  all  I  meant, 

— To  be  just, 

And  the  passion  I  had  raised 
To  content. 

Since  he  chose  to  change 
Gold  for  dust, 

If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised, 

Was  it  strange? 

Would  he  loved  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 

While  I  found  some  way  undream’d, 
— Paid  my  debt ! 

Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Till,  all  gone, 

He  should  smile,  “  She  never  seem’d 
Mine  before. 

“  What — she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I  think  ? 

Love’s  so  different  with  us  men,” 

He  should  smile. 


“  Dying  for  my  sake — 

White  and  pink  ! 

Can’t  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 
But  they  break  ?” 

Dear,  the  pang  is  brief. 

Do  thy  part, 

Have  thy  pleasure.  How  perplext 
Grows  belief? 

Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 
Was  man’s  heart. 

Crumble  it, — and  what  comes  next  ? 
Is  it  God  ? 

Robert  Browning. 


Song. 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 
Of  the  dismal  yew : 

Maidens,  willow  branches  bear ; 

Say  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm, 
From  my  hour  of  birth ; 

Upon  my  buried  body,  lie 
Lightly,  gentle  earth ! 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 


Sonnet. 

To  live  in  hell,  and  heaven  to  behold, 

To  welcome  life,  and  die  a  living  death, 

To  sweat  with  heat,  and  yet  be  freezing 
cold, 

To  grasp  at  stars,  and  lie  the  earth  be¬ 
neath, 

To  tread  a  maze  that  never  shall  have  end, 
To  burn  in  sighs,  and  starve  in  daily 
tears, 

To  climb  a  hill,  and  never  to  descend, 
Giants  to  kill,  and  quake  at  childish 

fears, 

To  pine  for  food,  and  watch  the  Hesperian 
tree, 

To  thirst  for  drink,  and  nectar  still  to 
draw, 

To  live  accursed,  whom  men  hold  blest  to 
be, 

And  weep  those  wrongs,  which  never 
creature  saw; 

If  this  be  love,  if  love  in  these  be  founded, 

My  heart  is  love,  for  these  in  it  are 
grounded. 

Henry  Constable. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


213 


To  Ian  the. 

Ianthe  !  you  are  call’d  to  cross  the  sea ! 

A  path  forbidden  me  ! 

Remember,  while  the  sun  his  blessing 
sheds 

Upon  the  mountain-heads, 

How  often  we  have  watcht  him  laying 
down 

His  brow,  and  dropt  our  own 
Against  each  other’s,  and  how  faint  and 
short 

And  sliding  the  support ! 

What  will  succeed  it  now  ?  Mine  is  un¬ 
blest, 

Ianthe  !  nor  will  rest 

But  on  the  very  thought  that  swells  with 
pain. 

Oh  bid  me  hope  again ! 

Oh  give  me  back  what  Earth,  what  (with¬ 
out  you) 

Not  Heaven  itself  can  do, 

One  of  the  golden  days  that  we  have  past ; 

And  let  it  be  my  last ! 

Or  else  the  gift  would  be,  however  sweet, 
Fragile  and  incomplete. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 

- K>« - 

Euphrosyne. 

I  WILL  not  say  that  thou  wast  true, 

Yet  let  me  say  that  thou  wast  fair  ! 

And  they  that  lovely  face  who  view, 

They  should  not  ask  if  truth  be  there. 

Truth — what  is  truth  ?  Two  bleeding  hearts 
Wounded  by  men,  by  Fortune  tried, 
Out-wearied  with  their  lonely  parts, 

Vow  to  beat  henceforth  side  by  side. 

The  world  to  them  was  stern  and  drear, 
Their  lot  was  but  to  weep  and  moan ; 

Ah,  let  them  keep  their  faith  sincere, 

For  neither  could  subsist  alone ! 

But  souls  whom  some  benignant  breath 
Has  charm’d  at  birth  from  gloom  and 
care, 

These  ask  no  love,  these  plight  no  faith, 
For  they  are  happy  as  they  are. 

The  world  to  them  may  homage  make, 

And  garlands  for  their  forehead  weave ; 


And  what  the  world  can  give,  they  take — 
But  they  bring  more  than  they  receive. 

They  smile  upon  the  world.  Their  ears 
To  one  demand  alone  are  coy ; 

They  will  not  give  us  love  and  tears — 
They  bring  us  light,  and  warmth,  and 

joy- 

On  one  she  smiled,  and  he  was  blest ! 

She  smiles  elsewhere — we  make  a  din ! 
But  ’twas  not  love  which  heaved  hei  breast, 
Fair  child ! — it  was  the  bliss  within. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

- K>« - 

Jealousy,  the  Tyrant  of  the 
Mine. 

What  state  of  life  can  be  so  blest 
As  love,  that  warms  a  lover’s  breast? 

Two  souls  in  one,  the  same  desire 
To  grant  the  bliss,  and  to  require! 

But  if  in  heaven  a  hell  we  find, 

’Tis  all  from  thee, 

O  Jealousy !  ' 

’Tis  all  from  thee, 

O  Jealousy ! 

Thou  tyrant,  tyrant  Jealousy, 

Thou  tyrant  of  the  mind  ! 

All  other  ills  though  sharp  they  prove, 
Serve  to  refine  and  perfect  love  : 

In  absence,  or  unkind  disdain, 

Sweet  hope  relieves  the  lover’s  pain. 

But,  ah !  no  cure  but  death  we  find, 

To  set  us  free  from  Jealousy: 

O  Jealousy ! 

Thou  tyrant,  tyrant  Jealousy, 

Thou  tyrant  of  the  mind ! 

False  in  thy  glass  all  objects  are, 

Some  set  too  near,  and  some  too  far; 

Thou  art  the  fire  of  endless  night, 

The  fire  that  burns,  and  gives  no  light. 

All  torments  of  the  damn’d  we  find 
In  only  thee, 

O  Jealousy ! 

Thou  tyrant,  tyrant  Jealousy, 

Thou  tyrant  of  the  mind. 

John  Dryden, 

- - 


214 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Sixteen. 

In  Clementina’s  artless  mien 

Lucilla  asks  me  what  I  see, — 

And  are  the  roses  of  sixteen 
Enough  for  me? 

Lucilla  asks,  if  that  be  all, 

Have  I  not  cull’d  as  sweet  before? 

Ah  yes,  Lucilla  !  and  their  fall 
I  still  deplore. 

I  now  behold  another  scene, 

Where  pleasure  beams  with  heaven’s 
own  light, — 

More  pure,  more  constant,  more  serene. 
And  not  less  bright : 

Faith,  on  whose  breast  the  Loves  repose, 
Whose  chain  of  flowers  no  force  can 
sever ; 

And  Modesty,  who,  when  she  goes, 

Is  gone  for  ever. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


Co 3i in’  Through  the  Rye. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 
Coinin’  through  the  rye, 

Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  a  body  cry  ? 

Every  lassie  has  her  laddie — 

Ne’er  a  ane  hae  I; 

Yet  a’  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 
When  cornin’  through  the  rye. 

Amang  the  train  there  is  a  swain 
I  dearly  lo’e  mysel’ ; 

But  whaur  his  hame,  or  what  his  name, 
I  dinna  care  to  tell. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 
Coinin’  frae  the  town, 

Gin  a  body  greet  a  body, 

Need  a  body  frown? 

Every  lassie  has  her  laddie — 

Ne’er  a  ane  hae  I ; 

Yet  a’  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 
When  coinin’  through  the  rye. 

Amang  the  train  there  is  a  swain 
I  dearly  lo’e  mysel’  ; 

But  whaur  his  hame,  or  what  his  name, 
I  dinna  care  to  tell. 

Author  Unknown. 


Cherry-Ripe. 

Cherry-ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry, 

Full  and  fair  ones ;  come  and  buy ; 

If  so  be  you  ask  me  where 
They  do  grow,  I  answer,  there, 

Where  my  Julia’s  lips  do  smile, 
There’s  the  land,  or  cherry  isle, 

Whose  plantations  fully  show 
All  the  year  where  cherries  grow. 

Robert  Herrick. 

* — - K>« - 

The  White  Rose. 

SENT  BY  A  YORKISH  LOVER  TO  HIS  LANCAS¬ 
TRIAN  MISTRESS. 

If  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight, 
Placed  in  thy  bosom  bare, 

’Twill  blush  to  find  itself  less  white, 
And  turn  Lancastrian  there. 

But  if  thy  ruby  lip  it  spy, 

As  kiss  it  thou  mayst  deign, 

With  envy  pale  ’twill  lose  its  dye, 
And  Yorkish  turn  again. 

Author  Unknown. 

•O*  ■—  - 

The  primrose. 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here 
This  sweet  Infanta  of  the  year  ? 

Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 

This  primrose,  thus  bepearl’d  with  dew? 

I  will  whisper  to  your  ears, 

The  sweets  of  love  are  mixt  with  tears. 

Ask  me  why  this  flower  does  show 
So  yellow-green,  and  sickly,  too  ? 

Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak 
And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break  ? 

I  will  answer :  these  discover 

What  fainting  hopes  are  in  a  lover. 

Robert  Herrick. 


Here’S  to  Thee,  my  Scottish 
Lassie. 

Here’s  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie !  here’s 
a  hearty  health  to  thee ! 

For  thine  eye  so  bright,  thy  form  so  light, 
and  thy  step  so  firm  and  free ; 


POEMS  OF  LOVE . 


215 


For  all  thine  artless  elegance,  and  all  thy 
native  grace ; 

For  the  music  of  thy  mirthful  voice,  and 
the  sunshine  of  thy  face ; 

For  thy  guileless  look  and  speech  sincere, 
yet  sweet  as  speech  can  be, — 

Here’s  a  health,  my  Scottish  lassie !  here’s 
a  hearty  health  to  thee ! 

Here’s  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie !  Though 
my  glow  of  youth  is  o’er, 

And  I,  as  once  I  felt  and  dream’d,  must 
feel  and  dream  no  more ; 

Though  the  world,  with  all  its  frosts  and 
storms,  has  chill’d  my  soul  at  last, 
And  genius  with  the  foodful  looks  of 
youthful  friendship  pass’d  ; . 

Though  my  path  is  dark  and  lonely,  now, 
o’er  this  world’s  dreary  sea, 

Here’s  a  health,  my  Scottish  lassie !  here’s 
a  hearty  health  to  thee ! 

Here’s  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie !  though 
I  know  that  not  for  me 
Is  thine  eye  so  bright,  thy  form  so  light, 
and  thy  step  so  firm  and  free ; 
Though  thou,  with  cold  and  careless  looks, 
wilt  often  pass  me  by, 

Unconscious  of  my  swelling  heart  and  of 
my  wistful  eye; 

Though  thou  wilt  wed  some  Highland  love, 
nor  waste  one  thought  on  me, 

Here’s  a  health,  my  Scottish  lassie!  here’s 
a  hearty  health  to  thee ! 

Here’s  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie !  when  I 
meet  thee  in  the  throng 
Of  merry  youths  and  maidens  dancing 
lightsomely  along, 

I’ll  dream  away  an  hour  or  twain,  still 
gazing  on  thy  form, 

As  it  flashes  through  the  baser  crowd,  like 
lightning  through  a  storm ; 

And  I,  perhaps,  shall  touch  thy  hand,  and 
share  thy  looks  of  glee, 

And  for  once,  my  Scottish  lassie,  dance  a 
giddy  dance  with  thee ! 

Here’s  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie!  I  shall 
think  of  thee  at  even, 

When  I  see  its  first  and  fairest  star  come 
smiling  up  through  heaven; 


I  shall  hear  thy  sweet  and  touching  voice 
in  every  wind  that  grieves, 

As  it  whirls  from  the  abandon’d  oak  its 
wither’d  autumn  leaves; 

In  the  gloom  of  the  wild  forest,  in  the  still¬ 
ness  of  the  sea, 

I  shall  think,  my  Scottish  lassie,  I  shall 
often  think  of  thee ! 

Here’s  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie!  In  my 
sad  and  lonely  hours, 

The  thought  of  thee  comes  o’er  me  like  the 
breath  of  distant  flowers : 

Like  the  music  that  enchants  mine  ear,  the 
sights  that  bless  mine  eye, 

Like  the  verdure  of  the  meadow,  like  the 
azure  of  the  sky, 

Like  the  rainbow  in  the  evening,  like  the 
blossoms  on  the  tree, 

Is  the  thought,  my  Scottish  lassie,  is  the 
lonely  thought  of  thee. 

Here’s  a  health,  my  Scottish  lassie! — here’s 
a  parting  health  to  thee  ! 

May  thine  be  still  a  cloudless  lot,  though 
it  be  far  from  me  ! 

May  still  thy  laughing  eye  be  bright,  and 
open  still  thy  brow, 

Thy  thoughts  as  pure,  thy  speech  as  free, 
thy  heart  as  light  as  now 

And,  whatsoe’er  my  after-fate,  my  dearest 
toast  shall  be, — 

Still  a  health,  my  Scottish  lassie!  still  a 

hearty  health  to  thee ; 

John  Moultrie. 

Good-Morrow  Song. 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome,  day, 
With  night  we  banish  sorrow; 

Sweet  air,  blow  soft,  mount,  larks,  aloft, 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow  ! 

Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 
Notes  from  the  lark  I’ll  borrow ; 

Bird,  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale,  sing, 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow  ; 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Notes  from  them  both  I’ll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  Robin  redbreast, 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow ; 

And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 
Give  my  fair  Love  good-morrow  ! 


216 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 
Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow  ! 

You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves 
Sing  my  fair  Love  good-morrow; 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow ! 

Thomas  Heywood. 

♦Ot - 

Tiie  Song  of  the  Camp. 

“  Give  us  a  song  !”  the  soldiers  cried, 

The  outer  trenches  guarding, 

When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 

Lay  grim  and  threatening  under  ; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belch’d  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.  A  guardsman  said  : 

“  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow  ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow.” 

They  lay  along  the  battery’s  side, 

Below  the  smoking  cannon  : 

Brave  hearts  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 
And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame  ; 
Forgot  was  Britain’s  glory  : 

Each  heart  recall’d  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  “Annie  Laurie.” 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 
Until  its  tender  passion 

Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong, — 
Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 
But  as  the  song  grew  louder, 

Something  upon  the  soldier’s  cheek 
Wash’d  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burn’d 
The  bloody  sunset’s  embers, 

While  the  Crimean  valleys  learn’d 
How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Rain’d  on  the  Russian  quarters, 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars  ! 


And  Irish  Nora’s  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer  dumb  and  gory  ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  “Annie  Laurie.” 

Sleep,  soldiers  !  still  in  honor’d  rest 
Your  truth  and  valor  wearing: 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest, — 

The  loving  are  the  daring. 

Bayard  Taylor. 

- K>« - 

Urania. 

She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh, 
While  we  for  hopeless  passion  die; 

Yet  she  could  love,  those  eyes  declare, 
Were  but  men  nobler  than  they  are. 

Eagerly  once  her  gracious  ken 
Was  turn’d  upon  the  sons  of  men  ; 

But  light  the  serious  visage  grew — 

She  look’d,  and  smiled,  and  saw  them 
through. 

Our  petty  souls,  our  strutting  wits, 

Our  labor’d,  puny  passion-fits — 

Ah,  may  she  scorn  them  still,  till  we 
Scorn  them  as  bitterly  as  she ! 

Yet  show  her  once,  ye  heavenly  powers, 
One  of  some  worthier  race  than  ours ! 

One  for  whose  sake  she  once  might  prove 
How  deeply  she  who  scorns  can  love. 

His  eyes  be  like  the  starry  lights — 

His  voice  like  sounds  of  summer  nights — 
In  all  his  lovely  mien  let  pierce 
The  magic  of  the  universe ! 

And  she  to  him  will  reach  her  hand, 

And  gazing  in  his  eyes  will  stand, 

And  know  her  friend,  and  weep  for  glee, 
And  cry,  “Long,  long  Eve  look'd  for  thee." 

Then  will  she  weep! — with  smiles,  till 
then, 

Coldly  she  mocks  the  sons  of  men. 

Till  then  her  lovely  eyes  maintain 
Their  pure,  unwavering,  deep  disdain. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


-•O*- 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


217 


To  Eva. 

0  fair  and  stately  maid,  whose  eyes 
Were  kindled  in  the  upper  skies 
At  the  same  torch  that  lighted  mine ; 
For  so  I  must  interpret  still 
Thy  sweet  dominion  o’er  my  will, 

A  sympathy  divine. 

Ah,  let  me  blameless  gaze  upon 
F eatures  that  seem  at  heart  my  own ; 

Nor  fear  those  watchful  sentinels, 

Who  charm  the  more  their  glance  forbids, 
Chaste-glowing,  underneath  their  lids, 

With  fire  that  draws  while  it  repels. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

- *<>♦ - - 

Who  is  Sylvia? 

W ho  is  Sylvia  ?  what  is  she, 

That  all  the  swains  commend  her  ? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she  ; 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her 
That  she  might  adored  be: 

Is  she  kind,  or  is  she  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 

Love  does  to  her  eyes  repair 
To  help  him  of  his  blindness — 

And,  being  help’d,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Sylvia  let  us  sing 
That  Sylvia  is  excelling  ; 

She  excels  each  mortal  thing 
Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling ; 

To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- »<>♦ - 

A  UF  WIEDERSEHEN 
Summer. 

The  little  gate  was  reach’d  at  last, 

Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane ; 

She  push’d  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 

A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 

And  said,  “  Auf  Wiedersehen  /” 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 
Lingered  reluctant,  and  again, 

Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 

Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 

She  said,  “  Auf  Wiedersehen  /” 


The  lamp’s  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair ; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain  ; 

Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare. 
Thinks  she,  “  Auf  Wiedersehen  /” 

’Tis  thirteen  years  :  once  more  I  press 
The  turf  that  silences  the  lane ; 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 

I  smell  the  lilacs,  and — ah  yes, 

I  hear,  “  Auf  Wiedersehen  /” 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art ! 

The  English  words  had  seem’d  too  fain  ! 
But  these — they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart ; 

She  said,  “  Auf  Wiedersehen  /” 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

- *o« - 

The  Love-Knot. 

• 

Tyihg  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 

She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in ; 

But  not  alone  in  its  silken  snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely  floating  hair, 

For,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 

She  tied  a  young  man’s  heart  within. 

They  were  strolling  together  up  the  hill, 
Where  the  wind  comes  blowing  merry  and 
chill ; 

And  it  blew  the  curls  a  frolicsome  race 
All  over  the  happy  peacli-color’d  face, 

Till,  scolding  and  laughing,  she  tied  them 
in, 

Under  her  beautiful  dimpled  chin. 

And  it  blew  a  color,  bright  as  the  bloom 
Of  the  pinkest  fuschia’s  tossing  plume, 

All  over  the  cheeks  of  the  prettiest  girl 
That  ever  imprison’d  a  romping  curl, 

Or,  in  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
Tied  a  young  man’s  heart  within. 

Steeper  and  steeper  grew  the  hill — - 
Madder,  merrier,  chillier  still 
The  western  wind  blew  down  and  play’d 
The  wildest  tricks  with  the  little  maid, 

As,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 

She  tied  a  young  man’s  heart  within. 

O  western  wind,  do  you  think  it  was  fair 
To  play  such  tricks  with  her  floating  hair  ? 


218 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


To  gladly,  gleefully  do  your  best 
To  blow  her  against  the  young  man’s 
breast  ? 

Where  he  as  gladly  folded  her  in  ; 

He  kiss’d  her  mouth  and  dimpled  chin. 

Oh,  Ellery  Vane,  you  little  thought, 

An  hour  ago,  when  you  besought 
This  country  lass  to  walk  with  you, 

After  the  sun  had  dried  the  dew, 

What  perilous  danger  you’d  be  in, 

As  she  tied  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 

Nora  Perry. 

- *0* - 

When  Stars  are  in  the  Quiet 
Skies. 

When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  thee ; 

Bend  on  me  then  thy  tender  eyes, 

As  stars  look  on  the  sea  ! 

For  thoughts,  like  waves  that  glide  by 
night, 

Are  stillest  when  they  shine  ; 

Mine  earthly  love  lies  hush’d  in  light 
Beneath  the  heaven  of  thine. 

There  is  an  hour  when  angels  keep 
Familiar  watch  o’er  men, 

When  coarser  souls  are  wrapt  in  sleep — 
Sweet  spirit,  meet  me  then  ! 

There  is  an  hour  when  holy  dreams 
Through  slumber  fairest  glide; 

And  in  that  mystic  hour  it  seems 
Thou  shouldst  be  by  my  side. 

My  thoughts  of  thee  too  sacred  are 
For  daylight’s  common  beam: 

I  can  but  know  thee  as  mv  star, 

My  angel  and  my  dream  ; 

When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  thee ; 

Bend  on  me  then  thy  tender  eyes, 

As  stars  look  on  the  sea ! 

Edward  Bulwer  Lytton. 

- K>« - 

SHE’S  GANE  TO  DWALL  IN  HEA  VEN. 

She’s  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie, 
She  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven ; 

Ye’re  owre  pure,  quo’  the  voice  o’  God, 
For  dwalling  out  o’  heaven. 


Oh,  what’ll  she  do  in  heaven,  my  lassie, 
Oh,  what’ll  she  do  in  heaven? 

She’ll  mix  her  ain  thoughts  wi’  angels’ 
sangs, 

An’  make  them  mair  meet  for  heaven. 

She  was  beloved  by  a’,  my  lassie, 

She  was  beloved  by  a’, 

But  an  angel  fell  in  love  wi’  her, 

An’  took  her  frae  us  a’. 

Lowly  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie, 

Lowly  there  thou  lies ; 

A  bonnier  form  ne’er  went  to  the  yird. 

Nor  frae  it  will  arise. 

Fu’  soon  I’ll  follow  thee,  my  lassie, 

Fu’  soon  I’ll  follow  thee  ; 

Thou  left  me  naught  to  covet  ahin’, 

But  took  gudeness  sel’  wi’  thee. 

I  look’d  on  thy  death-cold  face,  my  lassie, 
I  look’d  on  thy  death-cold  face ; 

Thou  seem’d  a  lily  new  cut  i’  the  bud, 

An’  fading  in  its  place. 

I  look’d  on  thy  death-shut  eye,  my  lassie, 

I  look’d  on  thy  death-shut  eye  ; 

An’  a  lovelier  light  in  the  brow  of  heaven 
Fell  Time  shall  ne’er  destroy. 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm,  my  lassie, 
Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm ; 

But  gane  was  the  holy  breath  o’  heaven, 
That  sing  the  evening  psalm. 

There’s  naught  but  dust  now  mine,  lassie, 
There’s  naught  but  dust  now  mine ; 

My  soul’s  wi’  thee  i’  the  cauld  grave, 

An’  why  should  I  stay  bellin’  ? 

Allan  Cunningham. 

- - 

Sonnet. 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments ;  love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove. 
Oh  no !  it  is  an  ever-fix&d  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never 
shaken ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth’s  unknown,  although  his 
height  be  taken. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


219 


Love’s  not  Time’s  fool,  though  rosy  lips 
and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle’s  compass 
come; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and 
weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- - 

Sonnet. 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I 
cry, 

As  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 

And  needy  nothing  trimm’d  in  jollity, 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 
And  gilded  honor  shamefully  misplaced, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  folly,  doctor-like,  controlling  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscall’d  simplicity, 

And  captive  Good  attending  Captain 
111  ;~ 

Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I 
be  gone, 

Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  Love  alone. 

William  Shakespeare. 

■ - Kh - 

Sonnet. 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead, 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly,  sullen 
bell 

Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms 
to  dwell. 

Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it,  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be 
forgot, 

If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make 
you  woe. 

Oh,  if,  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with 
clay, 

Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse, 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  de¬ 
cay, 


Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your 
moan, 

And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- KX - 

Sonnet. 

That  time  of  year  thou  may’st  in  me  be¬ 
hold, 

When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few  do 
hang 

Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against 
the  cold, 

Bare  ruin’d  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet 
birds  sang. 

In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 

As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 

Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take 
away, 

Death’s  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in 
rest ; 

In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 

As  the  deathbed  whereon  it  must  expire, 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nour¬ 
ish’d  by. 

This  thou  perceiv’st,  which  makes  thy 
love  more  strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave 
ere  long. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- *0* - - 

Sonnet. 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men’s 
eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 

And  trouble  deaf  Heaven  with  my  boot¬ 
less  cries, 

And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my 
fate, 

Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in 
hope, 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends 

possess’d, 

Desiring  this  man’s  art,  and  that  man’s 
scope, 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  de¬ 
spising, 

Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my 
state 


220 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heav¬ 
en’s  gate : 

For  thy  sweet  love  remember’d  such 
wealth  brings, 

That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state 
with  kings. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- K>« - 

Sonnet. 

Whex  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 

And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely 
knights ; 

Then  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beautv’s  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 

I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  exprest 
Ev’n  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 

So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring ; 

And  for  they  look’d  but  with  divining  eyes,  , 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth 
to  sin  £  ; 

For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present 
days, 

Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to 
praise. 

William  Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer’s  day  ? 

Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temper¬ 
ate  ; 

7 

Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of 
May, 

And  summer’s  lease  hath  all  too  short  a 
date. 

Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 

And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm’d, 

And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  de¬ 
clines, 

By  chance,  or  Nature’s  changing  course, 
untrimm’d. 

But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 

Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou 
owest, 

Nor  shall  death  brag  thou  wanderest  in 
his  shade, 

When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou 
growest. 


So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can 
see, 

So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- *o« - 

Epithalamium. 

I  SAW  two  clouds  at  morning, 

Tinged  by  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on, 

And  mingled  into  one  ; 

I  thought  that  morning  cloud  was  bless’d, 
It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

I  saw  two  summer  currents 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting, 

And  join  their  course,  with  silent  force, 

In  peace  each  other  greeting  ; 

Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of 
green, 

While  dimpling  eddies  play’d  between. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 

Till  life’s  last  pulse  shall  beat ; 

Like  summer’s  beam,  and  summer’s  stream, 
Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 
A  calmer  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease — 

A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 

John  G.  C.  Brain ard. 

- K>« - 

Bridal  Song. 

To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet 
Moving  slow  our  solemn  feet, 

We  have  borne  thee  on  the  road 
To  the  virgin’s  blest  abode  ; 

With  thy  yellow  torches  gleaming, 
And  thy  scarlet  mantle  streaming, 
And  the  canopy  above 
Swaying  as  we  slowly  move. 

Thou  hast  left  the  joyous  feast, 

And  the  mirth  and  wine  have  ceased ; 
And  now  we  set  thee  down  before 
The  jealously-unclosing  door, 

That  the  favor’d  youth  admits 
Where  the  veiled  virgin  sits 
In  the  bliss  of  maiden  fear, 

Waiting  our  soft  tread  to  hear, 

And  the  music’s  brisker  din 
At  the  bridegroom’s  entering  in — 
Entering  in,  a  welcome  guest, 

To  the  chamber  of  his  rest. 

Henry  Hart  Milman. 


/ 


Personal  Poems. 


The  Grave  of  Mac  aura. 

And  this  is  thy  grave,  Macaura, 

Here  by  the  pathway  lone, 

Where  the  thorn-blossoms  are  bending 
Over  thy  moulder’d  stone. 

Alas  !  for  the  sons  of  glory  ; 

0  thou  of  the  darken’d  brow, 

And  the  eagle  plume,  and  the  belted  clans, 
Is  it  here  thou  art  sleeping  now  ? 

Oh  wild  is  the  spot,  Macaura, 

In  which  they  have  laid  thee  low — 

The  field  where  thy  people  triumph’d 
Over  a  slaughter’d  foe  ; 

And  loud  was  the  banshee’s  wailing, 

And  deep  was  the  clansmen’s  sorrow, 
When,  with  bloody  hands  and  burning 
tears,  f 

They  buried  thee  here,  Macaura  ! 

And  now  thy  dwelling  is  lonely, 

King  of  the  rushing  horde  ; 

And  now  thy  battles  are  over, 

Chief  of  the  shining  sword  ; 

And  the  rolling  thunder  echoes 
O’er  torrent  and  mountain  free, 

But  alas  !  and  alas  !  Macaura, 

It  will  not  awaken  thee. 

Farewell  to  thy  grave,  Macaura, 

Where  the  slanting  sunbeams  shine, 

And  the  brier  and  waving  fern 
Over  thy  slumbers  twine  ; 

Thou  whose  gathering  summons 
Could  waken  the  sleeping  glen  ; 

Macaura,  alas  for  thee  and  thine, 

’Twill  never  be  heard  again  ! 

Mary  Downing. 


On  a  Bust  of  Dante. 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 
Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 

How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song! 

There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 
Perpetual  care,  and  scorn,  abide — 

Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng, 
Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was — but  a  fight; 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 
A  lover  in  that  anchorite? 

To  that  cold  Ghibeline’s  gloomy  sight 
Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame? 

The  lips  as  Cumae’s  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 

Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 
Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 
Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 

When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 
With  no  companion  save  his  book, 

To  Corvo’s  hushed  monastic  shade ; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 
His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim  guest. 

The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 
The  convent’s  charity  was  rest. 

Peace  dwells  not  here — this  rugged  face 
Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose; 

The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 


-•Ov 


222 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine — 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth  ; 
Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth. 
He  used  Rome’s  harlot  for  his  mirth  ; 

Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime ; 

J3ut  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 
Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O  Time !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 

The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou  ; 

That  poor,  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 

Is  Latium’s  other  Virgil  now. 

Before  his  name  the  nations  bow  ; 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 

Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante’s  mind. 

Thomas  William  Parsons. 

- »o> 

Prisoned  in  Windsor,  He  Re- 

COUNTETH  HIS  PLEASURE  THERE 

Passed. 

So  cruel  prison  how  could  betide,  alas ! 

As  proud  Windsor?  where  I  in  lust  and 

joy, 

With  a  King’s  son,  my  childish  years  did 
pass, 

In  greater  feast  than  Priam’s  sons  of 
Troy. 

Where  each  sweet  place  returns  a  taste  full 
sour. 

The  large  green  courts,  where  we  were 
wont  to  hove, 

With  eyes  cast  up  into  the  Maiden’s  Tower, 
And  easy  sighs,  such  as  folk  draw  in 
love. 

The  stately  seats,  the  ladies  bright  of  hue, 
The  dances  short,  long  tales  of  great  de¬ 
light  ; 

With  words,  and  looks,  that  tigers  could 
but  rue, 

Where  each  of  us  did  plead  the  other’s 
right. 

The  palme-play,  where  despoiled  for  the 
game, 

With  dazfed  eyes  oft  we  by  gleams  of  love  I 


Have  miss’d  the  ball,  and  got  sight  of  our 
dame, 

To  bait  her  eyes,  which  kept  the  leads 
above. 

The  gravel’d  ground,  with  sleeves  tied  on 
the  helm, 

On  foaming  horse,  writh  swords  and 
friendly  hearts  ; 

With  chere,  as  though  one  should  another 
whelm, 

Where  we  have  fought,  and  chased  oft 
with  darts. 

With  silver  drops  the  mead  yet  spread  for 
ruth, 

In  active  games  of  nimbleness  and 
strength, 

Where  we  did  strain,  trained  with  swarms 
of  vouth, 

Our  tender  limbs,  that  yet  shot  up  in 
length. 

The  secret  groves,  which  oft  we  made  re¬ 
sound 

Of  pleasant  plaint,  and  of  our  ladies’ 
praise ; 

Recording  oft  what  grace  each  one  had 
found, 

What  hope  of  speed,  what  dread  of  long 
delays  : 

The  wild  forest,  the  clothed  holts  with  green ; 

With  reins  avail’d,  and  swift-vbreathed 
horse, 

With  cry  of  hounds  and  merry  blasts  be¬ 
tween, 

Where  we  did  chase  the  fearful  hart  of 
force. 

The  void  vales,  eke,  that  harbor’d  us  each 
night ; 

Wherewith,  alas!  reviveth  in  my  breast 

The  sweet  accord,  such  sleeps  as  yet  delight ; 

The  pleasant  dreams,  the  quiet  bed  of 
rest ; 

The  secret  thoughts,  imparted  with  such 
trust ; 

The  wanton  talk,  the  divers  change  of 
play ; 

The  friendship  sworn,  each  promise  kept 
so  just, 

Wherewith  we  past  the  winter  night 
away. 

And  with  this  thought  the  blood  forsakes 

the  face, 

The  tears  berain  my  cheeks  of  deadly  hue: 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


223 


The  which,  as  soon  as  sobbing  sighs, 
alas, 

Upsuppkd  have,  thus  I  my  plaint  renew : 
0  place  of  bliss  !  renewer  of  my  woes  ! 
Give  me  account,  where  is  my  noble 
fere? 

Whom  in  thy  walls  thou  dost  each  night 
enclose  ; 

To  other  lief;  but  unto  me  most  dear : 
Echo,  alas !  that  doth  my  sorrow  rue, 
Returns  thereto  a  hollow  sound  of  plaint. 
Thus  I  alone,  where  all  my  freedom  grew, 
In  prison  pine  with  bondage  and  restraint. 
And  with  remembrance  of  the  greater  grief, 
To  banish  the  less,  I  find  my  chief  relief. 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. 
- - 

Tee  Good  Lord  *  Clifford. 

Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle 
upon  the  Restoration  of  Lord  Clif¬ 
ford,  the  Shepherd,  to  the  Estates 
and  Honors  of  his  Ancestors. 

High  in  the  breathless  hall  the  minstrel  sate, 
And  Emont’s  murmur  mingled  with  the 
song. 

The  words  of  ancient  time  I  thus  translate, 
A  festal  strain  that  hath  been  silent  long. 
“  From  town  to  town,  from  tower  to  tower, 
The  red  rose  is  a  gladsome  flower. 

Her  thirty  years  of  winter  past, 

The  red  rose  is  revived  at  last ; 

She  lifts  her  head  for  endless  spring, 

For  everlasting  blossoming : 

Both  roses  flourish,  red  and  white. 

In  love  and  sisterly  delight 

The  two  that  were  at  strife  are  blended, 

And  all  old  troubles  now  are  ended. 

Joy!  joy  to  both  !  but  most  to  her 
Who  is  the  flower  of  Lancaster ! 

Behold  her  how  she  smiles  to-day 
On  this  great  throng,  this  bright  array ! 
Fair  greeting  doth  she  send  to  all 
From  every  corner  of  the  Hall; 

But,  chiefly,  from  above  the  board 
Where  sits  in  state  our  rightful  lord, 

A  Clifford  to  his  own  restored ! 

“They  came  with  banner,  spear,  and  shield : 
And  it  was  proved  in  Bosworth  field. 

Not  long  the  avenger  was  withstood — 
Earth  help’d  him  with  the  cry  of  blood 


St.  George  was  with  us,  and  the  might 
Of  blessed  angels  crown’d  the  right. 

Loud  voice  the  land  has  utter’d  forth, 

We  loudest  in  the  faithful  north : 

Our  fields  rejoice,  our  mountains  ring, 

Our  streams  proclaim  a  welcoming ; 

Our  strong  abodes  and  castles  see 
The  glory  of  their  loyalty. 

“  How  glad  is  Skipton  at  this  hour — - 
Though  she  is  but  a  lonely  tower ! 

To  vacancy  and  silence  left  ; 

Of  all  her  guardian  sons  bereft — 

Knight,  squire,  or  yeoman,  page  or  groom  ; 
We  have  them  at  the  feast  of  Brougham. 
How  glad  Pendragon — though  the  sleep 
Of  years  be  on  her  ! — She  shall  reap 
A  taste  of  this  great  pleasure,  viewing 
As  in  a  dream  her  own  renewing. 

Rejoiced  is  Brough,  right  glad,  I  deem, 
Beside  her  little  humble  stream  ; 

And  she  that  keepeth  watch  and  ward 
Her  statelier  Eden’s  course  to  guard  ; 

They  both  are  happy  at  this  hour, 

Though  each  is  but  a  lonely  tower : — 

But  here  is  perfect  joy  and  pride 
For  one  fair  House  by  Emont’s  side, 

This  day,  distinguish’d  without  peer, 

To  see  her  Master,  and  to  cheer 
Him  and  and  his  Lady  Mother  dear  ! 

“  Oh  !  it  was  a  time  forlorn, 

When  the  fatherless  was  born — 

Give  her  wings  that  she  may  fly, 

Or  she  sees  her  infant  die  ! 

Swords  that  are  with  slaughter  wild 
Hunt  the  mother  and  the  child. 

Who  will  take  them  from  the  light  ? 

— Yonder  is  a  man  in  sight — 

Yonder  is  a  house — but  where  ? 

No,  they  must  not  enter  there. 

To  the  caves,  and  to  the  brooks, 

To  the  clouds  of  heaven  she  looks  • 

She  is  speechless,  but  her  eyes 
Pray  in  ghostly  agonies. 

Blissful  Mary,  mother  mild, 

Maid  and  mother  undefiled, 

Save  a  mother  and  her  child! 

“  Now  who  is  he  that  bounds  with  joy 
On  Carrock’s  side — a  Shepherd  Boy? 

No  thoughts  hath  he  but  thoughts  that  pass 
Light  as  the  wind  along  the  grass. 


224 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Can  this  be  he  who  hither  came 
In  secret,  like  a  smother’d  flame? 

O’er  whom  such  thankful  tears  were  shed 
For  shelter,  and  a  poor  man’s  bread  ! 

God  loves  the  child,  and  God  hath  will’d 
That  those  dear  words  should  be  fulfill’d. 
The  lady’s  words,  when  forced  away, 

The  last  she  to  her  babe  did  say, 

‘  My  own,  my  own,  thy  fellow-guest 
I  may  not  be ;  but  rest  thee,  rest, 

For  lowly  shepherd’s  life  is  best !’ 

“  Alas !  when  evil  men  are  strong 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long. 

The  boy  must  part  from  Mosedale’s  groves 
And  leave  Blencathara’s  rugged  coves, 
And  quit  the  flowers  that  summer  brings 
To  Glenderamakin’s  lofty  springs  ; 

Must  vanish,  and  his  careless  cheer 
Be  turn’d  to  heaviness  and  fear. 

— Give  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld  praise  ! 
Hear  it,  good  man,  old  in  days ! 

Thou  free  of  covert  and  of  rest 
For  this  young  bird  that  is  distrest; 
Among  the  branches  safe  he  lay, 

And  he  was  free  to  sport  and  play 
When  falcons  were  abroad  for  prey. 

“  A  recreant  harp,  that  sings  of  fear 
And  heaviness  in  Clifford’s  ear ! 

I  said,  when  evil  men  are  strong, 

No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long, — 

A  weak  and  cowardly  untruth  ! 

Our  Clifford  was  a  happy  youth, 

And  thankful  through  a  weary  time 
That  brought  him  up  to  manhood’s  prime. 
— Again  he  wanders  forth  at  will 
And  tends  a  flock  from  hill  to  hill : 

His  garb  is  humble  :  ne’er  was  seen 
Such  garb  with  such  a  noble  mien  : 

Among  the  Shepherd-grooms  no  mate 
Hath  lie,  a  child  of  strength  and  state ! 
Yet  lacks  not  friends  for  solemn  glee, 

And  a  cheerful  company, 

That  learn’d  of  him  submissive  ways, 

And  comforted  his  private  days. 

To  his  side  the  fallow-deer 
Came,  and  rested  without  fear; 

The  eagle,  lord  of  land  and  sea, 

Stoop’d  down  to  pay  him  fealty ; 

And  both  the  undying  fish  that  swim 
Through  Bowscale  Tarn  did  wait  on  him, 


The  pair  were  servants  of  his  eye 
In  their  immortality ; 

They  moved  about  in  open  sight, 

To  and  fro,  for  his  delight. 

He  knew  the  rocks  which  angels  haunt 
On  the  mountains  visitant ; 

He  hath  kenn’d  them  taking  wing: 

And  the  caves  where  faeries  sing 
He  hath  enter’d  ; — and  been  told 
By  voices  how  men  lived  of  old. 

Among  the  heavens  his  eye  can  see 
Face  of  thing  that  is  to  be ; 

And,  if  men  report  him  right, 

He  could  whisper  words  of  might. 

— Now  another  day  is  come, 

Fitter  hope,  and  nobler  doom: 

He  hath  thrown  aside  his  crook, 

And  hath  buried  deep  his  book ; 

Armor  rusting  in  his  halls 
On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls 
‘  Quell  the  Scot,’  exclaims  the  lance — 
Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France, 

Is  the  longing  of  the  shield — 

Tell  thy  name,  thou  trembling  field; 

Field  of  death,  where’er  thou  be, 

Groan  thou  with  our  victory ! 

Happy  day,  and  mighty  hour, 

When  our  Shepherd,  in  his  power, 

Mail’d  and  horsed,  with  lance  and  sword. 
To  his  ancestors  restored, 

Like  a  re-appearing  star, 

Like  a  glory  from  afar, 

First  shall  head  the  flock  of  war  !” 

Alas !  the  fervent  harper  did  not  know 
That  for  a  tranquil  soul  the  lay  was 
framed, 

Who,  long  compell’d  in  humble  walks  to  go, 
Was  soften’d  into  feeling,  soothed,  and 
tamed. 

Love  had  he  found  in  huts  where  poor 
men  lie ; 

His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and 
rills, 

The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 

The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills. 

In  him  the  savage  virtue  of  the  race, 
Revenge,  and  all  ferocious  thoughts  were 
dead : 

Nor  did  he  change;  but  kept  in  lofty 
place 

The  wisdom  which  adversity  had  bred. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


005 


Glad  were  the  vales,  and  every  cottage 
hearth ; 

The  Shepherd  Lord  was  honor’d  more 
and  more : 

And  ages  after  he  was  laid  in  earth, 

“  The  good  Lord  Clifford  ”  was  the  name 
he  bore. 

William  Wordsworth. 
•<>♦ - 

Inscription  for  a  Statue  of 
Chaucer  at  Woodstock. 

Such  was  old  Chaucer:  such  the  placid 
mien 

Of  him  who  first  with  harmony  inform’d 

The  language  of  our  fathers.  Here  he  dwelt 

For  many  a  cheerful  day.  These  ancient 
walls 

Have  often  heard  him,  while  his  legends 
blithe 

He  sang;  of  love,  or  knighthood,  or  the 
wiles 

Of  homely  life;  through  each  estate  and 
age, 

The  fashions  and  the  follies  of  the  world 

With  cunning  hand  portraying.  Though 
perchance 

From  Blenheim’s  towers,  O  stranger,  thou 
art  come 

Glowing  with  Churchill’s  trophies ;  yet  in 
vain 

Dost  thou  applaud  them,  if  thy  breast  be 
cold 

To  him,  this  other  hero ;  who  in  times 

Dark  and  untaught,  began  with  charming 
verse 

To  tame  the  rudeness  of  his  native  land. 

Mark  Akenside. 

- •<>•  11  -  1 

To  Mistress  Margaret  Hussey. 

Merry  Margaret, 

As  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower ; 

With  solace  and  gladness, 

Much  mirth  and  no  madness, 

All  good  and  no  badness ; 

So  joyously, 

So  maidenlv, 

So  womanly 
Her  demeaning, — 

In  everything 
Far,  far  passing 


That  I  can  indite, 

Or  suffice  to  write, 

Of  merry  Margaret, 

As  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower ; 

As  patient  and  as  still, 

And  as  full  of  good-will. 

As  fair  Isiphil, 

Coliander, 

Sweet  Pomander, 

Good  Cassander; 

Steadfast  of  thought, 

Well  made,  well  wrought; 

Far  may  be  sought 
Ere  you  can  find 
So  courteous,  so  kind, 

As  merry  Margaret, 

This  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 

John  Skelton. 

- •<>• - 

Epigram  on  Sir  Francis  Drake. 

The  stars  above  will  make  thee  known. 
If  man  were  silent  here : 

The  sun  himself  cannot  forget 
His  fellow-traveller. 

Ben  Jonson. 

An  Ode— to  Hems  elf. 

Where  dost  thou  careless  lie 
Buried  in  ease  and  sloth? 

Knowledge  that  sleeps,  doth  die: 

And  this  security, 

It  is  the  common  moth, 

That  eats  on  wits  and  arts,  and  so  destroys 
them  both. 

Are  all  the  Aonian  springs 
Dried  up?  lies  Thespia  waste? 

Doth  Clarius’  harp  want  strings, 

That  not  a  nymph  now  sings? 

Or  droop  they  as  disgraced 

To  see  their  seats  and  bowers  by  chatter 
ing  pies  defaced  ? 

If  hence  thy  silence  be, 

As  ’tis  too  just  a  cause — 

Let  this  thought  quicken  thee ; 

Minds  that  are  great  and  free 
Should  not  on  fortune  pause  ? 

’Tis  crown  enough  to  virtue  still,  her  own 
applause. 


226 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


What  though  the  greedy  fry 
Be  taken  with  false  baits 
Of  worded  balladry, 

And  think  it  poesy  ? 

They  die  with  their  conceits, 

And  only  piteous  scorn  upon  their  folly 
waits. 

Then  take  in  hand  thy  lyre, 

Strike  in  thy  proper  strain  ; 

With  Japhet’s  line  aspire 
Sol’s  chariot  for  new  fire 
To  give  the  world  again  ; 

Who  aided  him,  will  thee,  the  issue  of 
Jove’s  brain. 

And  since  our  dainty  age 
Cannot  indure  reproof, 

Make  not  thyself  a  page 
To  that  strumpet,  the  stage ; 

But  sing  high  and  aloof 
Safe  from  the  wolf’s  black  jaw,  and  the 
dull  ass’s  hoof. 

Ben  Jonson. 

- *0+ - 

Sonnet. 

On  his  Being  Arrived  to  the  Age  of 
Twenty-three. 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of 
youth, 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twenti- 
eth  year ! 

My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom 
show’th. 

Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the 
truth, 

That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near  ; 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  ap¬ 
pear 

That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  en- 
du’th. 

Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 

It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high, 
Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will 
of  heaven  : 

All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 

As  ever  in  my  great  Task-master’s  eye. 

John  Milton. 


Epitaph  on  a  Living  Author . 

Here,  passenger,  beneath  this  shed, 

Lies  Cowley,  tho’  entomb’d,  not  dead  ; 
Yet  freed  from  human  toil  and  strife, 
And  all  th’  impertinence  of  life. 

Who  in  his  poverty  is  neat, 

And  even  in  retirement  great. 

With  Gold,  the  people’s  idol,  he 
Holds  endless  war  and  enmity. 

Can  you  not  say,  he  has  resigned 
His  breath,  to  this  small  cell  confined? 
With  this  small  mansion  let  him  have 
The  rest  and  silence  of  the  grave : 

Strew  roses  here  as  on  his  hearse, 

And  reckon  this  his  funeral  verse : 

With  wreaths  of  fragrant  herbs  adorn 
The  yet  surviving  poet’s  urn. 

Abraham  Cowley. 

- - 

On  My  Dear  Son,  Ger  vase  Be  a  u- 

mont. 

Can  I,  who  have  for  others  oft  compiled 
The  songs  of  death,  forget  my  sweetest 
child, 

Which  like  a  flower  crushed  with  a  blast  is 
dead, 

And  ere  full  time  hangs  down  his  smiling 
head, 

Expecting  with  clear  hope  to  live  anew, 
Among  the  angels  fed  with  heavenly  dew  ? 
We  have  this  sign  of  joy,  that  many  days, 
While  on  the  earth  his  struggling  spirit 
stays, 

The  name  of  Jesus  in  his  mouth  contains 
His  only  food,  his  sleep,  his  ease  from 
pains. 

Oh,  may  that  sound  be  rooted  in  my  mind, 
Of  which  in  him  such  strong  effect  I  find  ! 
Dear  Lord,  receive  my  son,  whose  winning 
love 

To  me  was  like  a  friendship,  far  above 
The  course  of  nature  or  his  tender  age  ; 
Whose  looks  could  all  my  bitter  griefs  as¬ 
suage  : 

Let  his  pure  soul — ordain’d  seven  years  to 
be 

i  In  that  frail  body,  which  was  part  of  me- 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


227 


Remain  my  pledge  in  heaven,  as  sent  to 
show 

How  to  this  port  at  every  step  I  go. 

Sir  John  Beaumont. 

■  KX - 

An  Epitaph  upon  the  Right 
Honourable  Sir  Phillip  Sidney. 

To  praise  thy  life,  or  waile  thy  worthie 
death, 

And  want  thy  wit,  thy  wit  high,  pure, 
divine, 

Is  far  beyond  the  powre  of  mortall  line, 

Nor  any  one  hath  worth  that  drawetli 
breath. 

Yet  rich  in  zeale,  though  poore  in  learn¬ 
ings  lore, 

And  friendly  care  obscurde  in  secret  brest, 

And  love  that  envie  in  thy  life  supprest, 

Thy  deere  life  done,  and  death  hath 
doubled  more. 

And  I,  that  in  thy  time  and  living  state, 

Did  onely  praise  thy  vertues  in  my 
thought, 

As  one  that  feeld  the  rising  sun  hath 
sought, 

With  words  and  teares  now  waile  thy 
timelesse  fate. 

Drawne  was  thy  race  aright  from  princely 
line, 

Nor  lesse  than  such  (by  gifts  that  nature 
gave, 

The  common  mother  that  all  creatures 
have) 

Doth  vertue  shew,  and  princely  linage  shine. 

A  king  gave  thee  thy  name :  a  kingly  minde 

That  God  thee  gave  ;  who  found  it  now 
too  deere 

For  this  base  world,  and  hath  resumde 
it  neere, 

To  sit  in  skies,  and  sort  with  powres  divine. 

Kent  thy  birth  daies,  and  Oxford  held  thy 
youth  ; 

The  heavens  made  hast,  and  staid  nor 
yeers,  nor  time  : 

The  fruits  of  age  grew  ripe  in  thy  first 
prime ; 

Thy  will,  thy  words ;  thy  words  the  seales 
of  truth. 


Great  gifts  and  wisedom  rare  imployd  thee 
thence, 

To  treat  from  kings  with  those  more 
great  than  kings  ; 

Such  hope  men  had  to  lay  the  highest 
things 

On  thy  wise  youth,  to  be  transported  hence. 

Whence  to  sharpe  wars  sweet  honor  did 
thee  call, 

Thy  countries  love,  religion,  and  thy 
friends : 

Of  worthy  men  the  marks,  the  lives,  and 
ends, 

And  her  defence,  for  whom  we  labor  all. 

There  didst  thou  vanquish  shame  and 
tedious  age, 

Griefe,  sorrow,  sicknes,  and  base  fortunes 
might : 

Thy  rising  day  saw  never  wofull  night, 

But  past  with  praise  from  off  this  worldly 
stage. 

Back  to  the  campe,  by  thee  that  day  was 
brought, 

First  thine  owne  death,  and  after  thy 
long  fame  ; 

Teares  to  the  soldiers,  the  proud  Castil¬ 
ians  shame, 

Vertue  exprest,  and  honor  truly  taught. 

What  hath  he  lost  that  such  great  grace 
hath  won  ? 

Yoong  yeeres  for  endless  yeeres,  and 
hope  unsure 

Of  fortunes  gifts  for  wealth  that  still 
shall  dure : 

Oh,  happie  race  with  so  great  praises  run  ! 

England  doth  hold  thy  lims  that  bred  the 
same, 

Flaunders  thy  valure  where  it  last  was 
tried, 

The  campe  thy  sorrow  where  thy  bodie 
died, 

Thy  friends  thy  want ;  the  world  thy  ver¬ 
tues  fame  : 

Nations  thy  wit,  our  mindes  lay  up  thy 
love  ; 

Letters  thy  learning,  thy  losse  yeeres 
long  to  come : 


228 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


In  worthy  harts  sorrow  hath  made  thy 
tombe  ; 

Thy  soule  and  spright  enrich  the  heavens 
above. 

Thy  liberall  hart  imbalmd  in  gratefuil 
teares, 

Yoong  sighes,  sweet  sighes,  sage  sighes, 
bewaile  thy  fall ; 

Envie  her  sting,  and  Spite  hath  left  her 
gall, 

Malice  her  selfe  a  mourning  garment 
weares. 

That  day  their  Hanniball  died,  our  Scipio 
fell ! 

Scipio,  Cicero,  and  Petrarch  of  our  time  ! 

Whose  vertues,  wounded  by  my  wortli- 
lesse  rime, 

Let  Angels  speake,  and  heaven  thy  praises  j 

tell. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


Where,  though  I  mourn  my  matchless  loss 
alone, 

And  none  between  my  weakness  judge 
and  me, 

Yret  even  these  gentle  walls  allow  my  moan, 

Whose  doleful  echoes  to  my  plaints  agree. 

But  is  he  gone  ?  and  live  I  rhyming  here, 

As  if  some  Muse  would  listen  to  my  lay, 

When  all,  distuned,  sit  wailing  for  their 
dear, 

And  bathe  the  banks  where  he  was  wont 
to  play? 

Dwell  thou  in  endless  light,  discharged 
soul, 

Freed  now  from  Nature’s  and  from  For¬ 
tune’s  trust, 

While  on  this  fluent  globe  my  glass  shall 
roll, 

And  run  the  rest  of  my  remaining  dust. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


- K»  ~ 

Tears  Wept  at  the  Grave  of 
Sir  Albertus  Morton. 

Silence,  in  truth,  would  speak  my  sorrow 
best, 

For  deepest  wounds  can  least  their  feel¬ 
ings  tell ; 

Yet  let  me  borrow  from  mine  own  unrest 

But  time  to  bid  him,  whom  I  loved,  fare¬ 
well. 

O  my  unhappy  lines!  you  that  before 

Have  served  my  youth  to  vent  some 
wanton  cries, 

And  now,  congeal’d  with  grief,  can  scarce 
implore 

Strength  to  accent,  “  Here  my  Albertus 
lies !” 

This  is  the  sable  stone,  this  .is  the  cave 

And  womb  of  earth,  that  doth  his  corpse 
embrace : 

While  others  sing  his  praise,  let  me  en¬ 
grave 

These  bleeding  numbers  to  adorn  the 
place. 

Here  will  I  paint  the  characters  of  woe ; 

Here  will  I  pay  my  tribute  to  the  dead ; 

And  here  my  faithful  tears  in  showers  shall 
flow, 

To  humanize  the  flints  whereon  I  tread. 


- +o* - 

I 

Upon  the  Death  of  Sir  Alber¬ 
tus  Mortons  Wife. 

He  first  deceased ;  she  for  a  little  tried 

To  live  without  him,  liked  it  not,  and  died. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 

- X>* - 

To  the  Memory  of  my  Be¬ 
loved,  the  Author,  Mr.  Wil¬ 
liam  Shakespeare,  and  what 

HE  HATH  LEFT  US. 

To  draw  no  envy  (Shakespeare)  on  thy 
name, 

Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book,  and  fame ; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such, 
As  neither  man,  nor  muse,  can  praise  too 
much  ; 

’Tis  true,  and  all  men’s  suffrage ;  but  these 
ways 

Were  not  the  path  I  meant  unto  thy  praise : 
For  seeliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes 
rierht 

Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne’er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by 
chance ; 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seem’d  to 
raise: 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


229 


These  are,  as  some  infamous  bawd,  or 
whore, 

Should  praise  a  matron :  what  could  hurt 
her  more  ? 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them  ;  and,  in¬ 
deed, 

Above  th’  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 

I  therefore  will  begin : — Soul  of  the  age, 
The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our 
stage, 

My  Shakespeare,  rise!  I  will  not  lodge 
thee  by 

Chaucer,  or  Spenser ;  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room ; 

Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb ; 

And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  book  doth  live, 
And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to 
give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses ; 

I  mean,  with  great  but  disproportion^ 
muses : 

For,  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of 
years, 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy 
peers  ; 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  out¬ 
shine, 

Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe’s  mighty  line: 
And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin,  and 
less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honor  thee,  I  would  not 
seek 

For  names;  but  call  forth  thundering 
iEschylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles,  to  us, 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead, 

To  live  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread 
And  shake  a  stage ;  or,  when  thy  socks  were 
on, 

Leave  thee  alone,  for  the  comparison 
Of  all  that  insolent  Greece,  or  haughty 
Rome, 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes 
come. 

Triumph,  my  Britain !  thou  hast  one  to 
show, 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 
He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time ; 

And  all  the  muses  still  were  in  their 
prime, 

When  like  Apollo  he  came  forth  to  warm 
Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm.  I 


Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 
And  joy’d  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines : 
Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so 
fit, 

As  since  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 
The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not 
please  ; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 

As  they  were  not  of  Nature’s  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all;  thy  art, 
My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part: 
For  though  the  poet’s  matter  nature  be, 
Plis  art  doth  give  the  fashion ;  and  that 
he, 

Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must 
sweat 

(Such  as  thine  are),  and  strike  the  second 
heat 

Upon  the  muses’  anvil ;  turn  the  same 
(And  himself  with  it)  that  he  thinks  to 
frame ; 

Or  for  the  laurel  he  may  gain  a  scorn, 

For  a  good  poet’s  made  as  well  as  born : 
And  such  wert  thou.  Look,  how  the  fa¬ 
ther’s  face 

Lives  in  his  issue ;  even  so  the  race 
Of  Shakespeare’s  mind,  and  manners, 
brightly  shines 

In  his  well-turned  and  true-filed  lines ; 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a 
lance, 

As  brandish’d  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 
Sweet  Swan  of  Avon,  what  a  sight  it 
were, 

To  see  thee  in  our  water  yet  appear; 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of 
Thames, 

That  so  did  take  Eliza,  and  our  James. 

But  stay ;  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 
Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation 
there : 

Shine  forth,  thou  star  of  poets;  and  with 
rage, 

Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer,  the  drooping 
stage ; 

Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath 
mourn’d  like  night, 

And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume’s 
light. 

Bkn  Jonson. 

- KX - 


230 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


An  Epitaph  on  the  Admirable 
Dramatic  Poet,  W.  Shakespeare. 

What  need  my  Shakespeare  for  his 
honour’d  bones, 

The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones ; 

Or  that  his  hallow’d  reliques  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-ypointed  pyramid? 

Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 
What  need’st  thou  such  dull  witness  of  thy 
name  ? 

Thou,  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment, 
Hast  built  thyself  a  lasting  monument : 
For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeav¬ 
ouring  art, 

Thy  easv  numbers  flow ;  and  that  each 
part 

Hath,  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued 
book, 

Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression 
took ; 

Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  herself  bereaving, 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  con¬ 
ceiving  ; 

And,  so  sepulchred,  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to 
die. 

John  Milton. 

- - 

Lines  on  the  Portrait  of 
Shakespeare. 

This  figure,  that  thou  here  seest  put, 

It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut ; 
Wherein  the  Graver  had  a  strife 
With  Nature  to  outdo  the  life  : 

Oh,  could  he  but  have  drawn  his  wit 
As  well  in  brass,  as  he  hath  hit 
His  face ;  the  Print  would  then  surpass 
All  that  was  ever  writ  in  brass. 

But  since  he  cannot,  Keader,  look 
Not  at  his  picture,  but  his  book. 

Ben  Jonson. 

--  ■■  »o« - 

Lines. 

Written  the  Night  before  his  Exe¬ 
cution. 

E'en  such  is  time;  which  takes  on  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 
And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust ; 
Which  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 


When  we  have  wander’d  all  our  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days  : 

But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 
- *0+ - 

Upon  the  Sudden  Restraint  of 
the  Earl  of  So3ierset,  then 
Falling  from  Favor. 

Dazzled  thus  with  height  of  place, 
Whilst  our  hopes  our  wits  beguile, 

No  man  marks  the  narrow  space 
’Twixt  a  prison  and  a  smile. 

Then,  since  Fortune’s  favors  fade, 

You  that  in  her  arms  do  sleep 
Learn  to  swim,  and  not  to  wade, 

For  the  hearts  of  kings  are  deep. 

But  if  greatness  be  so  blind 
As  to  trust  in  towers  of  air, 

Let  it  be  with  goodness  lined, 

That  at  least  the  fall  be  fair. 

Then,  though  darken’d,  you  shall  say, 
When  friends  fail  and  princes  frown, 
Virtue  is  the  roughest  way 

But  proves  at  night  a  bed  of  down. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton 

■ - »o« - 

To  the  Lady  Margaret,  Countess 
of  Cumberland. 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his 
mind, 

And  rear’d  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts  so 
strong, 

As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the 
frame 

Of  his  resolved  powers ;  nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  pierce  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same ; 
What  a  fair  seat  hath  he,  from  whence  he 
may 

The  boundless  wastes  and  wilds  of  man 
survey ! 

And  with  how  free  an  eye  doth  he  look 
down 

Upon  these  lower  regions  of  turmoil ! 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


231 


Where  all  the  storms  of  passions  mainly 
beat 

On  flesh  and  blood :  where  honor,  power, 
renown 

Are  only  gay  afflictions,  golden  toil ; 

Where  greatness  stands  upon  as  feeble 
feet 

As  frailty  doth ;  and  only  great  doth 
seem 

To  little  minds,  who  do  it  so  esteem. 

He  looks  upon  the  mightiest  monarch’s 
wars 

But  only  as  on  stately  robberies ; 

Where  evermore  the  fortune  that  prevails 
Must  be  the  right ;  the  ill-succeeding 
Mars 

The  fairest  and  the  best-faced  enterprise. 
Great  pirate  Pompey  lesser  pirates  quails ; 
Justice,  he  sees,  (as  if  seduced)  still 
Conspires  with  power,  whose  cause  must 
not  be  ill. 

He  sees  the  face  of  right  t’  appear  as 
manifold 

As  are  the  passions  of  uncertain  man; 
Who  puts  it  in  all  colors,  all  attires, 

To  serve  his  ends,  and  make  his  courses 
hold. 

He  sees,  that  let  deceit  work  what  it 
can, 

Plot  and  contrive  base  wTays  to  high  de¬ 
sires  ; 

That  the  all  -  guiding  Providence  doth 
yet 

All  disappoint,  and  mocks  the  smoke  of 
wit. 

• 

Nor  is  he  moved  with  all  the  thunder- 
cracks 

Of  tyrants’  threats,  or  with  the  surly  brow 
Of  Power,  that  proudly  sits  on  others’ 
crimes; 

Charged  with  more  crying  sins  than  those 
he  checks. 

The  storms  of  sad  confusion,  that  may 
grow 

Up  in  the  present  for  the  coming  times, 
Appal  not  him  that  hath  no  side  at  all, 
But  of  himself,  and  knows  the  worst  can 
fall. 

Although  his  heart  (so  near  allied  to  earth) 
Cannot  but  pity  the  perplexed  state 


Of  troublous  and  distress’d  mortality, 

That  thus  make  way  unto  the  ugly  birth 
Of  their  own  sorrows,  and  do  still  beget 
Affliction  upon  imbecility ; 

Yet  seeing  thus  the  course  of  things  must 
run, 

He  looks  thereon  not  strange,  but  as  fore- 
done. 

And  whilst  distraught  ambition  compasses, 
And  is  encompass’d ;  whilst  as  craft  de¬ 
ceives, 

And  is  deceived;  whilst  man  doth  ransack 
man, 

And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress, 
And  th’  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great-expecting  hopes ;  he  looks  there¬ 
on, 

As  from  the  shore  of  peace,  with  unwet 
eye, 

And  bears  no  venture  in  impiety. 

Thus,  madam,  fares  that  man,  that  hath 
prepared 

A  rest  for  his  desires,  and  sees  all  things 
Beneath  him ;  and  hath  learn’d  this  book 
of  man, 

Full  of  the  notes  of  frailty ;  and  compared 
The  best  of  glory  with  her  sufferings ; 

By  whom,  I  see,  you  labor  all  you  can 
To  plant  your  heart ;  and  set  your  thoughts 
as  near 

His  glorious  mansion  as  your  powers  can 
bear. 

Which,  madam,  are  so  soundlv  fashioned 
By  that  clear  judgment  that  hath  carried 
you 

Beyond  the  feeble  limits  of  your  kind, 

As  they  can  stand  against  the  strongest 
head 

Passion  can  make ;  inured  to  any  hue 
The  world  can  cast ;  that  cannot  cast  that 
mind 

Out  of  her  form  of  goodness,  that  doth  see 
Both  what  the  best  and  worst  of  earth  can 
be. 

Which  makes,  that  whatsoever  here  be¬ 
falls, 

You  in  the  region  of  yourself  remain, 
Where  no  vain  breath  of  th’  impudent  mo¬ 
lests, 

;  That  hath  secured  within  the  brazen  walls 


232 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Of  a  clear  conscience,  that  (without  all 
stain) 

Rises  in  peace,  in  innocency  .rests ; 

Whilst  all  what  Malice  from  without  pro¬ 
cures, 

Showrs  her  owTn  ugly  heart,  but  hurts  not 
yours. 


A  heart  prepared,  that  fears  no  ill  to 
come ; 

And  that  man’s  greatness  rests  but  in  his 
show, 

The  best  of  all  whose  days  consumed 
are, 

Either  in  war,  or  peace  conceiving  wTar. 


And  whereas  none  rejoice  more  in  re¬ 
venge 

Than  women  use  to  do ;  vet  vou  wrell 
know, 

That  wrong  is  better  checked  by  being  con¬ 
temn’d, 

Than  being  pursued ;  leaving  to  Him  t’ 
avenge 

To  whom  it  appertains.  Wherein  you 
show 

Howr  worthily  your  clearness  hath  con¬ 
demn’d 

Base  malediction,  living  in  the  dark, 

That  at  the  rays  of  goodness  still  doth 
bark. 

Knowing  the  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be 
The  centre  of  this  world,  about  the  which 
These  revolutions  of  disturbances 
Still  roll ;  where  all  th’  aspects  of  misery 
Predominate ;  whose  strong  effects  are  such 
As  he  must  bear,  being  powerless  to  re¬ 
dress  ; 

And  that  unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man! 


This  concord,  madam,  of  a  w’ell-tuned  mind 
Hath  been  so  set  by  that  all-working  Hand 
Of  heaven,  that  though  the  world  hath 
done  his  worst 

To  put  it  out  by  discords  most  unkind, 

Yet  doth  it  still  in  perfect  union  stand 
With  God  and  man ;  nor  ever  will  be  forced 
From  that  most  sweet  accord,  but  still  agree, 
Equal  in  fortune’s  inequality. 

And  this  note,  madam,  of  your  worthiness 
Remains  recorded  in  so  many  hearts, 

As  time  nor  malice  cannot  wrong  your 
right, 

In  th’  inheritance  of  fame  you  must  pos¬ 
sess  : 

You  that  have  built  you  by  your  great  de¬ 
serts 

(Out  of  small  means)  a  far  more  exquisite 
And  glorious  dwelling  for  your  honor’d 
name 

Than  all  the  gold  that  leaden  minds  can 
frame. 

Samuel  Daxiel. 


<>♦- 


And  how  turm oil’d  they  are  that  level  lie 

With  earth,  and  cannot  lift  themselves 
from  thence ; 

That  never  are  at  peace  with  their  desires, 

But  work  beyond  their  years ;  and  even 
deny 

Dotage  her  rest,  and  hardly  will  dispense 

With  death  :  that  when  ability  expires, 

Desire  lives  still — so  much  delight  they 
have 

To  carry  toil  and  travel  to  the  grave. 

Whose  ends  you  see  ;  and  what  can  be  the 
best 

They  reach  unto,  when  they  have  cast  the 
sum 

And  reckonings  of  their  glory.  And  you 
know, 

This  floating  life  hath  but  this  port  of 
rest,  i 


An  Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy, 

A  Child  of  Queen  Elizabeth’s  Chapel. 

Weep  with  me,  all  you  that  read 
This  little  story  ; 

And  knowq  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed 
Death’s  self  is  sorry. 

’Twas  a  child  that  so  did  thrive 
In  grace  and  feature, 

As  heaven  and  nature  seem’d  to  strive 
Which  own’d  the  creature. 

Years  he  number’d  scarce  thirteen 
When  fates  turn’d  cruel, 

Yet  three  fill’d  Zodiacs  had  he  been 
The  stage’s  jewel ; 

And  did  act,  what  now  we  moan, 

Old  men  so  duly, 

As,  sooth,  the  Parcae  thought  him  one, 
He  play’d  so  truly. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


233 


So  by  error  to  his  fate 
They  all  consented ; 

But  viewing  him  since,  alas,  too  late  ! 

They  have  repented ; 

And  have  sought,  to  give  new  birth, 

In  baths  to  steep  him  ; 

But  being  so  much  too  good  for  earth, 

Heaven  vows  to  keep  him. 

Ben  Jonson. 

- KX> - 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H. 

Wouldst  thou  heare  what  man  can  say 
In  a  little  ? — reader,  stay  ! 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lye 
As  much  beauty  as  could  dye  ; 

Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 
To  more  vertue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth — 

Th’  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death  : 

Fitter,  where  it  dyed  to  tell, 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.  Farewell ! 

Ben  Jonson. 


Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke. 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 

Sidney’s  sister,  Pembroke’s  mother; 
Death !  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 
Learn’d  and  fair  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

Ben  Jonson. 


To  Vincent  Corbet,  my  Son. 

What  I  shall  leave  thee,  none  can  tell, 
But  all  shall  say  I  wish  thee  well. 

I  wish  thee,  Vin,  before  all  wealth, 

Both  bodily  and  ghostly  health  ; 

Nor  too  much  wealth  nor  wit  come  to  thee, 
So  much  of  either  may  undo  thee. 

I  wish  thee  learning  not  for  show, 

Enough  for  to  instruct  and  know ; 

Not  such  as  gentlemen  require 
To  prate  at  table  or  at  fire. 

I  wish  thee  all  thy  mother’s  graces, 

Thy  father’s  fortunes  and  his  places. 


I  wish  thee  friends,  and  one  at  court, 
Not  to  build  on,  but  support ; 

To  keep  thee  not  in  doing  many 
Oppressions,  but  from  suffering  any. 

I  wish  thee  peace  in  all  thy  ways, 

Nor  lazy  nor  contentious  days ; 

And,  when  thy  soul  and  body  part, 

As  innocent  as  now  thou  art. 

Richard  Corbet. 


On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford. 

This  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire, 

I  thought  to  form  unto  my  zealous  Muse, 

What  kind  of  creature  I  could  most  desire, 

To  honor,  serve,  and  love ;  as  poets  use, 

I  meant  to  make  her  fair,  and  free,  and 
wise, 

Of  greatest  blood,  and  yet  more  good 
than  great  ; 

I  meant  the  day-star  should  not  brighter 
rise, 

Nor  lend  like  influence  from  his  lucent 
seat. 

I  meant  she  should  be  courteous,  facile, 
sweet, 

Hating  that  solemn  vice  of  greatness, 
pride  ; 

I  meant  each  softest  virtue  there  should 
meet, 

Fit  in  that  softer  bosom  to  reside. 

Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 

I  purposed  her ;  that  should,  with  even 
powers, 

The  rock,  the  spindle,  and  the  shears 
control 

Of  Destiny,  and  spin  her  own  free 
hours. 

Such  when  I  meant  to  feign,  and  wish’d  to 

see, 

My  Muse  bade,  Bedford  write,  and  that 
was  she. 

Ben  Jonson. 


Of  Myself. 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may 
lie 

Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honor  I  would  have, 

Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone ; 

The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known : 
Humor  can  ope  the  grave. 


234 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Acquaintance  I  would  have,  but  when ’t 
depends 

Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice,  of 
friends. 

Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the 
light, 

And  sleep,  as  undisturb’d  as  death,  the 
night. 

Mv  house  a  cottage  more 
Than  palace  ;  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o’er 
With  Nature’s  hand,  not  Art’s  ;  and  pleas¬ 
ures  yield, 

Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

Thus  would  I  double  my  life’s  fading  space ; 
For  he  that  runs  it  well  twice  runs  his 
race. 

And  in  this  true  delight, 

These  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state, 

I  would  not  fear,  nor  wish,  my  fate  ; 

But  boldly  say  each  night, 

To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  display, 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them ;  I  have  lived  to¬ 
day. 

Abraham  Cowley. 

- »o«  — 

Sonnet. 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell. 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through 
a  cloud 

Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 

Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 
To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast 
plough’d 

And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  fortune  proud 

Hast  rear’d  God’s  trophies,  and  his 
work  pursued, 

While  Darwen  stream  with  blood  of 
Scots  imbrued, 

And  Dunbar  field  resounds  thy  praises 
loud, 

And  AVorcester’s  laureat  wreath.  Yet 
giuch  remains 

To  cfthquer  still ;  peace  hath  her  vic¬ 
tories 

No  less  renown’d  than  war.  New  foes 
arise 

Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular 
chains : 


Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the 
paw 

Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  gospel  is  their 
maw. 

John  Milton. 

- - 

Sonnet. 

To  Cyriac  Skinner. 

Cyriac,  this  three  years  day  these  eyes, 
tho’  clear 

To  outward  view  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 

Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot ; 

Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 

Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  throughout  the 
year, 

Or  man,  or  woman.  Yet  I  argue  not 

Against  Heaven’s  hand  or  will,  nor  bate 
a  jot 

Of  heart  or  hope  ;  but  still  bear  up  and 
steer 

Right  onward.  What  supports  me,  dost 
thou  ask  ? 

The  conscience,  friend,  t’  have  lost  them 
overplied 

In  liberty’s  defence,  my  noble  task, 

Of  which  all  Europe  rings  from  side  to 
side. 

This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the 
world’s  vain  mask, 

Content  though  blind,  had  I  no  better 
guide. 

John  Milton. 

Sonnet 

On  his  Blindness. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent, 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world 
and  wide, 

And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to 
hide, 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul 
more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 

My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide ; 

“  Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  de¬ 
nied  ?” 

I  fondly  ask  :  but  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  “  God  doth 
not  need 

Either  man’s  work  or  his  own  gifts  :  who 
best 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


235 


Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best : 
his  state 

Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o’er  land  and  ocean  without  rest  ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and 
wait.” 

John  Milton. 

- 90* - 

Miltons  Prayer  of  Patience. 

I  am  old  and  blind  ! 

Men  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  God’s 
frown  ; 

Afflicted  and  deserted  of  my  kind, 

Yet  am  I  not  cast  down. 

I  am  weak,  yet  strong  ; 

I  murmur  not  that  I  no  longer  see  ; 

Poor,  old,  and  helpless,  I  the  more  belong, 
Father  Supreme !  to  Thee. 

All-merciful  One ! 

When  men  are  furthest,  then  art  Thou  most 
near ; 

When  friends  pass  by,  my  weaknesses  to 
shun, 

Thy  chariot  I  hear. 

Thy  glorious  face 

Is  leaning  toward  me  ;  and  its  holy  light 
Shines  in  upon  my  lonely  dwelling-place, — 
And  there  is  no  more  night. 

On  my  bended  knee 
I  recognize  Thy  purpose  clearly  shown  : 
My  vision  Thou  hast  dimm’d,  that  I  may  see 
Thyself, — Thyself  alone. 

I  have  naught  to  fear  ; 

This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing ; 
Beneath  it  I  am  almost  sacred ;  here 
Can  come  no  evil  thing. 

Oh,  I  seem  to  stand 

Trembling,  where  foot  of  mortal  ne’er  hath 
been, 

Wrapp’d  in  that  radiance  from  the  sinless 
land, 

Which  eye  hath  never  seen ! 

Visions  come  and  go  : 

Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  round  me 
throng  ; 

From  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 
Of  soft  and  holy  song. 


It  is  nothing  now, 

When  heaven  is  opening  on  my  sightless 
eyes, 

When  airs  from  Paradise  refresh  my  brow, 
The  earth  in  darkness  lies. 

In  a  purer  clime 

My  being  fills  with  rapture, — waves  of 
thought 

Roll  in  upon  my  spirit, — strains  sublime 
Break  over  me  unsought. 

Give  me  now  my  lyre  ! 

I  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  gift  divine  : 

Within  my  bosom  glows  unearthly  fire, 

Lit  by  no  skill  of  mine. 

Elizabeth  Lloyd  Howell. 

-  ♦<>« - 

To  the  Lady  Margaret  Ley. 

Daughter  to  that  good  earl,  once  Presi¬ 
dent 

Of  England’s  Council,  and  her  Treasury, 
Who  lived  in  both,  unstain’d  with  gold 
or  fee, 

And  left  them  both,  more  in  himself  con¬ 
tent, 

Till  the  sad  breaking  of  that  Parliament 
Broke  him,  as  that  dishonest  victory 
At  Chseronea,  fatal  to  liberty, 

Kill’d  with  report  that  old  man  eloquent. 
Though  later  born  than  to  have  known  the 
days 

Wherein  your  father  flourish’d,  yet  by 

you, 

9 

Madam,  methinks  I  see  him  living  yet; 
So  well  your  words  his  noble  virtues  praise, 
That  all  both  judge  you  to  relate  them 
true, 

And  to  possess  them,  honor’d  Margaret. 

John  Milton. 

■ - - 

LYCIDAS. 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once 
more 

Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 

I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and 
crude, 

And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing 
year. 

Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear, 


236 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due ; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  bis  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his 
peer. 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?  he 
knew 

Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty 
rhyme. 

He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then,  sisters  of  the  sacred  well, 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth 
spring, 

Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the 
string. 

Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse ; 
So  may  some  gentle  muse 
With  lucky  words  favor  my  destined  urn, 
And  as  he  passes  turn, 

And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 
For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same 
hill, 

Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade, 
and  rill. 

Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  ap¬ 
pear’d 

Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry 
horn, 

Batt’ning  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews 
of  night 

Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 
Toward  heaven’s  descent  had  sloped  his 
west’ring  wheel. 

Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Temper’d  to  th’  oaten  flute ; 

Rough  satyrs  danced  and  fauns  with  cloven 
heel 

From  the  glad  song  would  not  be  absent 
long, 

And  old  Damoetus  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But  oh,  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art 
gone — 

Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  re¬ 
turn  ! 

Thee,  shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and  desert 
caves, 

With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine 
o’ergrown, 

And  all  their  echoes,  mourn  ; 


The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen, 

Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft 
lays. 

As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 

Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that 
graze, 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe 
wear, 

When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ; 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherds’  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  nymphs,  when  the  re¬ 
morseless  deep 

Closed  o’er  the  head  of  your  loved  Ly¬ 
cidas? 

For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  druids, 
lie, 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard 
stream. 

Ay  me  !  I  fondly  dream  ! 

Had  ye  been  there,  for  what  could  that 
have  done  ? 

What  could  the  muse  herself  that  Orpheus 
bore, 

The  muse  herself  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  Nature  did  lament, 
When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous 
roar, 

His  gory  vision  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian 
shore  ? 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted  shepherd’s 
trade, 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera’s  hair? 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth 
raise 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 

To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days ; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  fury  with  tli’  abhorred 
shears, 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.  But  not  the 
praise, 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touch’d  my  tremb 
ling  ears ; 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


237 


Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal 
soil, 

Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 
Set  off  to  tli’  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor 
lies ; 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure 
eyes 

And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove  ; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy 
meed. 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honor’d 
flood, 

,  Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crown’d  with 
vocal  reeds, 

That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood ; 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 

And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune’s  plea  ; 

He  ask’d  the  waves,  and  ask’d  the  felon 
winds, 

What  hard  mishap  hath  doom’d  this  gentle 
swain  ? 

And  question’d  every  gust  of  rugged 
wings 

That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promon¬ 
tory  : 

They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon 
stray’d ; 

The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 

Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  play’d. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 

_  • 

Built  in  th’  eclipse,  and  rigg’d  with  curses 

dark, 

That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing 
slow, 

His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the 
edge 

Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed 
with  woe. 

Ah  !  who  hath  reft  (quoth  he)  my  dearest 
pledge  ? 

Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 

The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  Lake  ; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain) ; 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  be- 
spake  : 


How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee, 
young  swain, 

Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies’  sake 

Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the 
fold  ? 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make, 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers’  feast, 

And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest ; 

Blind  mouths !  that  scarce  themselves 
know  how  to  hold 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learn’d  aught  else 
the  least 

That  to  the  faithful  herdsman’s  art  be¬ 
longs  ! 

What  recks  it  them  ?  what  need  they  ?  they 
are  sped  ; 

And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy 
songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched 
straw  ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 

But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist 
they  draw, 

Pot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread  ; 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy 
paw 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said  ; 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no 
more. 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past, 

That  shrunk  thv  streams  :  return,  Sicilian 
muse, 

And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither 
cast 

Their  bells,  and  flow’rets  of  a  thousand 
hues. 

Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers 
use 

Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing 
brooks, 

On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely 
looks, 

Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamell’d 
eyes, 

That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honey’d 
showers, 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal 
flowers. 

Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken 
dies, 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 


238 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freak’d 
with  jet, 

The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  wood¬ 
bine, 

With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive 
head, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery 
wears ; 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 
To  strew  the  laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  sur¬ 
mise. 

Ay  me !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sound¬ 
ing  seas 

Wash  far  away  where’er  thy  bones  are 
hurl’d, 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
WThere  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming 
tide 

Visit’st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world  ; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 
Sleep’st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 
Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded 
mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona’s 
hold; 

Look  homeward  angel  now,  and  melt  with 
ruth ! 

And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless 
youth ! 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep 
no  more ! 

For  Lvcidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead, 

Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery 
floor. 

So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new- 
spangled  ore 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky ; 
So  Lvcidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that 
walk’d  the  waves, 

AVhere,  other  groves  and  other  streams 
along, 

With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and 
love. 


There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies, 

That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move. 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lvcidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no 
more ; 

Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the 
shore, 

In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 
Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  th’  oaks 
and  rills, 

While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals 
gray ; 

He  touch’d  the  tender  stops  of  various 
quills, 

With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric 
lay. 

And  now  the  sun  had  stretch’d  out  all 
the  hills, 

And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay  ; 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitch’d  his  mantle 
blue : 

To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

John  Milton. 

- - 

An  Horatian  Ode. 

Upon  Cromwell’s  Return  from  Ire¬ 
land. 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear, 
Must  now  forsake  his  Muses  dear, 

Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 
His  numbers  languishing. 

’Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 

And  oil  the  unused  armor’s  rust, 
Removing  from  the  wall 
The  corselet  of  the  hall. 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  through  adventurous  war 
Urgfed  his  active  star  : 

And  like  the  three-fork’d  lightning  first, 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nurst, 
Did  thorough  his  own  side 
His  fiery  way  divide  ; 

For  ’tis  all  one  to  courage  high, 

The  emulous,  or  enemy  ; 

And  with  such,  to  enclose 
Is  more  than  to  oppose. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


239 


Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went, 
And  palaces  and  temples  rent, 

And  Caesar’s  head  at  last 
Did  through  his  laurels  blast. 

’Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  face  of  angry  Heaven’s  flame, 

And  if  we  would  speak  true, 

Much  to  the  Man  is  due 

Who,  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
He  lived  reserved  and  austere 
(As  if  his  highest  plot 
To  plant  the  bergamot), 

Could  by  industrious  valor  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  time, 

And  cast  the  Kingdoms  old 
Into  another  mould. 

Though  Justice  against  Fate  complain, 
And  plead  the  ancient  rights  in  vain — 
But  those  do  hold  or  break 
As  men  are  strong  or  weak. 

Nature,  that  hateth  emptiness, 

Allows  of  penetration  less, 

And  therefore  must  make  room 
Where  greater  spirits  come. 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  war 
Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar? 
And  Hampton  shows  what  part 
He  had  of  wiser  art, 

Where,  twining  subtle  fears  with  hope, 
He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 
To  Carisbrook’s  narrow  case  ; 

That  thence  the  royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn, 

While  round  the  arm&d  bands 
Did  clap  their  bloody  hands ; 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene, 

But  with  his  keener  eye 
The  axe’s  edge  did  try ; 

Nor  call’d  the  gods,  with  vulgar  spite, 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right, 

But  bow’d  his  comely  head 
Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 


This  was  that  memorable  hour 
Which  first  assured  the  forced  power, 
So  when  they  did  design 
The  Capitol’s  first  line, 

A  bleeding  head,  where  they  begun, 
Did  fright  the  architects  to  run ; 

And  yet  in  that  the  State 
Foresaw  its  happy  fate! 

And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 
To  see  themselves  in  one  year  tamed ; 
So  much  one  man  can  do 
That  does  both  act  and  know. 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best, 

And  have,  though  overcome,  confest 
How  good  he  is,  how  just, 

And  fit  for  highest  trust ; 

Nor  yet  grown  stiffer  with  command, 
But  still  in  the  Republic’s  hand — ■ 

How  fit  he  is  to  sway 
That  can  so  well  obey!  - 

He  to  the  Commons’  feet  presents 
A  Kingdom  for  his  first  year’s  rents, 
And  (what  he  may)  forbears 
His  fame,  to  make  it  theirs ; 

And  has  his  sword  and  spoils  ungirt, 
To  lay  them  at  the  public’s  skirt. 

So  when  the  falcon  high 
Falls  heavy  from  the  sky, 

She,  having  kill’d,  no  more  does  search 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch, 
Where,  when  he  first  does  lure, 
The  falconer  has  her  sure. 

What  may  not  then  our  Isle  presume 
While  victory  his  crest  does  plume? 
What  may  not  others  fear 
If  thus  he  crowns  each  year? 

As  Caesar  he,  ere  long,  to  Gaul, 

To  Italy  an  Hannibal, 

And  to  all  states  not  free 
Shall  climacteric  be. 

The  Piet  no  shelter  now  shall  find 
Within  his  parti-color’d  mind, 

But  from  this  valor,  sad 
Shrink  underneath  the  plaid — 


240 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Happy  if  in  the  tufted  brake 
The  English  hunter  him  mistake, 

Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  near 
The  Caledonian  deer. 

But  thou,  the  War’s  and  Fortune’s  son, 
March  indefatigably  on, 

And  for  the  last  effect 
Still  keep  the  sword  erect . 

Besides  the  force  it  has  to  fright 
The  spirits  of  the  shady  night, 

The  same  arts  that  did  gain 
A  power,  must  it  maintain. 

Andrew  Marvell. 
- - 

The  Picture  of  T.  C. 

In  a  Prospect  of  Flowers. 

See  with  what  simplicity 

This  nymph  begins  her  golden  days  ! 

In  the  green  grass  she  loves  to  lie, 

And  there  with  her  fair  aspect  tames 
The  wilder  flowers,  and  gives  them 
names ; 

But  only  with  the  roses  plays, 

And  them  does  tell 

What  color  best  becomes  them,  and  what 
smell. 

Who  can  foretell  for  what  high  cause 
This  darling  of  the  gods  was  born  ? 

See  !  this  is  she  whose  chaster  laws 

The  wanton  Love  shall  one  day  fear, 
And,  under  her  command  severe, 

See  his  bow  broke  and  ensigns  torn. 
Happy  who  can 

Appease  this  virtuous  enemy  of  man  ! 

Oh,  then  let  me  in  time  compound 

And  parley  with  those  conquering  eyes, — 
Ere  thev  have  tried  their  force  to  wound. 
Ere  with  their  glancing  wheels  they 
drive 

In  triumph  over  hearts  that  strive, 
And  them  that  yield  but  more  despise  : 
Let  me  be  laid 

Where  I  may  see  the  glory  from  some  shade. 

Meanwhile,  whilst  every  verdant  thing 
Itself  does  at  thy  beauty  charm, 

Reform  the  errors  of  the  spring  : 

Make  that  the  tulips  may  have  share 
Of  sweetness,  seeing  thev  are  fair ; 
And  roses  of  their  thorns  disarm  ; 


But  most  procure 

That  violets  may  a  longer  age  endure. 

But,  0  young  beauty  of  the  woods, 

Whom  Nature  courts  with  fruit  and 
flowers, 

Gather  the  flowers,  but  spare  the  buds, 
Lest  Flora,  angry  at  thy  crime 
To  kill  her  infants  in  their  prime, 
Should  quickly  make  the  example 
yours ; 

And,  ere  we  see, 

Nip  in  the  blossom  all  our  hopes  in  thee. 

Andrew  Marvell. 

- *o# - 

Lines  written  under  the  Pic¬ 
ture  of  John  Milton , 

Before  his  “Paradise  Lost.” 

Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 

The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  sur¬ 
pass’d  ; 

The  next  in  majesty;  in  both  the  last. 

The  force  of  Nature  could  no  further  go  ; 

To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the  former  two. 

John  Dryden. 

— +C+ - — 

Sonnet. 

To  Milton. 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this 
hour : 

England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters :  altar,  sword,  and 
pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and 
bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.  We  are  selfish 
men  : 

Oh  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom, 
power ! 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was 
like  the  sea ; 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic, 
free, 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life’s  common  way 
In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

William  Wordsworth. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


241 


Loyalty  Confined. 

Beat  on,  proud  billows ;  Boreas  blow  ; 
Swell,  curled  waves,  high  as  Jove’s  roof : 

Your  incivility  doth  show, 

That  innocence  is  tempest  proof ; 

Though  surly  Nereus  frown,  my  thoughts 
are  calm  ; 

Then  strike,  Affliction,  for  thy  wounds  are 
balm. 

That  which  the  world  miscalls  a  jail, 

A  private  closet  is  to  me : 

Whilst  a  good  conscience  is  my  bail, 

And  innocence  my  liberty  : 

Locks,  bars,  and  solitude,  together  met, 

Make  me  no  prisoner,  but  an  anchoret. 

I,  whilst  I  wisht  to  be  retired, 

Into  this  private  room  was  turn’d  ; 

As  if  their  wisdoms  had  conspired 
The  salamander  should  be  burn’d  : 

Or  like  those  sophists,  that  would  drown  a 
fish, 

I  am  constrain’d  to  suffer  what  I  wish. 

The  cynick  loves  his  poverty : 

The  pelican  her  wilderness  ; 

And  ’tis  the  Indian’s  pride  to  be 
Naked  on  frozen  Caucasus : 

Contentment  cannot  smart,  Stoicks  we  see 

Make  torments  easie  to  their  apathy. 

These  manacles  upon  my  arm 
I,  as  my  mistress’  favours,  wear ; 

And  for  to  keep  my  ankles  warm, 

I  have  some  iron  shackles  there : 

These  walls  are  but  my  garrison  ;  this  cell, 

Which  men  call  jail,  doth  prove  my  cit¬ 
adel. 

I’m  in  the  cabinet  lockt  up, 

Like  some  high-prized  margarite, 

Or,  like  the  great  mogul  or  pope, 

Am  cloyster’d  up  from  publick  sight: 

Retiredness  is  a  piece  of  majesty, 

And  thus,  proud  sultan,  I’m  as  great  as 
thee. 

Here  sin  for  want  of  food  must  starve, 
Where  tempting  objects  are  not  seen  ! 

And  these  strong  walls  do  only  serve 
To  keep  vice  out,  and  keep  me  in : 

Malice  of  late’s  grown  charitable,  sure, 

I’m  not  committed,  but  am  kept  secure. 

16 


So  he  that  struck  at  Jason’s  life, 

Thinking  t’  have  made  his  purpose  sure, 
By  a  malicious  friendly  knife 
Did  only  wound  him  to  a  cure: 

Malice,  I  see,  wants  wit;  for  what  is  meant 
Mischief,  oft-times  proves  favour  by  th’ 
event. 

When  once  my  prince  affliction  hath, 
Prosperity  doth  treason  seem  ; 

And  to  make  smooth  so  rough  a  path, 

I  can  learn  patience  from  him  : 

Now  not  to  suffer  shows  no  loyal  heart, 
When  kings  want  ease  subjects  must  bear 
a  part. 

What  though  I  cannot  see  my  king 
Neither  in  person  nor  in  coin ; 

Yet  contemplation  is  a  thing 

That  renders  what  I  have  not,  mine : 

My  king  from  me  what  adamant  can  part, 
Whom  I  do  wear  engraven  on  my  heart ! 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale, 

A  prisoner  like,  coopt  in  a  cage, 

How  doth  she  chaunt  her  wonted  tale, 

In  that  her  narrow  hermitage ! 

Even  then  her  charming  melody  doth 
prove, 

That  all  her  bars  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove. 

I  am  that  bird,  whom  they  combine 
Thus  to  deprive  of  liberty  ; 

But  though  they  do  my  corps  confine, 

Yet  maugre  hate,  my  soul  is  free; 

And  though  immured,  yet  can  I  chirp,  and 
sing 

Disgrace  to  rebels,  glory  to  my  king. 

My  soul  is  free,  as  ambient  air, 

Although  my  baser  part’s  immew’d, 
Whilst  Joyal  thoughts  do  still  repair 
T’  accompany  my  solitude: 

Although  rebellion  do  my  body  binde, 

My  king  alone  can  captivate  my  minde. 

Sir  Roger  L’ Estrange. 

♦<>♦ 

Epitaph  Extempore. 

Nobles  and  heralds,  by  your  leave, 

Here  lies  what  once  was  Matthew  Prior, 
The  son  of  Adam  and  of  Eve  ; 

Can  Stuart  or  Nassau  claim  higher? 

Matthew  Prior. 


242 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Prologue  to  Mr.  Addisons 
Tragedy  of  “Cato.” 

To  wake  the  soul  by  tender  strokes  of  art, 
To  raise  the  genius,  and  to  mend  the  heart, 
To  make  mankind,  in  conscious  virtue 
bold, 

Live  o’er  each  scene,  and  be  what  they 
behold : 

For  this  the  tragic  Muse  first  trod  the 
stage, 

Commanding  tears  to  stream  through  every 
age; 

Tyrants  no  more  their  savage  nature  kept, 
And  foes  to  virtue  wonder’d  how  they 
wept. 

Our  author  shuns  by  vulgar  springs  to 
move 

The  hero’s  glory,  or  the  virgin’s  love ; 

In  pitying  love,  we  but  our  weakness  show, 
And  wild  ambition  well  deserves  its  woe. 
Here  tears  shall  flow  from  a  more  gener¬ 
ous  cause. 

Such  tears  as  patriots  shed  for  dying  laws: 
He  bids  your  breasts  with  ancient  ardor 
rise, 

And  calls  forth  Roman  drops  from  British 

eyes. 

Virtue  confess’d  in  human  shape  he  draws, 
What  Plato  thought,  and  godlike  Cato 
was : 

No  common  object  to  your  sight  displays, 
But  what  with  pleasure  Heaven  itself  sur- 
veys, 

A  brave  man  struggling  in  the  storms  of 
fate, 

And  greatly  falling,  with  a  falling  state. 
While  Cato  gives  his  little  senate  laws, 
What  bosom  beats  not  in  his  country’s 
cause  ? 

Who  sees  him  act,  but  envies  every  deed? 
Who  hears  him  groan,  and  does  not  wish 
to  bleed? 

Even  when  proud  Caesar,  ’midst  triumphal 
cars, 

The  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  pomp  of 
wars, 

Ignobly  vain,  and  impotently  great, 
Show’d  Rome  her  Cato’s  figure  drawn  in 
state ; 

As  her  dead  father’s  reverend  image  pass’d 
The  pomp  was  darken’d,  and  the  day 
o’ercast ; 


The  triumph  ceased,  tears  gush’d  from 
every  eye ; 

The  world’s  great  victor  pass’d  unheeded 
by; 

Her  last  good  man  dejected  Rome  adored, 

And  honor  d  Caesar’s  less  than  Cato’s 
sword. 

Britons,  attend :  be  worth  like  this  ap¬ 
proved, 

And  show  you  have  the  virtue  to  be  moved. 

With  honest  scorn  the  first  famed  Cato 
view’d 

Rome  learning  arts  from  Greece,  whom 
she  subdued ; 

Your  scene  precariously  subsists  too  long 

On  French  translation,  and  Italian  song. 

Dare  to  have  sense  yourselves ;  assert  the 
stage, 

Be  justly  warm’d  with  your  own  native 
rage  : 

Such  plays  alone  should  win  a  British 
ear, 

As  Cato’s  self  had  not  disdain’d  to  hear. 

Alexander  Pope. 

- KX - 

To  the  Earl  of  Warwick  on  the 
Death  of  Mr.  Addison. 

If,  dumb  too  long,  the  drooping  Muse  hath 
stay’d, 

And  left  her  debt  to  Addison  unpaid, 

Blame  not  her  silence,  Warwick,  but  be¬ 
moan, 

And  judge,  oh  judge  my  bosom  by  your 
own. 

What  mourner  ever  felt  poetic  fires? 

Slow  comes  the  verse  that  real  woe 
inspires ; 

Grief  unaffected  suits  but  ill  with  art, 

Or  flowing  numbers  with  a  bleeding  heart. 

Can  I  forget  the  dismal  night  that  gave 

My  soul’s  best  part  for  ever  to  the  grave  ? 

How  silent  did  his  old  companions  tread, 

By  midnight  lamps,  the  mansions  of  the 
dead, 

Through  breathing  statues,  then  unheeded 
things, 

Through  rows  of  warriors,  and  through 
walks  of  kings ! 

What  awe  did  the  slow,  solemn  knell 
inspire  ; 

|  The  pealing  organ,  and  the  pausing  choir ; 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


243 


The  duties  by  the  lawn-robed  prelate  | 
paid ; 

And  the  last  words,  that  dust  to  dust  con¬ 
vey’d  ? 

While  speechless  o’er  thy  closing  grave  we 
bend, 

Accept  these  tears,  thou  dear,  departed 
friend. 

Oh,  gone  for  ever !  take  this  long  adieu  ; 

And  sleep  in  peace,  next  thy  loved  Mon¬ 
tague. 

To  strew  fresh  laurels  let  the  task  be 
mine, 

A  frequent  pilgrim,  at  thy  sacred  shrine ; 

Mine  with  true  sighs  thy  absence  to  be¬ 
moan 

And  grave  with  faithful  epitaphs  thy 
stone. 

If  e’er  from  me  thy  loved  memorial  part, 

May  shame  afflict  this  alienated  heart ; 

Of  thee  forgetful,  if  I  form  a  song, 

My  lyre  be  broken,  and  untuned  my 
tongue ; 

My  grief  be  doubled  from  thy  image  free,  | 

And  mirth  a  torment,  unchastised  by  thee. 

Oft  let  me  range  the  gloomy  aisles  alone, 

Sad  luxury  !  to  vulgar  minds  unknown  ; 

Along  the  walls  where  speaking  marbles 
show 

What  worthies  form  the  hallow’d  mould 
below ; 

Proud  names,  who  once  the  reins  of  empire 
held  ; 

In  arms  who  triumph’d,  or  in  arts  excell’d ; 

Chiefs,  graced  with  scars,  and  prodigal  of 
blood ; 

Stern  patriots,  who  for  sacred  freedom 
stood ; 

Just  men,  by  whom  impartial  laws  were 
given  ; 

And  saints  who  taught,  and  led,  the  way 
to  heaven ; 

Ne’er  to  these  chambers,  where  the  mighty 
rest, 

Since  their  foundation,  came  a  nobler 
guest ; 

Nor  e’er  was  to  the  bowers  of  bliss  con¬ 
vey’d 

A  fairer  spirit  or  more  welcome  shade. 

In  what  new  region  to  the  just  assign’d, 

What  new  employments  please  th’  un¬ 
bodied  mind? 


A  winged  Virtue,  through  th’  ethereal  sky, 
From  world  to  world  unwearied  does  he 
fly? 

Or  curious  trace  the  long,  laborious  maze 
Of  Heaven’s  decrees,  where  wondering 
angels  gaze  ? 

Does  he  delight  to  hear  bold  seraphs  tell 
How  Michael  battled,  and  the  dragon  fell ; 
Or,  mix’d  with  milder  cherubim,  to  glow 
In  hymns  of  love,  not  ill  essay’d  below  ? 
Or  dost  thou  warn  poor  mortals  left  be¬ 
hind  ?— 

A  task  well  suited  to  thy  gentle  mind. 

Oh !  if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  de¬ 
scend  ; 

To  me,  thy  aid,  thou  guardian  genius, 
lend ! 

When  rage  misguides  me,  or  when  fear 
alarms, 

When  pain  distresses,  or  when  pleasure 
charms, 

In  silent  whisperings  purer  thoughts  im¬ 
part, 

And  turn  from  ill  a  frail  and  feeble  heart ; 
Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod 
before, 

Till  bliss  shall  join,  nor  death  can  part  us 
more. 

That  awful  form,  which,  so  the  heavens 
decree, 

Must  still  be  loved  and  still  deplored  by  me, 
In  nightly  visions  seldom  fails  to  rise, 

Or,  roused  by  fancy,  meets  my  waking  eyes. 
If  business  calls,  or  crowded  courts  invite, 
Th’  unblemish’d  statesman  seems  to  strike 
my  sight  ; 

If  in  the  stage  I  seek  to  soothe  my  care, 

I  meet  his  soul  which  breathes  in  Cato 
there ; 

If  pensive  to  the  rural  shades  I  rove, 

His  shape  o’ertakes  me  in  the  lonely  grove ; 
Twas  there  of  just  and  good  he  reason’d 
strong, 

Clear’d  some  great  truth,  or  raised  some 
serious  song, 

There  patient  sliow’d  us  the  wise  course  to 
steer, 

A  candid  censor,  and  a  friend  severe ; 
There  taught  us  how  to  live;  and  (oh  too 
high 

The  price  for  knowledge!)  taught  us  how 
to  die. 


244 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Thou  Hill,  whose  brow  the  antique  struc¬ 
tures  grace, 

Rear’d  by  bold  chiefs  of  Warwick’s  noble 
race, 

Why,  once  so  loved,  whene’er  thy  bower 
appears, 

O’er  my  dim  eyeballs  glance  the  sudden 
tears ! 

How  sweet  were  once  thy  prospects  fresh 
and  fair, 

Thy  sloping  walks,  and  unpolluted  air ! 
How  sweet  the  glooms  beneath  thy  agkd 
trees, 

Thy  noontide  shadow,  and  thy  evening 
breeze ! 

His  image  thy  forsaken  bowers  restore ; 
Thy  walks  and  airy  prospects  charm  no 
more ; 

No  more  the  summer  in  thy  glooms  allay’d, 
Thy  evening  breezes,  and  thy  noonday 
shade. 

From  other  hills,  however  Fortune  frown’d, 
Some  refuge  in  the  Muse’s  art  I  found ; 
Reluctant  now  I  touch  the  trembling  string, 
Bereft  of  him,  who  taught  me  how  to  sing ; 
And  these  sad  accents,  murmur’d  o’er  his 
urn, 

Betray  that  absence  they  attempt  to 
mourn. 

Oh !  must  I  then  (now  fresh  my  bosom 
bleeds, 

And  Craggs  in  death  to  Addison  succeeds) 
The  verse,  begun  to  one  lost  friend,  pro¬ 
long, 

And  weep  a  second  in  th’  unfinish’d  song  ! 

These  works  divine,  which,  on  his  death¬ 
bed  laid 

To  thee,  O  Craggs,  th’  expiring  sage  con¬ 
vey’d, 

Great,  but  ill-omen’d,  monument  of  fame, 
Nor  he  survived  to  give,  nor  thou  to 
'  claim. 

Swift  after  him  thy  social  spirit  flies, 

And  close  to  his,  how  soon !  thy  coffin  lies. 
Blest  pair !  whose  union  future  bards  shall 
tell 

In  future  tongues;  each  other’s  boast! 
farewell, 

Farewell!  whom  join’d  in  fame,  in  friend¬ 
ship  tried, 

No  chance  could  sever,  nor  the  grave 
divide. 

Thomas  Tickell. 


Ode  on  the  Death  of  Mr. 
Thomson. 

In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies 

Where  slowly  winds  the  stealing  wave ! 

The  year’s  best  sweets  shall  duteous  rise, 
To  deck  its  poet’s  sylvan  grave ! 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 
His  airy  harp  shall  now  be  laid, 

That  he  whose  heart  in  sorrow  bleeds, 

May  love  through  life  the  soothing 
shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger  here, 
And,  while  its  sounds  at  distance  swell, 

Shall  sadly  seem  in  pity’s  ear 

To  hear  the  woodland  pilgrim’s  knell. 

Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is 
drest, 

And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest ! 

And  oft  as  ease  and  health  retire 
To  breezy  lawn  or  forest  deep, 

The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening  spire, 
And  ’mid  the  varied  landscape  weep. 

But  thou,  who  own’st  that  earthly  bed, 

Ah  !  what  will  every  dirge  avail  ? 

Or  tears  which  love  and  pity  shed, 

That  mourn  beneath  the  gliding  sail  ? 

Yet  lives  there  one,  whose  heedless  eye 
Shall  scorn  thy  pale  shrine  glimmering 
near? 

With  him,  sweet  bard,  may  fancy  die, 

And  joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 

But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen  tide 
No  sedge-crown’d  sisters  now  attend, 

Now  waft  me  from  the  green  hill’s  side 
Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried  friend  J 

And  see,  the  fairy  valleys  fade, 

Dun  night  has  veil’d  the  solemn  view  ! 

Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade, 

Meek  Nature’s  child,  again  adieu ! 

The  genial  meads  assign’d  to  bless 
Thy  life,  shall  mourn  thy  early  doom ; 

Their  hinds  and  shepherd  girls  shall  dress 
With  simple  hands  thy  rural  tomb. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


245 


Long,  long,  thy  stone  and  pointed  clay 
Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton’s  eyes, 

0  vales  and  wild  woods,  shall  he  say, 

In  yonder  grave  your  Druid  lies ! 

William  Collins. 

- K>»  — 

On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Levett. 

Condemn’d  to  hope’s  delusive  mine, 

As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 

By  sudden  blasts,  or  slow  decline, 

Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 
See  Levett  to  the  grave  descend, 

Officious,  innocent,  sincere, 

Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  affection’s  eye, 

Obscurely  wise  and  coarsely  kind ; 

Nor,  letter’d  arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  Nature  call’d  for  aid, 

And  hovering  Death  prepared  the  blow, 

His  vigorous  remedy  display’d 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  misery’s  darkest  cavern  known, 

His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh, 

Where  hopeless  anguish  pour’d  his  groan, 
And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mock’d  by  chill  delay, 

No  petty  gain  disdain’d  by  pride; 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walk’d  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void ; 

And  sure  the  Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employ’d. 

The  busy  day,  the  peaceful  night, 

Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by; 

His  frame  was  firm,  his  powers  were  bright, 
Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was 
nigh. 

Then  with  no  fiery  throbbing  pain, 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay, 

Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain, 

And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 

Samuel  Johnson. 

■  ■ 


To  Mrs.  Unwin. 

Mary  !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 
Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have 
feign’d  they  drew, 

An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals, 
new 

And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things, 

That  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my 
wings 

I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honor  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 

And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 

But  thou  hast  little  need.  There  is  a  Book 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly 
light, 

On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 

A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright — 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary, 
shine : 

And  since  thou  own’st  that  praise,  I  spare 
thee  mine. 

William  Cowper. 

>  - *04 - 

To  Mary. 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast  ; 

Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last ! 
My  Mary! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 

I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow — 

’Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 
My  Mary ! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 

For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 

Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more  ; 
My  Mary ! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 

Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  play’dst  the  housewife's 
part, 

And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 
My  Mary! 


246 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  utter’d  in  a  dream  ; 

Yet  me  they  charm,  whate’er  the  theme, 
My  Mary ! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  Orient  light, 

My  Mary  ! 

For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary ! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 

Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign  ; 

Yet  gently  press’d,  press  gently  mine, 
My  Mary ! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov’st 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov’st 
Upheld  by  two  ;  yet  still  thou  lov’st, 

My  Mary  ! 

And  still  to  love,  though  press’d  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 

With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary ! 

But  ah  !  by  constant  heed  I  know 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 
My  Mary ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last — 
My  Mary ! 

William  Cowper. 


CO  WPER’S  GRA  VE. 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crown’d  may  feel 
the  heart’s  decaying ; 

It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may  weep 
amid  their  praying, 

Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness  as  low  as 
silence  languish : 

Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm  to 
whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

- 

0  poets,  from  a  maniac’s  tongue  was  pour’d 
the  deathless  singing ! 

0  Christians,  at  your  cross  of  hope  a  hope¬ 
less  hand  was  clinging  ! 


!  0  men,  this  man  in  brotherhood  your 
weary  paths  beguiling, 

Groan’d  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace, 
and  died  while  ye  were  smiling! 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 
through  dimming  tears  his  story, 

How  discord  on  the  music  fell  and  dark¬ 
ness  on  the  glory, 

And  how  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds 
and  wandering  lights  departed, 

He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so 
broken-hearted, — 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet’s 
high  vocation, 

And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down  in 
meeker  adoration  ; 

Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise  or 
good  forsaken, 

Named  softly  as  the  household  name  of 
one  whom  God  hath  taken. 

I 

With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom  I  learn 
to  think  upon  him, 

With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness  to  God 
whose  heaven  hath  won  him, 

Who  suffer’d  once  the  madness-cloud  to 
His  own  love  to  blind  him, 

But  gently  led  the  blind  along  where 
|  breath  and  bird  could  find  him  ; 

And  wrought  within  his  shatter’d  brain 
such  quick  poetic  senses 

As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars,  har¬ 
monious  influences : 

The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass  kept  his 
within  its  number, 

And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees  refresh’d 
him  like  a  slumber. 

Wild  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods 
to  share  his  home-caresses, 
Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes  with  sylvan 
tendernesses : 

The  very  world,  by  God’s  constraint,  from 
falsehood’s  ways  removing, 

Its  women  and  its  men  became,  beside  him, 
true  and  loving. 

And  though,  in  blindness,  he  remain’d  un¬ 
conscious  of  that  guiding, 

And  things  provided  came  without  the 
sweet  sense  of  providing, 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


247 


He  testified  this  solemn  truth,  while  frenzy 
desolated, 

— Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfies  whom  only 
God  created. 

Like  a  sick  child  that  knoweth  not  his 
mother  while  she  blesses, 

And  drops  upon  his  burning  brow  the  cool¬ 
ness  of  her  kisses, — 

That  turns  his  fever’d  eyes  around — “  My 
mother  !  where’s  my  mother?” — 

As  if  such  tender  words  and  deeds  could 
come  from  any  other  ! — 

The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart  he  sees 
her  bending  o’er  him, 

Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love,  the 
unweary  love  she  bore  him  ! — 

Thus  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream  his 
life’s  long  fever  gave  him, 

Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  eyes  which 
closed  in  death  to  save  him. 

Thus?  oh,  not  thus!  no  type  of  earth  can 
image  that  awaking, 

Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant  of 
seraphs,  round  him  breaking, 

Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb  of  soul 
from  body  parted, 

But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew, — uMy 
Saviour!  not  deserted!” 

Deserted !  Who  hath  dreamt  that  when 
the  cross  in  darkness  rested, 

Upon  the  Victim’s  hidden  face  no  love  was 
manifested  ? 

What  frantic  hands  outstretch’d  have  e’er 
th’  atoning  drops  averted  ? 

What  tears  have  wash’d  them  from  the 
soul,  that  one  should  be  deserted? 

Deserted !  God  could  separate  from  His 
own  essence  rather; 

And  Adam’s  sins  have  swept  between  the 
righteous  Son  and  Father : 

Yea,  once,  Immanuel’s  orphan’d  cry  His 
universe  hath  shaken — 

It  went  up  single,  echoless,  “My  God,  I  am 
forsaken  !” 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy’s  lips  amid  His 
lost  creation, 

That,  of  the  lost,  no  son  should  use  those 
words  of  desolation ! 


That  earth’s  worst  frenzies,  marring  hope, 
should  mar  not  hope’s  fruition, 

And  I,  on  Cowper’s  grave,  should  see  his 

rapture  in  a  vision. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

- *o« - 

Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew 
Henderson, 

A  Gentleman  who  held  the  Patent  for 
his  Honors  immediately  from  Al¬ 
mighty  God. 

“Should  the  poor  be  flattered?” — Shakespeare. 

O  Death  !  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody  ! 
The  meikle  devil  wi’  a  woodie 
Haurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie, 

O’er  hurcheon  hides, 
And  like  stock-fish  come  o’er  his  studdie 

Wi’  thy  auld  sides  ! 

He’s  gane  !  he’s  gane  !  he’s  frae  us  torn, 
The  ae  best  fellow  e’er  was  born  ! 

Thee,  Matthew,  Nature’s  sel’  shall  mourn 

By  wood  and  wild, 
Where,  haply,  Pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exiled. 

Ye  hills,  near  neibors  o’  the  starns, 

That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns  ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  earns, 

Where  echo  slumbers ! 
Come  join,  ye  Nature’s  sturdiest  bairns, 

My  wailing  numbers ! 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens ! 

Ye  liaz’ly  shaws  and  briery  dens  ! 

Ye  burnies,  wimplin’  down  your  glens, 

Wi’  toddlin’  din, 

Or  foaming  strang,  wi’  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin  ! 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o’er  the  lea; 

Ye  stately  foxgloves,  fair  to  see; 

Ye  woodbines,  hanging  bonnilie, 

In  scented  bow’rs; 

Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o’  flow’rs. 

At  dawn,  when  ev’ry  grassy  blade 
Droops  with  a  diamond  at  its  head, 

At  ev’n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed 

I’  th’  rustling  gale, 

Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro’  the  glade, 

Come  join  my  wail. 


248 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o’  the  wood  ; 

Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud  ; 

Y"e  curlews  calling  thro’  a  clud  ; 

Ye  whistling  plover; 

An’  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood ! — 

He’s  gane  for  ever  ! 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals ; 

Y"e  fisher  herons,  watching  eels  : 

Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi’  airy  wheels 

Circling  the  lake ; 

Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake. 

Mourn,  clam’ring  craiks,  at  close  o’  day, 
’Mang  fields  o’  flow’ring  clover  gay ; 

And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 

Frae  our  cauld  shore, 
Tell  thae  far  warlds,  wha  lies  in  clay, 

Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bow’r, 

In  some  auld  tree  or  eldritch  tow’r, 

What  time  the  moon,  wi’  silent  glow’r, 

Sets  up  her  horn, 

Wail  thro’  the  dreary  midnight  hour 

Till  waukrife  morn ! 

0  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains ! 

Oft  have  ye  heard  my  cantie  strains  : 

But  now  what  else  for  me  remains 

But  tales  of  woe  ? 

Apd  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 

Maun  ever  flow. 

Mourn,  Spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year ! 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a  tear  : 

Thou  Simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 

Shoots  up  its  head, 

Thy  gay,  green,  flow’ry  tresses  shear 

For  him  that’s  dead. 

Thou  Autumn,  wi’  thy  yellow  hair, 

In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear ! 

Thou,  Winter,  hurling  thro’  the  air 

The  roaring  blast, 

Wide  o’er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we’ve  lost ! 

Mourn  him,  thou  Sun,  great  source  of 
light ! 

Mourn,  Empress  of  the  silent  night ! 


And  you,  ye  twinkling  starnies  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn  ! 

For  through  your  orbs  lie’s  ta’en  his  flight, 

Ne’er  to  return. 

0  Henderson  !  the  man — the  brother ! 

And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  for  ever  ? 
And  hast  thou  crost  that  unknown  river, 

Life’s  dreary  bound  ? 
Like  thee,  where  shall  I  find  another, 

The  world  around  ? 

Go  to  your  sculptured  tombs,  ye  great, 

In  a’  the  tinsel  trash  o’  state  ! 

But  by  thy  honest  turf  I’ll  wait, 

Thou  man  of  worth  ! 
And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow’s  fate 

E’er  lay  in  earth. 

The  Epitaph. 

Stop,  passenger  ! — my  story’s  brief, 

And  truth  I  shall  relate,  man ; 

I  tell  nae  common  tale  o’  grief — 

For  Matthew  was  a  great  man. 

If  thou  uncommon  merit  hast, 

Yet  spurn’d  at  fortune’s  door,  man, 

A  look  of  pity  hither  cast — 

For  Matthew  was  a  poor  man. 

If  thou  a  noble  sodger  art, 

That  passest  by  this  grave,  man, 

There  moulders  here  a  gallant  heart — 

For  Matthew  was  a  brave  man. 

If  thou  on  men,  their  works  and  wavs. 

Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man, 
Here  lies  wha  weel  had  won  thy  praise — 
For  Matthew  was  a  bright  man. 

If  thou  at  Friendship’s  sacred  ca’ 

Wad  life  itself  resign,  man, 

Thy  sympathetic  tear  maun  fa’ — 

For  Matthew  was  a  kind  man. 

If  thou  art  staunch  without  a  stain, 

Like  the  unchanging  blue,  man, 

This  was  a  kinsman  o’  thy  ain — 

For  Matthew  was  a  true  man. 

If  thou  hast  wit,  and  fun,  and  fire, 

And  ne’er  guid  wine  did  fear,  man, 

This  was  thy  billie,  dam,  and  sire — 

For  Matthew  was  a  queer  man. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


249 


If  ony  whiggish  whingin  sot, 

To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man, 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  lot ! 

For  Matthew  was  a  rare  man. 

But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run, 

For  Matthew’s  was  a  bright  one  ! 

His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun, 

A  matchless,  heav’nly  light,  man. 

Robert  Burns. 

- K>« - 

Burns. 

To  a  Bose  brought  from  near  Allo- 
way  Kirk,  in  Ayrshire,  in  the  Au¬ 
tumn  of  1822. 

Wild  rose  of  Alio  way !  my  thanks : 

Thou  ’mind’st  me  of  that  autumn  noon 

When  first  we  met  upon  “  the  banks 
And  braes  o’  bonny  Doon.” 

Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn  tree’s  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief ; 

We’ve  cross’d  the  winter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  wither’d — flower  and  leaf. 

And  will  not  thy  death-doom  be  mine — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of 
clay? 

And  wither’d  my  life’s  leaf  like  thine, 
Wild  rose  of  Alio  way? 

Not  so  his  memory  for  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long — 

His,  who  a  humbler  flower  could  make 
Immortal  as  his  song, 

The  memory  of  Burns — a  name 
That  calls,  when  brimm’d  her  festal 
cup, 

A  nation’s  glory  and  her  shame, 

In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation’s  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she’s  canonized  his  mind, 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  humankind. 

I’ve  stood  beside  the  cottage-bed 
Where  the  bard  -  peasant  first  drew 
breath  ; 

A  straw-thatch’d  roof  above  his  head, 

A  straw- wrought  couch  beneath. 


And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 

His  monument — that  tells  to  Heaven 
The  homage  of  earth’s  proudest  isle 
To  that  bard-peasant  given. 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o’er  that  spot, 
Boy-minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour ; 
And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 

A  poet’s  pride  and  power  ; 

The  pride  that  lifted  Burns  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 
Ascendency  o’er  rank  and  birth, 

The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong  ; 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 
Thy  spirit’s  fluttering  pinions  then, 
Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 
And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy’s 
Purer  and  holier  fires  ; 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death ; 

F ew  nobler  ones  than  Burns  are  there ; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 
Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would 
speak, 

Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear 
start, 

Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek ; 

And  his  that  music  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 
In  cot  or  castle’s  mirth  or  moan, 

In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 

And  listen’d  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  poet’s  mastery 

O’er  the  mind’s  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O’er  the  heart’s  sunshine  and  its  showers, 
O’er  Passion’s  moments,  bright  and  warm, 
O’er  Reason’s  dark,  cold  hours ; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  “  die  or  do,” 

In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet’s  mirth, 
Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth? 


250 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eye  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 
When  “Scots  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled/’ 
Or  “  Auld  Lang  Syne,”  is  sung ! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 

Come  with  his  Cotter’s  hymn  of  praise, 
And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love 
With  “  Logan’s  ”  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alloway’s  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination’s  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death’s  sublimity. 

And  Burns — though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he 
trod — 

Lived,  died,  in  form  and  soul  a  man, 

The  image  of  his  God. 

Through  care,  and  pain,  and  want,  and 
woe, 

With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 
Tortures  the  poor  alone  can  know, 

‘The  proud  alone  can  feel  ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 

His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 
A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 

A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward  and  of  slave ; 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear,  and  would  not  bow, 
W  ere  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard !  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 
Where’er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 

The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man  !  a  nation  stood 
Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 

Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 

As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 


And  still,  as  on  his  funeral-day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 
With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallow’d  home  of  one 
Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 

Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined — 
The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 

The  Meccas,  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  Wisdom’s  garland  wreath’d, 
Crown’d  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of 
power, 

And  warriors  with  their  bright  swords 
sheath’d, 

The  mightiest  of  the  hour ; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 
Is  lit  by  Fortune’s  dimmer  star, 

Are  there — o’er  wave  and  mountain  come, 
From  countries  near  and  far; 

Pilgrims,  whose  wandering  feet  have 
press’d 

The  Switzer’s  snow,  the  Arab’s  sand, 

Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 

My  own  green  forest-land. 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 
And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Boon’s  low  trees, 

And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 
And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries  ! 

The  Poet’s  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor’s  art, 

His  funeral  columns,  wreaths,  and  urns? 
Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 

The  name  of  Robert  Burns  ? 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck. 

- KX - 

Ode  on  the  Centenary  of 
Burns. 

We  hail  this  morn 
A  century’s  noblest  birth  ; 

A  Poet  peasant-born, 

Who  more  of  Fame’s  immortal  dower 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


251 


Unto  his  country  brings 
Than  all  her  kings  ! 

As  lamps  high  set 
Upon  some  earthly  eminence — 

And  to  the  gazer  brighter  thence 
Than  the  sphere-lights  they  flout — 
Dwindle  in  distance  and  die  out, 

While  no  star  waneth  yet ; 

So  through  the  past’s  far-reaching  night 
Only  the  star-souls  keep  their  light. 

A  gentle  boy, 

With  moods  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 
Quick  tears  and  sudden  joy, 

Grew  up  beside  the  peasant’s  hearth. 

His  father’s  toil  he  shares  ; 

But  half  his  mother’s  cares 
From  his  dark,  searching  eyes, 

Too  swift  to  sympathize, 

Hid  in  her  heart  she  bears. 

At  early  morn 

His  father  calls  him  to  the  field  ; 

Through  the  stiff  soil  that  clogs  his  feet, 
Chill  rain,  and  harvest  heat, 

He  plods  all  day  ;  returns  at  eve  outworn, 
To  the  rude  fare  a  peasant’s  lot  doth 
yield — 

To  what  else  was  he  born  ? 

The  God-made  king 
Of  every  living  thing 
(For  his  great  heart  in  love  could  hold 
them  all)  ; 

The  dumb  eyes  meeting  his  by  hearth  and 
stall — 

Gifted  to  understand  !— 

Knew  it  and  sought  his  hand  ; 

And  the  most  timorous  creature  had  not  fled 
Could  she  his  heart  have  read, 

Which  fain  all  feeble  things  had  bless’d 
and  sheltered. 

To  Nature’s  feast, 

Who  knew  her  noblest  guest 
And  entertain’d  him  best, 

Kingly  he  came.  Her  chambers  of  the  east 
She  draped  with  crimson  and  with  gold, 
And  pour’d  her  pure  joy-wines 
For  him,  the  poet-soul’d  ; 

For  him  her  anthem  roll’d 
From  the  storm-wind  among  the  winter 
pines, 


Down  to  the  slenderest  note 
Of  a  love-warble  from  the  linnet’s  throat. 

But  when  begins 

The  array  for  battle,  and  the  trumpet 
blows, 

A  king  must  leave  the  feast  and  lead  the 
fight; 

And  with  its  mortal  foes, 

Grim  gathering  hosts  of  sorrows  and  of 
sins, 

Each  human  soul  must  close  ; 

And  Fame  her  trumpet  blew 
Before  him,  wrapp’d  him  in  her  purple 
state, 

And  made  him  mark  for  all  the  shafts  of 
Fate 

That  henceforth  round  him  flew. 

Though  he  may  yield, 

Hard-press’d,  and  wounded  fall 
Forsaken  on  the  field  ; 

His  regal  vestments  soil’d  ; 

His  crown  of  half  its  jewels  spoil’d ; 

He  is  a  king  for  all. 

Had  he  but  stood  aloof! 

Had  he  array’d  himself  in  armor  proof 
Against  temptation’s  darts  ! 

So  yearn  the  good — so  those  the  world  calls 
wise, 

With  vain,  presumptuous  hearts, 
Triumphant  moralize. 

Of  martyr-woe 

A  sacred  shadow  on  his  memory  rests — 
Tears  have  not  ceased  to  flow — 
Indignant  grief  yet  stirs  impetuous  breasts, 
To  think — above  that  noble  soul  brought 
low, 

That  wise  and  soaring  spirit  fool’d,  en¬ 
slaved — 

Thus,  thus  he  had  been  saved ! 

It  might  not  be  ! 

That  heart  of  harmony 
Had  been  too  rudely  rent ; 

Its  silver  chords,  which  any  hand  could 
wound, 

By  no  hand  could  be  tuned, 

Save  by  the  Maker  of  the  instrument, 

Its  every  string  who  knew, 

And  from  profaning  touch  his  heavenly 
gift  withdrew. 


252 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Regretful  love 

His  country  fain  would  prove, 

By  grateful  honors  lavish’d  on  his  grave  ; 

Would  fain  redeem  her  blame 
That  he  so  little  at  her  hands  can  claim, 
Who  unrewarded  gave 
To  her  his  life-bought  gift  of  song  and 
fame. 

The  land  he  trod 

Hath  now  become  a  place  of  pilgrimage ; 
Where  dearer  are  the  daisies  of  the  sod 
That  could  his  song  engage. 

The  hoary  hawthorn,  wreath’d 
Above  the  bank  on  which  his  limbs  he 
flung 

While  some  sweet  plaint  he  breath’d  ; 
The  streams  he  wander’d  near  ; 

The  maidens  whom  he  loved ;  the  songs  he 
sung— 

All,  all  are  dear  ! 

The  arch  blue  eyes — 

Arch  but  for  love’s  disguise — 

Of  Scotland’s  daughters,  soften  at  his 
strain  ; 

Her  hardy  sons,  sent  forth  across  the  main 
To  drive  the  ploughshare  through  earth’s 
virgin  soils, 

Lighten  with  it  their  toils  : 

And  sister-lands  have  learn’d  to  love  the 
tongue 

In  which  such  songs  are  sung. 

For  doth  not  song 

To  the  whole  world  belong? 

Is  it  not  given  wherever  tears  can  fall, 
Wherever  hearts  can  melt,  or  blushes  glow, 
Or  mirth  and  sadness  mingle  as  they  flow, 
A  heritage  to  all  ? 

Isa  Craig  Knox. 


Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried  ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O’er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we 
buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam’s  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 


No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound 
him  ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that 
was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hollow’d  his  narrow 
bed, 

And  smooth’d  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread 
o’er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they’ll  talk  of  the  spirit  that’s 
gone, 

And  o’er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; 

But  little  he’ll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid 
him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for 
retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

F rom  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a 
stone — 

But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe. 

- KX - 

Oh,  Breathe  not  his  Name. 

Robert  Emmett. 

Oh,  breathe  not  his  name !  let  it  sleep  in 
the  shade, 

Where  cold  and  unhonor’d  his  relics  are 
laid : 

Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we 

shed, 

As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grave 
o’er  his  head. 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  though  in 
silence  it  weeps, 

Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave 
where  he  sleeps ; 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


253 


And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in 
secret  it  rolls, 

Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our 
souls. 

Thomas  Moore. 

- »o« - 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rod- 
man  Drake. 

Gkeen  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days ! 

None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth ; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 

Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine, — 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 
Around  thy  faded  brow, 

But  I’ve  in  vain  essay’d  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 

Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fix’d  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck. 

- •<>♦ - 

A  DON  A  IS. 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  John 
Keats. 

I  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais !  though  our  tears 

Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a 
head ! 

And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all 
years 

To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure 
compeers, 

And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow:  say, 
“  With  me 

Died  Adonais;  till  the  Future  dares 


Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall 
be 

An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity !” 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  mother,  when  he 

!ay, 

When  thy  son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft 
which  flies 

In  darkness?  where  was  lorn  Urania 

When  Adonais  died?  With  veiled  eyes, 

’Mid  listening  echoes,  in  her  paradise 

She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamor’d 
breath, 

Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 

With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the 
corse  beneath, 

He  had  adorn’d  and  hid  the  coming  bulk 
of  death. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 

Wake,  melancholy  mother,  -wake  and 
weep  ! 

Yet  wherefore?  Quench  within  their 
burning  bed 

Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart 
keep, 

Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining 
sleep  ; 

For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and 
fair 

Descend  : — oh,  dream  not  that  the  amor¬ 
ous  Deep 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 

Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs 
at  our  despair. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again! 

Lament  anew,  Urania! — He  died, 

Who  was  the  sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 

Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  coun¬ 
try’s  pride 

The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide, 

Trampled  and  mock’d  with  many  a  loathed 
rite 

Of  lust  and  blood;  he  went,  unterrified, 

Into  the  gulf  of  death ;  but  his  clear 
sprite 

Yet  reigns  o’er  earth  ;  the  third  among  the 
sons  of  light. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 

Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to 
climb; 


254 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  happier  they  their  happiness  who 
knew, 

Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that 
night  of  time 

In  which  suns  perish’d ;  others  more 
sublime, 

Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or 
God, 

Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent 
prime ; 

And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny 
road, 

Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to 
Fame’s  serene  abode. 

But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one,  has 
perish’d, 

The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who 
grew 

Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden 
cherish’d, 

And  fed  with  true  love  tears  instead  of 
dew ; 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 

Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the 
last, 

The  bloom,  whose  petals  nipt  before  they 
blew 

Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is 
waste ; 

The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  over¬ 
past. 

To  that  high  capital,  where  kingly  Death 

Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and 
decay, 

He  came;  and  bought,  with  price  of 
purest  breath, 

A  grave  among  the  eternal.  —  Come 
away ! 

Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian 
day 

Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof!  while 
still 

He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay ; 

Awake  him  not !  surely  he  takes  his  fill 

Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all 
ill. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! 

Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads 
apace 


The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the 
door 

Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 

His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling- 
place  ; 

The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and 
awe 

Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to 
deface 

So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness  and  the  law 

Of  change,  shall  o’er  his  sleep  the  mortal 
curtain  draw. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  ! — the  quick  Dreams, 

The  passion-winged  ministers  of  Thought, 

Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living 
streams 

Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he 
taught 

The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander 
not — 

Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain 
to  brain, 

But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung; 
and  mourn  their  lot 

Bound  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their 
sweet  pain, 

They  ne’er  will  gather  strength,  nor  find 
a  home  again. 

And  one  with  trembling  hand  clasps  his 
cold  head, 

And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings, 
and  cries, 

“  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not 
dead ; 

See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint 

eyes, 

Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there 
lies 

A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosen’d  from  his 
brain.” 

Lost  angel  of  a  ruin’d  paradise  ! 

She  knew  not  ’twas  her  own ;  as  with  no 
stain 

She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  outwept 
its  rain. 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 

Wash’d  his  light  limbs,  as  if  embalm¬ 
ing  them ; 

Another  dipt  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
i  The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


255 


Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls 
begem  ; 

Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 

Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to 
stem 

A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more 
weak ; 

And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen 
cheek. 

Another  Splendor  on  his  mouth  alit, 

That  mouth  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw 
the  breath 

Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the 
guarded  wit, 

And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  be¬ 
neath 

With  lightning  and  with  music:  the 
damp  death 

Quench’d  its  caress  upon  its  icy  lips ; 

And  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 

Of  moonlight  vapor,  which  the  cold  night 
clips, 

It  flush’d  through  his  pale  limbs,  and 
pass’d  to  its  eclipse. 

And  others  came, — Desires  and  Adora¬ 
tions, 

Winged  Persuasions,  and  veil’d  Desti¬ 
nies, 

Splendors,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering 
Incarnations 

Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phan¬ 
tasies  ; 

And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 

And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the 
gleam 

Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 

Came  in  slow  pomp; — the  moving  pomp 
might  seem 

Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal 
stream. 

All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into 
thought 

From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odor,  and 
sweet  sound, 

Lamented  Adonais.  Morning  sought 

Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair 
unbound, 

Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn 
the  ground, 


Dimm’d  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day; 

Afar  the  melancholy  Thunder  moan’d, 

Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 

And  the  wild  Winds  flew  around,  sobbing 
in  their  dismay. 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains, 

And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remember’d 

!ay, 

And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  foun¬ 
tains, 

Or  amorous  birds  perch’d  on  the  young 
green  spray, 

Or  herdsman’s  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day, 

Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 

Than  those  for  whose  disdain  they  pined 
away 

Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds  : — a  drear 

Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the 
woodmen  hear. 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she 
threw  down 

Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn 
were, 

Or  they  dead  leaves )  since  her  delight  is 
flown, 

For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the 
sullen  year  ? 

4/ 

To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear, 

Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 

Thou,  Adonais :  wan  they  stand  and  sere 

Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their 
youth, 

With  dew  all  turn’d  to  tears ;  odor,  to 
sighing  ruth. 

Thy  spirit’s  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale, 

Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melo¬ 
dious  pain  ; 

Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 

Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun’s 
domain 

Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth 
complain, 

Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty 
nest, 

As  Albion  wails  for  thee :  the  curse  of 
Cain 

Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  inno¬ 
cent  breast, 

And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its 
earthly  guest! 


256 


'  FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Ah,  woe  is  me !  Winter  is  come  and  gone, 

But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving 
year; 

The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous 
tone ; 

The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear  ; 

Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead 
Seasons’  bier  ; 

The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake, 

And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field 
and  brere : 

And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake, 

Like  unimprison’d  flames,  out  of  their 
trance  awake. 

Through  wood,  and  stream,  and  field,  and 
hill  and  ocean, 

A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth’s  heart 
has  burst, 

As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and 
motion, 

From  the  great  morning  of  the  world 
when  first 

God  dawn’d  on  Chaos ;  in  its  stream 
immersed, 

The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer 
light ; 

All  baser  things  pant  with  life’s  sacred 
thirst; 

Diffuse  themselves ;  and  spend  in  love’s 
delight, 

The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed 
might. 

The  leprous  corpse,  touch’d  by  this  spirit 
tender, 

Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath; 

Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splen¬ 
dor 

Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine 
death, 

And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes 
beneath  ; 

Naught  we  know  dies.  Shall  that  alone 
which  knows 

Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 

By  sightless  lightning?  tli’  intense  atom 
glows 

A  moment,  then  is  quench’d  in  a  most 
cold  repose. 

Alas !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 

But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 


And  grief  itself  be  mortal !  Woe  is  me ! 

Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we?  of 
what  scene 

The  actors  or  spectators?  Great  and 
mean 

Meet  mass’d  in  death,  who  lends  what  life 
must  borrow. 

As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are 
green, 

Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the 
morrow, 

Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year 
wake  year  to  sorrow. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! 

“  Wake  thou  !”  cried  Misery,  “  childless 
mother,  rise 

Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart’s 
core, 

A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  tears  and 
sighs.” 

And  all  the  Dreams  that  watch’d  Ura¬ 
nia’s  eyes, 

And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister’s 
song 

Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried  “Arise!” 

Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory 
stung, 

From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splen¬ 
dor  sprung. 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that 
springs 

Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and 
drear 

The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings, 

Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 

Has  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.  Sorrow 
and  fear 

So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt,  Urania, 

So  sadden’d  round  her  like  an  atmo¬ 
sphere 

Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her 
way, 

Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Ado- 
nais  lay. 

Out  of  her  secret  paradise  she  sped, 

Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with 
stone,  and  steel, 

And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  aery 
tread 

Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


257 


Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where’er  they 
fell : 

And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more 
sharp  than  they, 

Rent  the  soft  F orm  they  never  could  repel, 

Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears 
of  May, 

Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  unde¬ 
serving  way. 

In  the  death-chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 

Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living 
Might, 

Blush’d  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 

Revisited  those  lips,  and  life’s  pale  light 

Flash’d  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her 
dear  delight. 

“  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  com¬ 
fortless, 

As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless 
night ! 

Leave  me  not !”  cried  Urania  :  her  distress 

Roused  Death :  Death  rose  and  smiled, 
and  met  her  vain  caress. 

“  Stay  yet  a  while !  speak  to  me  once  again ; 

Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live ; 

And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning 
brain 

That  word,  that  kiss,  shall  all  thoughts 
else  survive, 

With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 

Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 

Of  thee,  my  Adonais  !  I  would  give 

All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art ! 

But  I  am  chain’d  to  Time,  and  cannot 
thence  depart ! 

“  0  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 

Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths 
of  men 

Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though 
mighty  heart 

Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den  ? 

Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh !  where  was 
then 

Wisdom  the  mirror’d  shield,  or  scorn  the 
spear  ? 

Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 

Thy  spirit  should  have  fill’d  its  crescent 
sphere, 

The  monsters  of  life’s  waste  had  fled  from 
thee  like  deer. 

17 


“  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pur¬ 
sue  ; 

The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o’er  the 
dead  ; 

The  vultures,  to  the  conqueror’s  banner 
true, 

Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has 
fed, 

And  whose  wings  rain  contagion  ; — how 
they  fled, 

When,  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow, 

The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 

And  smiled  ! — The  spoilers  tempt  no  sec¬ 
ond  blow, 

They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn 
them  lying  low. 

“  The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles 
spawn  ; 

He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 

Is  gather’d  into  death  without  a  dawn, 

And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again  ; 

So  it  is  in  the  world  of  living  men  : 

A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 

Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven, 
and  when 

It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimm’d  or  shared 
its  light 

Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit’s  aw¬ 
ful  night.” 

Thus  ceased  she  :  and  the  mountain-shep¬ 
herds  came, 

Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles 
rent ; 

The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 

Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is 
bent, 

An  early  but  enduring  monument, 

Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his 
song 

In  sorrow ;  from  her  wilds  Ierne  sent 

The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 

And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music 
from  his  tongue. 

’Midst  others  of  less  note  came  one  frail 
Form, 

A  phantom  among  men  ;  companionless 

As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm, 

Whose  thunder  is  its  knell :  he  as  I 
guess, 

Had  gazed  on  Nature’s  naked  loveliness. 


25S 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Actseon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 

With  feeble  steps  o’er  the  world’s  wil¬ 
derness, 

And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged 
way, 

Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father 
and  their  prey. 

A  pard-like  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 

A  Love  in  desolation  mask’d ; — a  power 

Girt  round  with  weakness ; — it  can  scarce 
uplift 

The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour ; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 

A  breaking  billow  ; — even  whilst  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken?  On  the  withering 
flower 

The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly :  on  a 
cheek 

The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the 
heart  may  break. 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  over¬ 
blown, 

And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and 
blue ; 

And  a  light  spear  topp’d  with  a  cypress 
cone, 

Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy-tresses 
grew, 

Yet  dripping  with  the  forest’s  noonday 
dew, 

Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 

Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasp’d  it ;  of 
that  crew 

He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 

A  herd-abandon’d  deer,  struck  by  the 
hunter’s  dart. 

A71  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears ;  well  knew 
that  gentle  band 

Who  in  another’s  fate  now  wept  his  own ; 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land 
He  sang  new  sorrow;  sad  Urania  scann’d 

The  Stranger’s  mien,  and  murmur’d : 
“  Who  art  thou?” 

He  answer’d  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 

Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined 
brow, 

Which  was  like  Cain’s  or  Christ’s. — Oh ! 
that  it  should  be  so  ! 


What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle 
thrown? 

What  form  leans  sadly  o’er  the  white 
deathbed, 

In  mockery  of  monumental  stone, 

The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a 
moan  ? 

If  it  be  he,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honor’d  the  de¬ 
parted  one ; 

Let  me  not  vex,  with  inharmonious  sighs, 

The  silence  of  that  heart’s  accepted  sac¬ 
rifice. 


Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh ! 

What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could 
crown 

Life’s  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of 
woe? 

The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself 
disown : 

It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and 
wrong, 

But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast 
alone, 

Silent  with  the  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose  master’s  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver 
lyre  unstrung. 


Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame  ! 

Live  !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from 
me, 

Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remember’d 
name ! 

But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be ! 

And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o’er- 
flow :  4 

Remorse  and  self-contempt  shall  cling  to 
thee ; 

Hot  shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou 
slialt — as  now. 


Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion-kites  that  scream 
below ; 

He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring 
dead : 

Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting 
now. 


i 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


259 


Dust  to  the  dust!  but  the  pure  spirit  shall 
flow 

Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it 
came, 

A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 

Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably 
the  same, 

Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid 
hearth  of  shame. 

Peace,  peace !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not 
sleep — 

He  hath  awaken’d  from  the  dream  of 
life — 

’Tis  we,  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 

With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 

And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our 
spirit’s  knife 

Invulnerable  nothings. —  We  decay 

Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 

Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 

And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  with¬ 
in  our  living  clay. 

He  has  outsoar’d  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 

Envy  and  calumny,  and  hate  and  pain, 

And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 

Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again  ; 

From  the  contagion  of  the  world’s  slow 
stain 

He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 

A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray 
in  vain ; 

Nor,  when  the  spirit’s  self  has  ceased  to 
burn, 

With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented 
urn. 

He  lives,  he  wakes — ’tis  Death  is  dead,  not 
he ; 

Mourn  not  for  Adonais — Thou  young 
Dawn, 

Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,  for  from 
thee 

The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone  ; 

Ye  caverns  and  ve  forests,  cease  to  moan  ! 

Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and 
thou  Air, 

Which  like  a  morning  veil  thy  scarf 
hadst  thrown 

O’er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 

Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on 
its  despair ! 


He  is  made  one  with  Nature :  there  is 
heard 

His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the 
moan 

Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night’s  sweet 
bird ; 

He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 

In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and 
stone, 

Spreading  itself  where’er  that  Power  may 
move 

Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its 
own  ; 

Which  wields  the  world  with  never- 
wearied  love, 

Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it 
above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 

Which  once  he  made  more  lovely :  he 
doth  bear 

His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit’s  plastic 
stress 

Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world, 
compelling  there 

All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear 

Torturing  th’  unwilling  dross  that  checks 
its  flight 

To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  mav 
bear ; 

And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 

From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the 
Heavens’  light. 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 

May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguish’d 
not : 

Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they 
climb, 

And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot 
blot 

The  brightness  it  may  veil.  When  lofty 
thought 

Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 

And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 

Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live 
there, 

And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark 
and  stormy  air. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfill’d  renown 

Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond 
mortal  thought, 


260 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Far  in  the  unapparent.  Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him;  Sidney,  as  he 
fought, 

And  as  he  fell,  and  as  he  lived  and 
loved, 

Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 

Arose;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  ap¬ 
proved  : 

Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing 
reproved. 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  earth 
are  dark, 

But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot 
die 

So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 

“  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us/’  they 
cry; 

“  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has 
long 

Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 

Silent  alone  amid  a  heaven  of  song. 

Assumed  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper 
of  our  throng  !” 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais?  oh  come  forth, 
Fond  wretch !  and  know  thyself  and 
him  aright. 

Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous 
Earth  ; 

As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit’s  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious 
might 

Satiate  the  void  circumference ;  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and 
night ; 

And  keep  thy  heart  light,  lest  it  make  thee 
sink 

When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured 
thee  to  the  brink. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 

Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy:  ’tis 
naught 

That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have 
wrought ; 

For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 

Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their 
prey  ; 

And  he  is  gather’d  to  the  kings  of  thought 


Who  waged  contention  with  their  time’s 
decay, 

And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass 
away. 

Go  thou  to  Rome — at  once  the  paradise, 

The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness  : 

And  where  its  wrecks  like  shatter’d  moun¬ 
tains  rise, 

And  flowering  weeds  and  fragrant  copses 
dress 

The  bones  of  Desolation’s  nakedness, 

Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 

Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access, 

Where,  like  an  infant’s  smile,  over  the  dead 

A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass 
is  spread, 

And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which 
dull  Time 

Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand ; 

And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sub¬ 
lime, 

Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  plann’d 

This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 

Like  flame  transform’d  to  marble :  and 
beneath 

A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 

Have  pitch’d  in  Heaven’s  smile  their  camp 
of  death, 

Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  ex¬ 
tinguish’d  breath. 

Here  pause  :  these  graves  are  all  too  young 
as  yet 

To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  con¬ 
sign’d 

Its  charge  to  each ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 

Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning 
mind, 

Break  it  not  thou  !  too  surely  shalt  thou 
find 

Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest 
home, 

Of  tears  and  gall.  From  the  world’s 
bitter  wind 

Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 

What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become? 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and 
pass : 

Heaven’s  light  for  ever  shines,  Earth’s 
shadows  fly  ; 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


201 


Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-color  d  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — 
Die, 

If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou 
dost  seek  ! 

Follow  where  all  is  fled  ! — Rome’s  azure 
sky, 

Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words  are 
weak 

The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth 
to  speak. 


Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling 
throng 

Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest 
given, 

The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are 
riven ! 

I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully  afar ; 

Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil 
of  Heaven, 

The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 

Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  eternal 
are. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink, 
my  Heart? 

Thy  hopes  are  gone  before :  from  all 
things  here 

They  have  departed ;  thou  shouldst  now 
depart ! 

A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year, 

And  man,  and  woman ;  and  what  still  is 
dear 

Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee 
wither. 

The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind 
whispers  near : 

’Tis  Adonais  calls  !  oh,  hasten  thither, 

No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can 
join  together. 

That  light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Uni¬ 
verse, 

That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work 
and  move, 

That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing 
Curse 

Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustain¬ 
ing  Love 

Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly 
wove 

By  man  and  beast,  and  earth,  and  air,  and 
sea, 

Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors 
of 

The  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams 
on  me, 

Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mor¬ 
tality. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in 
song 

Descends  on  me ;  my  spirit’s  bark  is 
driven 


Stanzas  written  in  Dejection 
near  Naples. 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon’s  transparent  light: 

The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds ; 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean-floods, 

The  City’s  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Soli¬ 
tude’s. 

I  see  the  Deep’s  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers 
thrown  : 

I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 

The  lightning  of  the  noon-tide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 

How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in 
my  emotion. 

Alas!  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 

Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 

And  walk’d  with  inward  glory  crown’d — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure  ; 

Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure; 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another 
measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are; 


262 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear, 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o’er  my  dying  brain  its  last  mo¬ 
notony. 

Borne  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 
Insults  with  this  untimely  moan; 

They  might  lament — for  I  am  one 
Whom  men  love  not, — and  yet  regret, 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 

Will  linger,  though  enjoy’d,  like  joy  in 
memory  yet. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 
- •<>• - 

Randolph  of  Roanoke. 

O  Mother  Earth  !  upon  thy  lap 
Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 

And  o’er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 

Fold  softlv  in  thy  long  embrace 
That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 

And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 
Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 
And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning ; 

Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 
Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 

Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 
Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 

And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 
Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 
lie  heard  Potomac’s  flowing, 

And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 
Saw  autumn’s  sunset  glowing, 

He  sleeps, — still  looking  to  the  west, 
Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 

As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 
Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune ! — in  himself 
All  moods  of  mind  contrasting:, — 

The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn-like  lightning  blasting; 


The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 
Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 

The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 
Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 
From  lips  of  lifelong  sadness; 

Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 
Upon  a  ground  of  madness; 

And  over  all  romance  and  song 
A  classic  beauty  throwing, 

And  laurell’d  Clio  at  his  side 
Her  storied  j>ages  showing. 

All  parties  fear’d  him  :  each  in  turn 
Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 

As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 
And  spectral  finger  pointed. 

Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 
With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 

And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 
The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 
A  love  he  never  cherish’d, 

Beyond  Virginia’s  border-line 
His  patriotism  perish’d. 

While  others  hail’d  in  distant  skie9 
Our  eagle’s  dusky  pinion, 

Pie  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 
Stoop  o’er  his  Old  Dominion ! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune 
strange, 

Pack’d  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 

His  loving  faith  in  motherland 
Knew  never  shade  of  turning; 

By  Britain’s  lakes,  by  Neva’s  wave, 
Whatever  sky  was  o’er  him, 

He  heard  her  rivers’  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 
No  false  and  vain  pretences, 

Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 
For  scriptural  defences. 

His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 

Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 
That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves :  yet  kept  the  while 
His  reverence  for  the  human : 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


263 


In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 
He  saw  but  man  and  woman  ! 

No  hunter  of  God’s  outraged  poor 
His  Roanoke  valley  enter’d; 

No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 
Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

• 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 
Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 

And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 

His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  freedom’s  duty  giving, 

With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 
The  dying  blest  the  living. 

Oh,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 
A  truer  son  or  braver  ! 

None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 
On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 

He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stoop’d 
His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 
Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 
The  plague-spot  o’er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 
Along  her  future  treading. 

For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 

He  traced  with  dying  hand  “Remorse!” 
And  perish’d  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 
From  Vernon’s  weeping  willow, 

And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 
The  sage  of  Monticello, 

So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 
Of  Randolph’s  lowly  dwelling, 

Virginia !  o’er  thy  land  of  slaves 
A  warning  voice  is  swelling  ! 

And  hark  !  from  thy  deserted  fields 
Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 

From  quench’d  hearths,  where  thy  exiled 
sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 

The  curse  is  on  thee, — wolves  for  men, 
And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving ! 

Oh  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 
Were  now  one  hero  living! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


The  Lost  Leader. 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us  ; 

Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his  coat — 

Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft 
us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote. 

They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him 
out  silver, 

So  much  was  their’s  who  so  little  allow’d. 

How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  ser¬ 
vice  ! 

Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had 
been  proud  ! 

We  that  had  loved  him  so,  follow’d  him, 
honor’d  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 

Learn’d  his  great  language,  caught  his 
clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to 
die ! 

Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for 
us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us — they  watch 
from  their  graves  ! 

He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the 
freemen  ; 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the 
slaves ! 

We  shall  march  prospering — not  through 
his  presence ; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us — not  from  his 
lyre ; 

Deeds  will  be  done — while  he  boasts  his 
quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade 
aspire. 

Blot  out  his  name,  then — record  one  lost 
soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  foot¬ 
path  untrod, 

One  more  triumph  for  devils,  and  sorrow 
for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult 
to  God ! 

Life’s  night  begins :  let  him  never  come 
back  to  us ! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and 
>  pain, 

Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer 
of  twilight, 

Never  glad,  confident  morning  again  ! 


264 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him — 
strike  gallantly, 

Aim  at  our  heart  ere  we  pierce  through 
his  own  ; 

Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge 
and  wait  us, 

Pardon’d  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the 
throne ! 

Robert  Browning. 

- »o«  ■■  ■  - 

Charade. 

Camp-Bell. 

Come  from  my  first,  ay,  come ! 

The  battle-dawn  is  nigh  ; 

And  the  screaming  trump  and  the  thunder¬ 
ing  drum 

Are  calling  thee  to  die  ! 

Fight  as  thy  father  fought  ; 

Fall  as  thy  father  fell ; 

Thy  task  is  taught ;  thy  shroud  is 
wrought ; 

So  forward  and  farewell ! 

Toll  ye  my  second  !  toll ! 

Fling  high  the  flambeau’s  light, 

And  sing  the  hymn  for  a  parted  soul 
Beneath  the  silent  night ! 

The  helm  upon  his  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast  ; 

Let  the  prayer  be  said  and  the  tear  be 
shed ; 

Now  take  him  to  his  rest ! 

Call  ye  my  whole, — go,  call 
The  lord  of  lute  and  lay  ; 

And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 
With  a  noble  song  to-day. 

Ay,  call  him  by  his  name ; 

No  fitter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  flame  of  a  soldier’s  fame 
On  the  turf  of  a  soldier’s  grave  ! 

WlNTHROP  MaCKWORTH  PRAED. 
- •<>♦ - 

Dryburgh  Abbey. 

And  Scott — that  Ocean  ’mid  the  stream  of  men  ! 
That  Alp,  amidst  all  mental  greatness  reared  ! — 

’Twas  morn — but  not  the  ray  which  falls 
the  summer  boughs  among, 

When  Beauty  walks  in  gladness  forth,  with 
all  her  light  and  song  ; 


’Twas  morn — but  mist  and  cloud  hung 
deep  upon  the  lonely  vale, 

And  shadows,  like  the  wings  of  death, 
■were  out  upon  the  gale. 

For  He  whose  spirit  woke  the  dust  of 
nations  into  life — 

That  o’er  the  waste  and  barren  earth  spread 
flowers  and  fruitage  rife — 

Whose  genius,  like  the  sun,  illumed  the 
mighty  realms  of  mind— 

Had  fled  for  ever  from  the  fame,  love, 
friendship  of  mankind  ! 

To  wear  a  wreath  in  glory  wrought  his 
spirit  swept  afar, 

Beyond  the  soaring  Aving  of  thought,  the 
light  of  moon  or  star  ; 

To  drink  immortal  waters,  free  from  every 
taint  of  earth — 

To  breathe  before  the  shrine  of  life,  the 
source  whence  Avorlds  had  birth  ! 

There  was  wailing  on  the  early  breeze,  and 
darkness  in  the  sky, 

When  with  sable  plume,  and  cloak,  and 
pall,  a  funeral  train  swept  by  ; 

Methought — St.  Mary  shield  us  Avell ! — 
that  other  forms  moved  there 

Than  those  of  mortal  brotherhood,  the 
noble,  young,  and  fair  ! 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  hoAV  oft,  in  sleep,  Ave  ask, 
“  Can  this  be  true  ?” 

Whilst  Avarm  Imagination  paints  her  mar¬ 
vels  to  our  vieAV  ; — 

Earth’s  glory  seems  a  tarnish’d  croAvn  to 
that  which  Ave  behold, 

When  dreams  enchant  our  sight  with 
things  whose  meanest  garb  is  gold  ! 

Was  it  a  dream  ? — Methought  the  daunt¬ 
less  Harold  pass’d  me  by — 

The  proud  Fitz-James,  Avith  martial  step, 
and  dark  intrepid  eye; 

That  Marmion’s  haughty  crest  was  there, 
a  mourner  for  his  sake  ; 

And  she, — the  bold,  the  beautiful !— SAveet 
Lady  of  the  Lake. 

The  Minstrel  Avhose  last  lay  was  o’er,  whose 
broken  harp  lay  low, 

And  Avith  him  glorious  Waverley,  Avith 
glance  and  step  of  Avoe  ; 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


265 


And  Stuart’s  voice  rose  there,  as  when, 
’mid  fate’s  disastrous  war, 

He  led  the  wild,  ambitious,  proud,  and 
brave  Vich  Ian  Vohr. 

Next,  marvelling  at  his  sable  suit,  the 
Dominie  stalk’d  past, 

With  Bertram,  Julia  by  his  side,  whose 
tears  were  flowing  fast ; 

Guy  Mannering,  too,  moved  there,  o’er- 
power’d  by  that  afflicting  sight ; 

And  Merrilies,  as  when  she  wept  on 
Ellangowan’s  height. 

Solemn  and  grave,  Monkbarns  appear’d, 
amidst  that  burial  line  ; 

And  Ochiltree  leant  o’er  his  staff,  and 
mourn’d  for  “  Auld  lang  syne  !” 

Slow  march’d  the  gallant  McIntyre,  whilst 
Lovel  mused  alone ; 

For  once,  Miss  Wardour’s  image  left  that 
bosom’s  faithful  throne. 

With  coronach,  and  arms  reversed,  forth 
came  MacGregor’s  clan — 

Red  Dougal’s  cry  peal’d  shrill  and  wild — 
Rob  Roy’s  bold  brow  look’d  wan: 

The  fair  Diana  kiss’d  her  cross,  and  bless’d 
its  sainted  ray  ; 

And  “Wae  is  me!”  the  Baillie  sigh’d, 
“  that  I  should  see  this  day  !” 

Next  rode,  in  melancholy  guise,  with  som¬ 
bre  vest  and  scarf, 

Sir  Edward,  Laird  of  Ellieslaw,  the  far-re- 
nown’d  Black  Dwarf ; 

Upon  his  left,  in  bonnet  blue,  and  white 
locks  flowing  free — 

The  pious  sculptor  of  the  grave — stood 
Old  Mortality  ! 

Balfour  of  Burley,  Claverhouse,  the  Lord 
of  Evandale, 

And  stately  Lady  Margaret,  whose  woe 
might  naught  avail ! 

Fierce  Bothwell  on  his  charger  black,  as 
from  the  conflict  won  ; 

And  pale  Habakkuk  Mucklewrath,  who 
cried  “  God’s  will  be  done  !” 

And  like  a  rose,  a  young  white  rose,  that 
blooms  ’mid  wildest  scenes, 

Pass’d  she, — the  modest,  eloquent,  and 
virtuous  Jeanie  Deans ; 


And  Dumbiedikes,  that  silent  laird,  with 
love  too  deep  to  smile, 

And  Effie,  with  her  noble  friend,  the  good 
Duke  of  Argyle. 

With  lofty  brow,  and  bearing  high,  dark 
Ravenswood  advanced, 

Who  on  the  false  Lord  Keeper’s  mien  with 
eye  indignant  glanced  : — 

Whilst  graceful  as  a  lonely  fawn,  ’neath 
covert  close  and  sure, 

Approach’d  the  beauty  of  all  hearts — the 
Bride  of  Lammermoor ! 

Then  Annot  Lyle,  the  fairy  queen  of  light 
and  song,  stepp’d  near, 

The  Knight  of  Ardenvohr,  and  he,  the 
gifted  Hieland  Seer ; 

Dalgetty,  Duncan,  Lord  Menteith,  and  Ran¬ 
ald  met  my  view  ; 

The  hapless  Children  of  the  Mist,  and  bold 

Mliichconnel  Dhu ! 

• 

On  swept  Bois-Guilbert — Front  de  Boeuf 
— De  Bracy’s  plume  of  woe  ; 

And  Coeur  de  Lion’s  crest  shone  near  the 
valiant  Ivanhoe  ; 

While  soft  as  glides  a  summer  cloud 
Rowena  closer  drew, 

With  beautiful  Rebecca,  peerless  daughter 
of  the  Jew ! 

I  saw  the  courtly  Euphuist,  with  Halbert 
of  the  Dell, 

And,  like  a  ray  of  moonlight,  pass’d  the 
White  Maid  of  Avenel ; 

Lord  Morton,  Douglas,  Bolton,  and  the 
Royal  Earl  march’d  there, 

To  the  slow  and  solemn  funeral  chant  of 
the  monks  of  Kennaquhair. 

And  she,  on  whose  imperial  brow  a  god 
had  set  his  seal, 

The  glory  of  whose  loveliness  grief  might 
not  all  conceal ; 

The  loved  in  high  and  princely  halls,  in 
lone  and  lowly  cots, 

Stood  Mary,  the  illustrious,  yet  helpless 
Queen  of  Scots. 

The  firm,  devoted  Catherine,  the  senti¬ 
mental  Graeme, 

Lochleven,  whose  worn  brow  reveal’d  an 
early-blighted  name. 


266 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  enthusiastic  Magdalen,  the  pilgrim  of 
that  shrine, 

Whose  spirit  triumphs  o’er  the  tomb  and 
makes  its  dust  divine. 


Oh,  mourn  not,  pious  Cargill  cried ;  should 
his  death  woe  impart, 

Whose  cenotaph’s  the  universe,  whose 
elegy’s  the  heart ! 


With  Leicester,  Lord  of  Kenilworth,  in 
mournful  robes,  was  seen 

The  gifted,  great  Elizabeth,  high  Eng¬ 
land’s  matchless  queen. 

Tressilian’s  wild  and  manly  glance,  and 
Varney’s  darker  gaze, 

Sought  Amy  Robsart’s  brilliant  form,  too 
fair  for  earthly  praise. 

Next  Norna  of  the  Fitful-head,  the  wild 
Reim-kennar,  came, 

But  shiver’d  lay  her  magic  wand,  and  dim 
her  eye  of  flame  ; 

Young  Minna  Troil  the  lofty-soul’d,  whom 
Cleveland’s  loAre  betray’d, 

The  generous  old  Udaller,  and  Mordaunt’s 
sweet  island  maid. 


Forth  bore  the  noble  Fairford  his  fascina¬ 
ting  bride, 

The  lovely  Lilias,  with  the  brave  Red- 
gauntlet  by  her  side ; 

Black  Campbell,  and  the  bold  redoubted 
Maxwell  met  my  view, 

And  Wandering  Willie’s  solemn  wreath 
of  dark  funereal  yew. 

As  foes  who  meet  upon  some  wild,  some 
far  and  foreign  shore, 

Wreck’d  by  the  same  tempestuous  surge, 
recall  past  feuds  no  more, 

Thus  prince  and  peasant,  peer  and  slave, 
thus  friend  and  foe  combine, 

To  pour  the  homage  of  their  heart  upon 
one  common  shrine. 


Slow  follow’d  Lord  Glenvarloch,  first  of 
Scotia’s  gallant  names, 

With  the  fair,  romantic  Margaret,  and  the 
erudite  King  James ; 

The  woo’d  and  wrong’d  Hermione,  whose 
lord  all  hearts  despise, 

Sarcastic  Malagrowther,  and  the  faithful 
Moniplies. 

Then  stout  Sir  Geoffrey  of  the  Peak,  and 
Peveril  swept  near ; 

Stern  Bridgenorth,  and  the  fiery  Duke, 
with  knight  and  cavalier  ; 

The  fairest  of  fantastic  elves,  Fenella, 
glided  on, 

And  Alice,  from  whose  beauteous  lip  the 
light  of  joy  was  gone. 

And  Quentin’s  haughty  helm  flash’d  there; 
Le  Balafre’s  stout  lance ; 

Orleans,  Crevecceur,  the  brave  Dunois,  the 
noblest  knight  of  France; 

The  wild  Hayraddin,  follow’d  by  the  silent 
Jean  de  Troyes, 

The  mournful  Lady  Hameline,  and  Isa¬ 
belle  de  Croyes. 

Pale  sorrow  mark’d  young  Tyrrell’s  mien, 
grief  dimm’d  sweet  Clara’s  eye, 

And  Ronan’s  laird  breathed  many  a  prayer 
for  days  and  friends  gone  by ; 


There  Lacey,  famed  Cadwallon,  and  the 
fierce  Gwenwyn  march’d  on, 

Whilst  horn  and  halbert,  pike  and  bow, 
dart,  glaive,  and  javelin  shone ; 

Sir  Damian  and  the  elegant  young  Eveline 
pass’d  there, 

Stout  Wilkin,  and  the  hopeless  Rose,  with 
wild,  dishevell’d  hair. 

Around,  in  solemn  grandeur,  swept  the 
banners  of  the  brave, 

And  deep  and  far  the  clarions  waked  the 
wild  dirge  of  the  glave ; 

On  came  the  Champion  of  the  Cross,  and 
near  him,  like  a  star, 

The  regal  Berengaria,  beauteous  daughter 
of  Navarre; 

The  high,  heroic  Saladin,  with  proud  and 
haughty  mien, 

The  rich  and  gorgeous  Saracen,  and  the 
fierv  Nazarene ; 

There  Edith  and  her  Nubian  slave  breathed 
many  a  thought  divine, 

Whilst  rank  on  rank — a  glorious  train — 
rode  the  Knights  of  Palestine. 

Straight  follow’d  Zerubbabel  and  Joliffe 
of  the  Tower, 

Young  Wildrake,  Markham,  Hazeldine, 
and  the  forest  nymph  Mayflower ; 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


267 


The  democratic  Cromwell,  stern,  resolute, 
and  free, 

The  knight  of  Woodstock  and  the  light 
and  lovely  Alice  Lee. 

And  there  the  crafty  Proudfute  for  once 
true  sorrow  felt ; 

Craigdallie,  Chartres,  and  the  recreant 
Conachar  the  Celt, 

And  he  whose  chivalry  had  graced  a  more 
exalted  birth, 

The  noble-minded  Henry,  and  the  famed 
Fair  Maid  of  Perth. 

The  intrepid  Anne  of  Geierstein,  the  false 
Lorraine  stepp’d  near ; 

Proud  Margaret  of  Anjou,  and  the  faith¬ 
ful,  brave  De  Yere ; 

There  Arnold,  and  the  King  Ren6,  and 
Charles  the  Bold  had  met 

The  dauntless  Donnerkugel  and  the  grace¬ 
ful  voung  Lizette. 

Forth  rode  the  glorious  Godfrey,  by  the 
gallant  Hugh  the  Great, 

While  wept  the  brave  and  beautiful  their 
noble  minstrel’s  fate ; 

Then  Hereward  the  Varangian,  with 
Bertha  at  his  side, 

The  valorous  Count  of  Paris  and  his  Ama¬ 
zonian  bride. 

At  last,  amidst  that  princely  train,  waved 
high  De  Walton’s  plume, 

Near  fair  Augusta’s  laurel-wreath,  which 
Time  shall  ne’er  consume, 

And  Anthony,  with  quiver  void,  his  last 
fleet  arrow  sped, 

Leant,  mourning  o’er  his  broken  bow,  and 
mused  upon  the  dead. 

Still  onward  like  the  gathering  night  ad¬ 
vanced  that  funeral  train — 

Like  billows  when  the  tempest  sweeps 
across  the  shadowy  main  : 

Where’er  the  eager  gaze  might  reach,  in 
noble  ranks  were  seen 

Dark  plume,  and  glittering  mail  and  crest, 
and  woman’s  beauteous  mien  ! 

A  sound  thrill’d  through  that  lengthening 
host !  methought  the  vault  was 
closed, 

Where,  in  his  glory  and  renown,  fair 
Scotia’s  bard  reposed  ! 


A  sound  thrill’d  through  that  length’ning 
host !  and  forth  my  vision  fled  ! 

But,  ah  !  that  mournful  dream  proved  true, 
— the  immortal  Scott  was  dead  ! 

The  vision  and  the  voice  are  o’er !  their 
influence  waned  away, 

Like  music  o’er  a  summer  lake  at  the  gold¬ 
en  close  of  day  : 

The  vision  and  the  voice  are  o’er ! — but 
when  will  be  forgot 

The  buried  Genius  of  Romance — the  im¬ 
perishable  Scott  ? 

Charles  Swain. 

- •<>♦  - 

ICHABOD. 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 
Which  once  he  wore  ! 

The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 
For  evermore ! 

Revile  him  not — the  tempter  hath 
A  snare  for  all ; 

And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 
Befit  his  fall ! 

Oh  !  dumb  be  passion’s  stormy  rage, 
When  he  who  might 

Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn  !  Would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 
A  bright  soul  driven, 

Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 
From  hope  and  Heaven  ? 

Let  not  the  land,  once  proud  of  him, 
Insult  him  now  ; 

Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 
Dishonor’d  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 

A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honor’d,  naught 
Save  power  remains — 

A  fallen  angel’s  pride  of  thought, 

|  Still  strong  in  chains. 


268 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


All  else  is  gone  ;  from  those  great  eyes 
The  soul  has  fled  : 

When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 
The  man  is  dead  ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 
To  his  dead  fame  ; 

Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 
And  hide  the  shame  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Napoleon. 

The  mighty  sun  had  just  gone  down 
Into  the  chambers  of  the  deep, 

The  ocean  birds  had  upward  flown, 

Each  in  his  cave  to  sleep, 

And  silent  was  the  island  shore, 

And  breathless  all  the  broad  red  sea, 
And  motionless  beside  the  door 
Our  solitary  tree. 

Our  only  tree,  our  ancient  palm, 

Whose  shadow  sleeps  our  door  beside, 
Partook  the  universal  calm 
When  Buonaparte  died. 

An  ancient  man,  a  stately  man, 

Came  forth  beneath  the  spreading  tree ; 
His  silent  thoughts  I  could  not  scan, 

His  tears  I  needs  must  see. 

A  trembling  hand  had  partly  cover’d 
The  old  man’s  weeping  countenance, 

Yet  something  o’er  his  sorrow  hover’d, 
That  spake  of  war  and  France ; 
Something  that  spake  of  other  days, 

When  trumpets  pierced  the  kindling  air, 
And  the  keen  eye  could  firmly  gaze 
Through  battle’s  crimson  glare. 

Said  I,  “  Perchance  this  faded  hand, 

When  life  beat  high  and  hope  was 
young, 

By  Lodi’s  wave,  or  Syria’s  sand, 

The  bolt  of  death  had  flung. 

Young  Buonaparte’s  battle-cry 

Perchance  hath  kindled  this  old  cheek ; 
It  is  no  shame  that  he  should  sigh — 

His  heart  is  like  to  break ! 

He  hath  been  with  him  voung  and  old. 

He  climb’d  with  him  the  Alpine  snow, 
He  heard  the  cannon  when  they  roll’d 
Along  the  river  Po. 

His  soul  was  as  a  sword,  to  leap 
At  his  accustom’d  leader’s  word  ; 


I  love  to  see  the  old  man  weep — 

He  knew  no  other  lord. 

As  if  it  were  but  yesternight, 

This  man  remembers  dark  Eylau; 

His  dreams  are  of  the  eagle’s  flight 
Victorious  long  ago. 

The  memories  of  worser  time 
Are  all  as  shadows  unto  him ; 

Fresh  stands  the  picture  of  his  prime — 
The  later  trace  is  dim.” 

I  enter’d,  and  I  saw  him  lie 
Within  the  chamber  all  alone  ; 

I  drew  near  very  solemnly 
To  dead  Napoleon. 

He  was  not  shrouded  in  a  shroud, 

He  lay  not  like  the  vulgar  dead, 

Yet  all  of  haughty,  stern,  and  proud, 

From  his  pale  brow  was  fled. 

He  had  put  harness  on  to  die ; 

The  eagle  star  shone  on  his  breast, 

His  sword  lay  bare  his  pillow  nigh, 

The  sword  he  liked  the  best. 

But  calm,  most  calm,  was  all  his  face, 

A  solemn  smile  was  on  his  lips, 

His  eyes  were  closed  in  pensive  grace, — 

A  most  serene  eclipse ! 

Ye  would  have  said  some  sainted  sprite 
Had  left  its  passionless  abode, — 

Some  man,  whose  prayer  at  morn  and 
night 

JPad  duly  risen  to  God. 

What  thoughts  had  calm’d  his  dying 
breast 

(For  calm  he  died)  cannot  be  known  ; 
Nor  would  I  wound  a  warrior’s  rest, — 
Farewell,  Napoleon! 

John  Gibson  Lockhart- 

-  •<>« - 

The  Return  of  Napoleon  fro31 
St.  Helena. 

Ho !  city  of  the  gay ! 

Paris  !  what  festal  rite 
Doth  call  thy  thronging  million  forth, 
All  eager  for  the  sight  ? 

Thy  soldiers  line  the  streets 
In  fix’d  and  stern  array, 

With  buckled  helm  and  bayonet, 

As  on  the  battle-dav. 

By  square,  and  fountain  side, 

Heads  in  dense  masses  rise, 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


269 


And  tower  and  battlement  and  tree 
Are  studded  thick  with  eyes. 

Comes  there  some  conqueror  home 
In  triumph  from  the  fight, 

With  spoil  and  captives  in  his  train, 

The  trophies  of  his  might? 

The  “  Arc  de  Triomphe  ”  glows  ! 

A  martial  host  are  nigh, 

France  pours  in  long  succession  forth 
Her  pomp  of  chivalry. 

No  clarion  marks  their  way, 

No  victor  trump  is  blown  ; 

Why  march  they  on  so  silently, 

Told  by  their  tread  alone  ? 

Behold !  in  glittering  show, 

A  gorgeous  .car  of  state  ! 

The  white-plumed  steeds,  in  cloth  of  gold, 
Bow  down  beneath  its  weight ; 

And  the  noble  war-horse,  led 
Caparison’d  along, 

Seems  fiercely  for  his  lord  to  ask, 

As  his  red  eye  scans  the  throng. 

Who  rideth  on  yon  car? 

The  incense  flameth  high, — 

Comes  there  some  demigod  of  old  ? 

No  answer ! — No  reply  ! 

Who  rideth  on  yon  car? — 

No  shout  his  minions  raise, 

But  by  a  lofty  chapel  dome 
The  muffled  hero  stays. 

A  king  is  standing  there, 

And  with  uncover’d  head 
Receives  him  in  the  name  of  France: 

Receiveth  whom? — The  dead ! 

Was  he  not  buried  deep 
In  island-cavern  drear ; 

Girt  by  the  sounding  ocean  surge? 

How  came  that  sleeper  here  ? 

Was  there  no  rest  for  him 
Beneath  a  peaceful  pall, 

That  thus  he  brake  his  stony  tomb, 

Ere  the  strong  angel’s  call  ? 

Hark !  hark  !  the  requiem  swells, 

A  deep,  soul-thrilling  strain  ! 

An  echo,  never  to  be  heard 
By  mortal  ear  again. 

A  requiem  for  the  chief, 

Whose  fiat  millions  slew. 


The  soaring  eagle  of  the  Alps, 

The  crush’d  at  Waterloo  : — 

The  banish’d  who  return’d, 

The  dead  who  rose  again, 

And  rode  in  his  shroud  the  billows  proud 
To  the  sunny  banks  of  Seine. 

They  laid  him  there  in  state, 

That  warrior  strong  and  bold, 

The  imperial  crown,  with  jewels  bright, 
Upon  his  ashes  cold, 

While  round  those  columns  proud 
The  blazon’d  banners  wave, 

That  on  a  hundred  fields  he  won, 

With  the  heart’s  blood  of  the  brave ; 

And  sternly  there  kept  guard 
His  veterans  scarr’d  and  old, 

Whose  wounds  of  Lodi’s  cleaving  bridge 
Or  purple  Leipsic  told. 

Yes,  there,  with  arms  reversed, 

Slow  pacing,  night  and  day, 

Close  watch  beside  the  coffin  kept 
Those  veterans  grim  and  gray. 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 

Or  memory  of  the  fearful  strife 

Where  their  country’s  legions  fled  ? 

Of  Borodino’s  blood  ? 

Of  Beresina’s  Avail  ? 

The  horrors  of  that  dire  retreat, 

Which  turn’d  old  History  pale  ? 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 

Or  a  shuddering  at  the  wintry  shaft 
By  Russian  tempests  sped  ? 

Where  countless  mounds  of  snow 
Mark’d  the  poor  conscripts’  grave, 

And,  pierced  by  frost  and  famine,  sank 
The  bravest  of  the  brave. 

A  thousand  trembling  lamps 
The  gather’d  darkness  mock, 

And  velvet  drapes  his  hearse,  who  died 
On  bare  Helena’s  rock  ; 

And  from  the  altar  near 
A  never-ceasing  hymn 
Is  lifted  by  the  chanting  priests 
Beside  the  taper  dim. 

Mysterious  one,  and  proud  ! 

In  the  land  where  shadoAVs  reign, 


270 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Hast  thou  met  the  flocking  ghosts  of  those 
Who  at  thy  nod  were  slain  ? 

Oh,  when  the  cry  of  that  spectral  host 
Like  a  rushing  blast  shall  be, 

What  will  thine  answer  be  to  them  ? 

And  what  thy  God’s  to  thee  ? 

Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney. 

- - 

Ode  on  tiie  Death  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington. 

i. 

Bury  the  Great  Duke 
With  an  empire’s  lamentation, 

Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty 
nation, 

Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 

Warriors  carry  the  warrior’s  pall, 

And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

ii. 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we 
deplore  ? 

Here,  in  streaming  London’s  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 

And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 

Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 

in. 

Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long,  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it 
grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow. 

) 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV. 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the 
past. 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 

O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  dead : 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood,  j 
The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute,  ! 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 


Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men 
drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

Oh  fall’n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds 
that  blew  ! 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o’er. 

The  great  World- victor’s  victor  will  be 
seen  no  more. 

v. 

All  is  over  and  done : 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 
That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 
Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d : 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 
The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  his  blazon’d  deeds, 
Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d  : 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be 
knoll’d  ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem 
roll’d 

Through  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross  ; 
And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his 

loss ; 

Lie  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 
His  captain’s  ear  has  heard  them  boom 
Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  : 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 
Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame ; 
With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain 
taught 

The  tvrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


271 


In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A  man  of  well-attemper’d  frame. 

0  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 

And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 

VI. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor’d 
guest, 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier 
and  with  priest, 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on 
my  rest? 

Mighty  seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous 
man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  be¬ 
gan. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea : 

His  foes  were  thine ;  he  kept  us  free ; 

Oh  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he, 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee ; 

For  this  is  England’s  greatest  son, 

He  that  gain’d  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun ; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 
Clash’d  with  his  fierv  few  and  won  : 

«/  7 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Pound  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 
The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 
Of  his  labor’d  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 
Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o’er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 
Past  the  Pyrenean  pines ; 

Follow’d  up  in  valley  and  glen 
With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 


And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
In  anger,  wheel’d  on  Europe-shadowing 
wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings  ; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty’s  iron  crown 
On  that  loud  Sabbath  shook  the  spoiler 
down  ; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair ! 

Dash’d  on  every  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foam’d  themselves 
away ; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew  ; 

Through  the  long  tormented  air 
Heaven  flash’d  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 

And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  over¬ 
threw. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo! 
Mighty  seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 
O  savior  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 
Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by 
thine! 

And  through  the  centuries  let  a  people’s 
voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people’s  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A  people’s  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

Attest  their  great  commander’s  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

VII. 

A  people’s  voice !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Though  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams 
forget, 

Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless 
powers  ; 

Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly 

set 

His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming 
showers, 

W e  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 


272 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept 
it  ours. 

And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  con¬ 
trol  ; 

0  statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the 
soul 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom 
sown 

Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne, 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there 
springs 

Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings ; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of 
mind, 

Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns 
be  just. 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  ; 

He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward 
wall ; 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever;  and  whatever  tempests  lower 
For  ever  silent;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who 
spoke ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 
Nor  palter’d  with  eternal  God  for  power; 
Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor  flow 
Through  either  babbling  world  of  high  and 
low ; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life ; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe ; 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  re¬ 
buke 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the 
right : 

Truth-teller  was  our  England’s  Alfred 
named ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

VIII. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 


Follow’d  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 

He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower’d  all  her  stars, 

And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her 
horn. 

Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 

But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island- 
story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory : 

He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 

He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-storv, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory : 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands 
Through  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light 
has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail’d, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty 
scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and 
sun. 

Such  was  he :  his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 
Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  Arm,  the  statesman 
pure ; 

Till  in  all  lands  and  through  all  human 
story 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved 
from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader’s  fame, 

With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

IX. 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 
By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 
Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see: 
Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


273 


For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 
Late  the  little  children  clung : 

0  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 
For  one  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and 
brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 
Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain! 

More  than  is  of  man’s  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere. 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 

And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  befits  a  solemn  fane  : 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music’s  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity, 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  though  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 
Though  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 
roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 

What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 

On  God  and  godlike  men  we  build  our  trust. 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  peo¬ 
ple’s  ears : 

The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs 
and  tears : 

The  black  earth  yawns :  the  mortal  disap¬ 
pears  ; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 

He  is  gone  who  seem’d  so  great. — 

Gone  ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  state, 

And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 

Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 

And  in,  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 

God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 


To  the  Sister  of  Elia. 

Qomfort  thee,  O  thou  mourner,  yet  a  while ! 
Again  shall  Elia’s  smile 
Refresh  thy  heart,  where  heart  can  ache 
no  more. 

What  is  it  we  deplore  ? 

He  leaves  behind  him,  freed  from  griefs 
and  years, 

Far  worthier  things  than  tears. 

The  love  of  friends  without  a  single  foe : 
Unequall’d  lot  below ! 

His  gentle  soul,  his  genius,  these  are  thine ; 
For  these  dost  thou  repine  ? 

He  may  have  left  the  lowly  walks  of  men ; 
Left  them  he  has  ;  what  then  ? 

Are  not  his  footsteps  follow’d  by  the  eyes 
Of  all  the  good  and  wise  ? 

Tho’  the  warm  day  is  over,  yet  the}’  seek 
Upon  the  lofty  peak 

Of  his  pure  mind  the  roseate  light  that 
glows 

O’er  death’s  perennial  snows. 

Behold  him  !  from  the  region  of  the  blest 
He  speaks  :  he  bids  thee  rest. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 
- »o»  --  ■ 

Lines  written  on  the  Might  of 
the  30 th  of  July ;  is 47. 

At  the  Close  of  an  Unsuccessful 
Contest  for  Edinburoh. 

The  day  of  tumult,  strife,  defeat,  was  o’er ; 
Worn  out  with  toil,  and  noise,  and  scorn, 
and  spleen, 

I  slumber’d,  and  in  slumber  saw  once  more 
A  room  in  an  old  mansion,  long  unseen. 

That  room,  methought,  was  curtain’d  from  * 
the  light ; 

Yet  through  the  curtains  shone  the 
moon’s  cold  ray 

Full  on  a  cradle,  where,  in  linen  white, 
Sleeping  life’s  first  soft  sleep,  an  infant  lay 

Pale  flicker’d  on  the  hearth  the  dying 
flame, 

And  all  was  silent  in  that  ancient  hall, 
Save  when  by  fits  on  the  low  night- wind 
came 

The  murmur  of  the  distant  waterfall. 


* 


18 


Alfred  Tennyson. 


274 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  lo  !  the  fairy  queens  who  rule  our 
birth 

Drew  nigh  to  speak  the  new-born  baby’s 
doom : 

With  noiseless  step,  which  left  no  trace  on 
earth, 

From  gloom  they  came,  and  vanish’d 
into  gloom. 

Not  deigning  on  the  boy  a  glance  to  cast, 

Swept  careless  by  the  gorgeous  Queen  of 
Gain  ; 

More  scornful  still,  the  Queen  of  Fashion 
pass’d 

With  mincing  gait  and  sneer  of  cold  dis¬ 
dain. 

The  Queen  of  Power  toss’d  high  her  jew- 
ell’d  head, 

And  o’er  her  shoulder  threw  a  wrathful 
frown  : 

The  Queen  of  Pleasure  on  the  pillow  shed 

Scarce  one  stray  rose-leaf  from  her 
fragrant  crown. 

Still  Fay  in  long  procession  follow’d  Fay; 

And  still  the  little  couch  remain’d  un¬ 
blest  : 

But,  when  those  wayward  sprites  had 
pass’d  away, 

Came  One,  the  last,  the  mightiest,  and 
the  best. 

0  glorious  lady,  with  the  eyes  of  light, 

And  laurels  clustering  round  thy  lofty 
brow, 

Who  by  the  cradle’s  side  didst  watch  that 
night, 

Warbling  a  sweet,  strange  music,  who 
wast  thou  ? 

Yes,  darling ;  let  them  go so  ran  the 
strain : 

‘  Yes ;  let  them  go,  Gain,  Fashion,  Plea¬ 
sure,  Power, 

And  dll  the  busy  elves  to  whose  domain 

Belongs  the  nether  sphere,  the  fleeting 
hour. 

“  Without  one  envious  sigh,  one  anxious 
scheme, 

The  nether  sphere,  the  fleeting  hour  re¬ 
sign, 


Mine  is  the  world  of  thought,  the  world 
of  dream, 

Mine  all  the  past,  and  all  the  future 
mine. 

“Fortune,  that  lays  in  sport  the  mighty 
low, 

Age,  that  to  penance  turns  the  joys  of 
youth, 

Shall  leave  untouch’d  the  gifts  which  I 
bestowr, 

The  sense  of  beauty  and  the  thirst  of 
truth. 

“  Of  the  fair  brotherhood  who  share  my 

grace, 

I,  from  thy  natal  day,  pronounce  thee 
free ; 

And,  if  for  some  I  keep  a  nobler  place, 

I  keep  for  none  a  happier  than  for  thee. 

“  There  are  who,  while  to  vulgar  eyes  they 
seem 

Of  all  my  bounties  largely  to  partake, 

Of  me  as  of  some  rival’s  handmaid  deem, 

And  court  me  but  for  Gain’s,  Power’s. 
Fashion’s  sake. 

“  To  such,  though  deep  their  lore,  though 
wide  their  fame, 

Shall  my  great  mysteries  be  all  un¬ 
known  ; 

But  thou,  through  good  and  evil,  praise 
and  blame, 

Wilt  not  thou  love  me  for  myself  alone? 

“  Yes,  thou  wilt  love  me  with  exceeding 
love, 

And  I  will  tenfold  all  that  love  repay. 

Still  smiling,  though  the  tender  may  re- 
prove, 

Still  faithful,  though  the  trusted  may 
betray. 

“  For  aye  mine  emblem  was,  and  aye  shall 
be, 

The  ever-during  plant  whose  bough  I 
wear, 

Brightest  and  greenest  then  when  every 
tree  % 

That  blossoms  in  the  light  of  Time  is 
bare. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


275 


“  In  the  dark  hour  of  shame  I  deign’d  to 
stand 

Before  the  frowning  peers  at  Bacon’s 
side : 

On  a  far  shore  I  smoothed  with  tender 
hand, 

Through  months  of  pain,  the  sleepless 
bed  of  Hyde : 


“  I  brought  the  wise  and  brave  of  ancient 
days 

To  cheer  the  cell  where  Raleigh  pined 
alone : 

I  lighted  Milton’s  darkness  with  the  blaze 
Of  the  bright  ranks  that  guard  the  eter¬ 
nal  throne. 


“  And  even  so,  my  child,  it  is  my  pleasure 
That  thou  not  then  alone  shouldst  feel  | 
me  nigh, 

When  in  domestic  bliss  and  studious 
leisure, 

Thy  weeks  uncounted  come,  uncounted 

fly; 


“Not  then  alone,  when  myriads,  closely 
press’d 

Around  thy  car,  the  shout  of  triumph 
raise, 

Nor  when,  in  gilded  drawing-rooms,  thy 
breast 

Swells  at  the  sweeter  sound  of  woman’s 
praise. 

“No:  when  on  restless  night  dawns  cheer¬ 
less  morrow, 

When  weary  soul  and  wasting  body 
pine, 

Thine  am  I  still,  in  danger,  sickness,  sorrow, 

In  conflict,  obloquy,  want,  exile,  thine ; 


“  Thine,  where  on  mountain-waves  the 
snow-birds  scream, 

Where  more  than  Thule’s  winter  barbs 
the  breeze, 

Where  scarce,  through  lowering  clouds, 
one  sickly  gleam 

Lights  the  drear  May-day  of  Antarctic 
seas ; 


Thine,  when  around  thy  litter’s  track  all 
day 

White  sandhills  shall  reflect  the  blind- 
ing  glare ;  I 


Thine  when,  through  forests  breathing 
death,  thy  way 

All  night  shall  wind  by  many  a  tiger’s 
lair ; 

“  Thine  most  when  friends  turn  pale,  when 
traitors  fly, 

When,  hard  beset,  thy  spirit,  justly 
proud, 

For  truth,  peace,  freedom,  mercy,  dares 
defy 

A  sullen  priesthood  and  a  raving  crowd. 

“  Amidst  the  din  of  all  things  fell  and 
vile, 

Hate’s  yell,  and  Envy’s  hiss,  and  Folly’s 
bray, 

Remember  me,  and  with  an  unforced 
smile 

See  riches,  baubles,  flatterers,  pass  away. 

“Yes,  they  will  pass  away,  nor  deem  it 
strange ; 

They  come  and  go,  as  comes  and  goes 
the  sea ; 

And  let  them  come  and  go ;  thou,  through 
all  change, 

Fix  thy  firm  gaze  on  Virtue  and  on  me.” 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay. 


Site  is  Far  from  the  Land. 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young 
hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  are  round  her  sighing; 

But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and 
weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native 
plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking; — 

Ah  !  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her 
strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  Minstrel  is  break¬ 
ing. 

He  had  lived  for  his  love,  for  his  country 
he  died, 

They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined 
him  ; 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be 
dried, 

Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 


276 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Oh  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams 
rest 

When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow ; 

They’ll  shine  o’er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile 
from  the  West, 

From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow. 

Thomas  Moore. 

- *>♦■ 

Kane. 

Died  February  16,  1857. 

Aloft  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag, 

Which,  scalp’d  by  keen  winds  that  de¬ 
fend  the  Pole, 

Gazes  with  dead  face  on  the  seas  that  roll 

Around  the  secret  of  the  mystic  zone, 

A  mighty  nation’s  star-bespangled  flag 
Flutters  alone, 

And  underneath,  upon  the  lifeless  front 

Of  that  drear  cliff,  a  simple  name  is 
traced ; 

Fit  type  of  him  who,  famishing  and 
gaunt, 

But  with  a  rocky  purpose  in  his  soul, 
Breasted  the  gathering  snows, 
Clung  to  the  drifting  floes, 

By  want  beleaguer’d,  and  by  winter 
chased, 

Seeking  the  brother  lost  amid  that  frozen 
waste. 

Not  many  months  ago  we  greeted  him, 

Crown’d  with  the  icy  honors  of  the 
North, 

Across  the  land  his  hard-won  fame  went 
forth, 

And  Maine’s  deep  woods  were  shaken 
limb  by  limb ; 

His  own  mild  Keystone  State,  sedate  and 
prim, 

Burst  from  decorous  quiet  as  he  came ; 

Hot  Southern  lips  with  eloquence  aflame 

Sounded  his  triumph.  Texas,  wild  and 
grim, 

Proffer’d  its  horny  hand.  The  large- 
lung’d  West, 

From  out  its  giant  breast, 

Veil’d  its  frank  welcome.  And  from 
main  to  main, 

Jubilant  to  the  sky, 

Thunder’d  the  mighty  cry, 

Honor  to  Kane! 


In  vain,  in  vain  beneath  his  feet  we  flung 
The  reddening  roses !  All  in  vain  we 
pour’d 

The  golden  wine,  and  round  the  shining 
board 

Sent  the  toast  circling,  till  the  rafters 
rung 

With  the  thrice-tripled  honors  of  the 

feast ! 

Scarce  the  buds  wilted  and  the  voices 

ceased 

Ere  the  pure  light  that  sparkled  in  his 

eyes, 

Bright  as  auroral  fires  in  Southern  skies, 
Faded  and  faded !  And  the  brave  young 
heart 

That  the  relentless  Arctic  winds  had 
robb’d 

Of  all  its  vital  heat,  in  that  long  quest 
For  the  lost  captain,  now  within  his 
breast 

More  and  more  faintly  throbb’d. 

His  was  the  victory ;  but  as  his  grasp 
Closed  on  the  laurel  crown  with  eager 
clasp, 

Death  launch’d  a  whistling  dart ; 
And  ere  the  thunders  of  applause  were 
done 

His  bright  eyes  closed  for  ever  on  the  sun  ! 
Too  late,  too  late  the  splendid  prize  he  won 
In  the  Olympic  race  of  Science  and  of 
Art ! 

Like  to  some  shatter’d  berg  that,  pale  and 
lone, 

Drifts  from  the  white  North  to  a  tropic 
zone, 

And  in  the  burning  day 
Wastes  peak  by  peak  away, 

Till  on  some  rosy  even 
It  dies  with  sunlight  blessing  it ;  so  he 
Tranquilly  floated  to  a  Southern  sea, 

And  melted  into  heaven. 

He  needs  no  tears,  who  lived  a  noble  life ; 
We  will  not  weep  for  him  who  died  so 
well, 

But  we  will  gather  round  the  hearth, 
and  tell 

The  storv  of  his  strife ; 

Such  homage  suits  him  well, 

Better  than  funeral  pomp  or  passing 
bell. 


PERSONAL  POEMS . 


277 


What  tale  of  peril  and  self-sacrifice ! 

Prison’d  amid  the  fastnesses  of  ice, 

With  hunger  howling  o’er  the  wastes  of 
snow ! 

Night  lengthening  into  months,  the  rav¬ 
enous  floe 

Crunching  the  massive  ships,  as  the  white 
bear 

Crunches  his  prey.  The  insufficient  share 

Of  loathsome  food, 

The  lethargy  of  famine,  the  despair 
Urging  to  labor,  nervelessly  pursued, 
Toil  done  with  skinny  arms,  and  faces 
hued 

Like  pallid  masks,  while  dolefully  behind 

Glimmer’d  the  fading  embers  of  a  mind ! 

That  awful  hour,  when  through  the  pros¬ 
trate  band 

Delirium  stalk’d,  laying  his  burning  hand 
Upon  the  ghastly  foreheads  of  the  crew. 
The  whispers  of  rebellion,  faint  and  few 
At  first,  but  deepening  ever  till  they 
grew 

Into  black  thoughts  of  murder ;  such  the 
throng 

Of  horrors  bound  the  hero.  High  the  song 

Should  be  that  hymns  the  noble  part  he 
play’d ! 

Sinking  himself,  yet  ministering  aid 
To  all  around  him.  By  a  mighty  will 
Living  defiant  of  the  wants  that  kill, 

Because  his  death  would  seal  his  com¬ 
rades’  fate ; 

Cheering  with  ceaseless  and  inventive 
skill 

Those  Polar  waters,  dark  and  desolate. 

Equal  to  every  trial,  every  fate, 

He  stands,  until  Spring,  tardy  with  re¬ 
lief, 

Unlocks  the  icy  gate, 

And  the  pale  prisoners  thread  the  world 
once  more, 

To  the  steep  cliffs  of  Greenland’s  pastoral 
shore 

Bearing  their  dying  chief. 

Time  was  when  he  should  gain  his  spurs 
of  gold 

From  royal  hands,  who  woo’d  the 
knightly  state; 

The  knell  of  old  formalities  is  toll’d, 

And  the  world’s  knights  are  now  self- 
consecrate. 


No  grander  episode  doth  chivalry  hold 
In  all  its  annals,  back  to  Charlemagne, 
Than  that  lone  vigil  of  unceasing 
pain, 

Faithfully  kept  through  hunger  and 
through  cold, 

By  the  good  Christian  knight,  Elisha 
Kane  ! 

Fitz-James  O’Brien. 
- '—•<>♦ - 

In  Remembrance  of  Joseph 
S  purge. 

In  the  fair  land  o’erwatch’d  by  Ischia’s 
mountains, 

Across  the  charmed  bay 

Whose  blue  waves  keep  with  Capri’s  silver 
fountains 

Perpetual  holiday, 

A  king  lies  dead,  his  wafer  duly  eaten, 

His  gold-bought  masses  given  ; 

And  Rome’s  great  altar  smokes  with  gums 
to  sweeten 

Her  foulest  gift  to  Heaven. 

And  while  all  Naples  thrills  with  mute 
thanksgiving, 

The  court  of  England’s  queen 

For  the  dead  monster,  so  abhorr’d  while 
living, 

In  mourning  garb  is  seen. 

With  a  true  sorrow  God  rebukes  that  feign¬ 
ing  ; 

By  lone  Edgbaston’s  side 

Stands  a  great  city  in  the  sky’s  sad  raining, 

Bare-headed  and  wet-eyed  ! 

Silent  for  once  the  restless  hive  of  labor, 

Save  the  low  funeral  tread, 

Or  voice  of  craftsman  whispering  to  his 
neighbor 

The  good  deeds  of  the  dead. 

For  him  no  minster’s  chant  of  the  im¬ 
mortals 

Rose  from  the  lips  of  sin  ; 

No  mitred  priest  swung  back  the  heavenly 
portals 

To  let  the  white  soul  in. 

But  Age  and  Sickness  framed  their  tearful 
faces 

In  the  low  hovel’s  door, 


278 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  prayers  went  up  from  all  the  dark  by¬ 
places 

And  Ghettos  of  the  poor. 

The  pallid  toiler  and  the  negro  chattel, 

The  vagrant  of  the  street, 

The  human  dice  wherewith  in  games  of 
battle 

The  lords  of  Earth  compete, 

Touch’d  with  a  grief  that  needs  no  outward 
draping, 

All  swell’ d  the  long  lament, 

Of  grateful  hearts,  instead  of  marble, 
shaping 

His  viewless  monument ! 

For  never  yet,  with  ritual  pomp  and  splen¬ 
dor, 

In  the  long  heretofore, 

A  heart  more  loyal,  warm,  and  true,  and 
tender, 

Has  England’s  turf  closed  o’er. 

And  if  there  fell  from  out  her  grand  old 
steeples 

No  crash  of  brazen  wail, 

The  murmurous  woe  of  kindreds,  tongues, 
and  peoples 

Swept  in  on  every  gale. 

It  came  from  Holstein’s  birchen-belted 
meadows, 

And  from  the  tropic  calms 
Of  Indian  islands  in  the  sun-smit  shadows 

Of  Occidental  palms  ; 

From  the  lock’d  roadsteads  of  the  Both- 
nian  peasants, 

And  harbors  of  the  Finn, 

Where  war’s  worn  victims  saw  his  gentle 
presence 

Come  sailing,  Christ-like,  in, 

To  seek  the  lost,  to  build  the  old  waste  places, 

To  link  the  hostile  shores 
Of  severing  seas,  and  sow  with  England’s 
daisies 

The  moss  of  Finland’s  moors. 

Thanks  for  the  good  man’s  beautiful  ex¬ 
ample, 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some  sacred  crypt  or  altar  of  a  temple 

Still  vocal  with  God’s  law  ; 


And  heard  with  tender  ear  the  spirit  sighing 
As  from  its  prison  cell, 

Praying  for  pity,  like  the  mournful  crying 
Of  Jonah  out  of  hell. 

Not  his  the  golden  pen’s  or  lip’s  persuasion, 
But  a  fine  sense  of  right, 

And  Truth’s  directness,  meeting  each  oc¬ 
casion 

Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

His  faith  and  works,  like  streams  that  in¬ 
termingle, 

In  the  same  channel  ran  : 

The  crystal  clearness  of  an  eye  kept  single 
Shamed  all  the  frauds  of  man. 

The  very  gentlest  of  all  human  natures 
He  join’d  to  courage  strong, 

And  love  outreaching  unto  all  God’s  crea¬ 
tures 

With  sturdy  hate  of  wrong. 

Tender  as  woman ;  manliness  and  meekness 
In  him  were  so  allied 

That  they  who  judged  him  by  his  strength 
or  weakness 
Saw  but  a  single  side. 

Men  fail’d,  betray’d  him,  but  his  zeal 
seem’d  nourish’d 
By  failure  and  by  fall ; 

Still  a  large  faith  in  human-kind  he  cher¬ 
ish’d, 

And  in  God’s  love  for  all. 

And  now  he  rests :  his  greatness  and  his 
sweetness 

No  more  shall  seem  at  strife  ; 

And  Death  has  moulded  into  calm  com¬ 
pleteness 

The  statue  of  his  life. 

Where  the  dews  glisten  and  the  song-birds 
warble, 

His  dust  to  dust  is  laid, 

In  Nature’s  keeping,  with  no  pomp  of 
marble 

To  shame  his  modest  shade. 

The  forges  glow,  the  hammers  all  are  ring¬ 
ing  ; 

Beneath  its  smoky  vale, 

Hard  by,  the  city  of  his  love  is  swinging 
Its  clamorous  iron  flail. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


279 


But  round  his  grave  are  quietude  and  I 
beauty, 

And  the  sweet  heaven  above, — 

The  fitting  symbols  of  a  life  of  duty 

Transfigured  into  love  ! 

John  Greknleaf  Whittier. 

- »o« - 

Brown  of  Ossa  wa tomie. 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on 
his  dying  day  : 

“  I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest 
in  Slavery’s  pay. 

But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I 
have  striven  to  free, 

With  her  children,  from  the  gallows-stair 
put  up  a  prayer  for  me !” 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him 
out  to  die  ; 

And  lo !  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little 
child  press’d  nigh. 

Then  the  bold  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and 
the  old  harsh  face  grew  mild, 

As  he  stoop’d  between  the  jeering  ranks 
•  and  kiss’d  the  negro’s  child  ! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  mo¬ 
ment  fell  apart ; 

And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  for¬ 
gave  the  loving  heart. 

That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  re¬ 
deem’d  the  good  intent, 

And  round  the  grisly  fighter’s  hair  the 
martyr’s  aureole  bent ! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks 
through  evil  good ! 

Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstain’d 
with  human  blood ! 

Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the 
thought  which  underlies ; 

Not  the  borderer’s  pride  of  daring,  but  the 
Christian’s  sacrifice. 

Nevermore  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the 
Northern  rifle  hear, 

Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on 
the  negro’s  spear. 

But  let  the  free-wing’d  angel  Truth  their 
guarded  passes  scale, 

To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might, 
and  justice  more  than  mail! 


So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in 
array  : 

In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the 
winter  snow  with  clay. 

She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she 
dares  not  harm  the  dove ; 

And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open 
wide  to  Love ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

- - 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier. 

In  Memory  of  Gen.  Philip  Kearney, 
Killed  Sept.  1,  1862. 

Close  his  eyes,  his  work  is  done  ! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 

Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 

What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor  ; 

Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 

Sleep  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 

What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country’s  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley  ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 

What  but  death  bemocking  folly  ? 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 

What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

Leave  him  to  God’s  watching  eye, 

Trust  him  to  the  Hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  sweeps  idly  by  : 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 

What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

George  II.  Boker. 


280 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Dedication. 

To  Idylls  of  the  King. 

These  to  His  memory— since  he  held  them 
dear, 

Perchance  as  finding  there  unconsciously 
Some  image  of  himself — I  dedicate, 

I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  with  tears — 

These  Idylls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce  other  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 

“  Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his 
king ; 

Wrhose  glory  was  redressing  human  wrong ; 
Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen’d  to 
it; 

Who  loved  one  only,  and  who  clave  to 
her—” 

Her — over  all  whose  realms  to  their  last 
isle, 

Commingled  with  the  gloom  of  imminent 
war, 

The  shadow  of  His  loss  drew  like  eclipse, 
Darkening  the  world.  We  have  lost  him  : 
he  is  gone : 

We  know  him  now:  all  narrow  jealousies 
Are  silent ;  and  we  see  him  as  he  moved, 
How  modest,  kindly,  all-accomplish’d, 
wise, 

With  what  sublime  repression  of  himself, 
And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly  ; 

Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that ; 

Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless 
perch 

Of  wing’d  ambitions,  nor  a  vantage- 
ground 

For  pleasure;  but  thro’  all  this  tract  of 
years 

Wrearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless 
life, 

Before  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses, 

In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a 
throne, 

And  blackens  everv  blot :  for  where  is  he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A  lovelier  life,  a  more  unstain’d,  than 
his? 

Or  how  should  England,  dreaming  of  his 

sons, 

Hope  more  for  these  than  some  inherit¬ 
ance 

Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as  thine, 


Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be, 
Laborious  for  her  people  and  her  poor — * 
Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler  day — 
Far-sighted  summoner  of  War  and  Waste 
To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of  peace — 
Sweet  Nature  gilded  by  the  gracious  gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 
Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a  Prince  in¬ 
deed, 

Beyond  all  titles,  and  a  household  name, 
Hereafter,  thro’  all  times,  Albert  the  Good? 

Break  not,  0  woman’s  heart,  but  still 
endure ; 

Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but  endure, 
Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that  star 
Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee,  that  ye 
made 

One  light  together,  but  has  pass’d,  and  leaves 
The  Crown  a  lonely  splendor. 

May  all  love, 

His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o’ershadow 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  people  comfort  Thee, 
Till  God’s  love  set  Thee  at  his  side  again. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


Abraham  Lincoln. 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murder’d  Lincoln’s 
bier, 

You,  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont  to 
trace, 

Broad  for  the  self-complaisant  British 

sneer, 

His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  fur¬ 
row’d  face, 

His  gaunt,  gnarl’d  hands,  his  unkempt, 
bristling  hair, 

His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill  at  ease, 
His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 

Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to 
please ; 

You,  whose  smart  pen  back’d  up  the  pen¬ 
cil’s  laugh, 

Judging  each  step  as  though  the  way 
were  plain ; 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


281 


Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph, 
Of  chief’s  perplexity  or  people’s  pain, — 

Beside  this  corpse,  thab  bears  for  winding- 
-  sheet 

The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  lived  to  rear 
anew, 

Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and  feet, 
Say,  scurrile  jester,  is  there  room  for  you  ? 

Yes :  he  had  lived  to  shame  me  from  my 
sneer, 

To  lame  my  pencil  and  confute  my  pen  ; 

To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes  peer, 
This  rail-splitter,  a  true-born  king  of 
men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learn’d  to  rue, 
Noting  how  to  occasion’s  height  he  rose  ; 

How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth  seem 
more  true; 

How,  iron-like,  his  temper  grew  by 
blows  ; 

How  humble,  yet  how  hopeful  he  could  be ; 
How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill  the  same ; 

Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he, 
Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 

He  went  about  his  work,  such  work  as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  and 
hand, 

As  one  who  knows,  where  there’s  a  task  to 
do, 

Man’s  honest  will  must  Heaven’s  good 
grace  command ; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the 
burden  grow, 

That  God  makes  instruments  to  work 
his  will, 

If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 
Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good 
and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the  side 
That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty’s  and 
Right’s, 

As  in  his  pleasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 
His  warfare  with  rude  Nature’s  thwart¬ 
ing  mights — 

The  unclear’d  forest,  the  unbroken  soil, 
The  iron  bark  that  turns  the  lumberer’s 
axe, 


The  rapid  that  o’erbears  the  boatman’s 
toil, 

The  prairie  hiding  the  mazed  wanderer’s 
tracks, 

The  ambush’d  Indian,  and  the  prowling 
bear, — 

Such  were  the  deeds  that  help’d  his 
youth  to  train  : 

Rough  culture,  but  such  trees  large  fruit 
may  bear, 

If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and 
grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destined  work  to  do, 

And  lived  to  do  it;  four  long-suffering 
years’ 

Ill  fate,  ill  feeling,  ill  report  lived  through, 

And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  change  to 
cheers, 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise, 

And  took  both  with  the  same  unwaver¬ 
ing  mood, — 

Till,  as  he  came  on  light,  from  darkling 
days, 

And  seem’d  to  touch  the  goal  from 
where  he  stood, 

A  felon  hand,  between  the  goal  and  him, 

Reach’d  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger 
prest, 

And  those  perplex’d  and  patient  eyes 
were  dim, 

Those  gaunt,  long-laboring  limbs  were 
laid  to  rest. 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 

Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his 
pen, 

When  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift 
eclipse 

To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good  will 
to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  New,  from  sea  to 
sea, 

Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and 
shame. 

Sore  heart,  so  stopp’d  when  it  at  last 
beat  high ! 

Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph 
came ! 


282 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


A  deed  accursed !  Strokes  have  been 
struck  before 

By  the  assassin’s  hand,  whereof  men 
doubt 

If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore ; 

But  thy  foul  crime,  like  Cain’s,  stands 
darkly  out, 


Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a 
strife, 

Whate’er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly 
striven, 

And  with  the  martyr’s  crown  crownest  a 
life 

With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  for¬ 
given. 


Tom  Taylor. 


O* 


Dickens  in  Camp. 


Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly 
drifting, 

The  river  sang  below  ; 

The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 
Their  minarets  of  snow. 


The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor, 
painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  droop’d 
and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth ; 

m 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack’s  scant 
treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 

And  cards  were  dropp’d  from  hands  of 
listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew  ; 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows 
gather’d  faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 


He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the 
Master 

Had  writ  of  “  Little  Nell.” 

v 

* 

Perhaps  ’twas  boyish  fancy,  —  for  the 
reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all, — 

But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and 
cedar 

A  silence  seem’d  to  fall ; 

The  fir  trees,  gathering  closer  in  the 
shadows, 

Listen’d  in  every  spray, 

While  the  whole  camp,  with  “Nell”  on 
English  meadows, 

Wander’d  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — o’ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine — 

Their  cares  dropp’d  from  them  like  the 
needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire : 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  ? — 

Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish 
spire, 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp !  but  let  its  fragrant 
story 

Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vines’  incense  all  the  pensive 
glory 

That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and 
holly 

And  laurel  leaves  entwine, 

Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly, — 

This  spray  of  W estern  pine  ! 

Francis  Bret  Harte. 


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Historical  Poems. 


The  Destruction  of  Sennach¬ 
erib. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on 
the  fold, 

And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple 
and  gold ; 

And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like 
stars  on  the  sea, 

When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep 
Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  sum¬ 
mer  is  green, 

That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset 
were  seen; 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn 
hath  blown, 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither’d  and 
strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings 
on  the  blast, 

And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he 
pass’d  ; 

And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax’d  deadly 
and  chill, 

And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for 
ever  grew  still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all 
wide, 

But  through  it  there  roll’d  not  the  breath 
of  his  pride ; 

And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on 
the  turf, 

And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating 
surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and 
pale, 

With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on 

his  mail ; 

'  * 


And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners 
alone, 

The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in 
their  wail ; 

And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of 
Baal ; 

And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by 
the  sword, 

Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of 
the  Lord ! 

Lord  Byron. 


Horatius. 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium, 

By  the  nine  gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 
Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 

By  the  nine  gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  try  sting-day, 

And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north 
The  messengers  ride  fast, 

And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 
Have  heard  the  trumpet’s  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 
Who  lingers  in  his  home, 

When  Porsena  of  Clusium 
Is  on  the  march  for  Rome  ! 

The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 
Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place, 
From  many  a  fruitful  plain, 

From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 

Like  an  eagle’s  nest  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Apennine ; 


2  S3 


284 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


From  lordly  \Tollateme, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 

Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 
For  godlike  kings  of  old; 

From  sea-girt  Populonia, 

Whose  sentinels  descry 

Sardinia’s  snowy  mountain-tops 
Fringing  the  southern  sky; 

From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisae, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves, 

Where  ride  Massilia’s  triremes, 

Heavy  with  fair-liair’d  slaves ; 

From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 
Through  corn  and  vines  and  flowers; 

From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven 
Her  diadem  of  towTers. 

Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 
Drop  in  dark  Auser’s  rill ; 

Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 
Of  the  Ciminian  hill ; 

Bevond  all  streams,  Clitumnus 
Is  to  the  herdsman  dear  ; 

Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves 
The  great  Yolsinian  mere. 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 
Is  heard  by  Auser’s  rill ; 

No  hunter  tracks  the  stag’s  green  path 
Up  the  Ciminian  hill ; 

Unwatch’d  along  Clitumnus 
Grazes  the  milk-white  steer ; 

Unliarm’d  the  water-fowl  may  dip 
In  the  Yolsinian  mere. 

The  harvests  of  Arretium, 

This  year,  old  men  shall  reap ; 

This  year,  young  boys  in  Umbro 
Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep  ; 

And  in  the  vats  of  Luna, 

This  vear,  the  must  shall  foam 

Bound  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls 
Whose  sires  have  march’d  to  Borne. 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 

Who  always  by  Lars  Porsena 
Both  morn  and  evening  stand. 

Evening  and  morn  the  thirty 
Have  turn’d  the  verses  o’er, 

Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 
By  mighty  seers  of  yore ; 


And  with  one  voice  the  thirty 
Have  their  glad  answer  given  : 

Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena — 

Go  forth,  beloved  of  heaven ! 

Go,  and  return  in  glory 
To  Clusium’s  royal  dome, 

And  hang  round  Nurscia’s  altars 
The  golden  shields  of  Borne  I” 

And  now  hath  every  city 
Sent  up  her  tale  of  men ; 

The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 

Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 
Is  met  the  great  array  ; 

A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 
Upon  the  trysting-day. 

For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 
Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 

And  many  a  banish’d  Boman, 

And  many  a  stout  ally ; 

And  with  a  mighty  following, 

To  join  the  muster,  came 
The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 
Was  tumult  and  affright ; 

From  all  the  spacious  champaign 
To  Borne  men  took  their  flight. 

A  mile  around  the  city 

The  throng  stopp’d  up  the  ways; 

A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 

For  aged  folk  on  crutches, 

And  women  great  with  child, 

And  mothers  sobbing  over  babes 
That  hung  to  them  and  smiled, 

And  sick  men  borne  in  litters 
High  on  the  necks  of  slaves, 

And  troops  of  sunburn’d  husbandmen 
With  reaping-hooks  and  staves, 

And  droves  of  mules  and  asses 
Laden  with  skins  of  wine, 

And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep, 
And  endless  herds  of  kine, 

And  endless  trains  of  wagons, 

That  creak’d  beneath  the  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods, 
Choked  every  roaring  gate. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


285 


Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 
Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 

The  fathers  of  the  city, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 

For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 
With  tidings  of  dismay. 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 
Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands, 

Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecote 
In  Crustumerium  stands. 

Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 
Hath  wasted  all  the  plain  ; 

Astur  hath  storm’d  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  hold 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  consul, 

Up  rose  the  fathers  all  ; 

In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 
And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  council  standing, 

Before  the  river-gate ; 

Short  time  was  there,  ye  may  well  guess, 
For  musing  or  debate. 

Out  spake  the  consul  roundly  : 

“  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town.” 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear : 

“To  arms  !  to  arms  !  sir  consul — 

Lars  Porsena  is  here.” 

On  the  low  hills  to  westward 
The  consul  fix’d  his  eye, 

And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 
Bise  fast  along  the  sky. 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 
Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come  ; 

And  louder  still,  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 

Is  heard  the  trumpet’s  war-note  proud, 
The  trampling  and  the  hum. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 
Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 


Far  to  left  and  far  to  right, 

In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 

The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly, 

Above  that  glimmering  line, 

Now  might  ye  see  the  banners 
Of  twelve  fair  cities  shine  ; 

But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 
Was  highest  of  them  all — 

The  terror  of  the  Umbrian, 

The  terror  of  the  Gaul. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 
Now  might  the  burghers  know, 

By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest, 

Each  warlike  Lucumo  : 

There  Cilnius  of  Arretium 
On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen  ; 

And  Astur  of  the  fourfold  shield, 

Girt  with  the  brand  none  else  may 
wield ; 

Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold, 

And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold 
By  reedy  Thrasymene. 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O’erlooking  all  the  war, 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 
Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 

By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius 
Prince  of  the  Latian  name  ; 

And  bv  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 
Was  seen  among  the  foes, 

A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 
From  all  the  town  arose. 

On  the  housetops  was  no  woman 
But  spat  toward  him  and  hiss’d, 

No  child  but  scream’d  out  curses, 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

But  the  consul’s  brow  was  sad, 

And  the  consul’s  speech  was  low, 

And  darkly  look’d  he  at  the  wall, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe  : 

“  Their  van  will  be  upon  us 
Before  the  bridge  goes  down  ; 

And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge. 
What  hope  to  save  the  town  ?” 


286 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  captain  of  the  gate  : 

“  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 
Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 

And  how  can  man  die  better 
Than  facing  fearful  odds 

For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 
And  the  temples  of  his  gods  ? 

“  And  for  the  tender  mother 
Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 

And  for  the  wife  who  purses 
His  baby  at  her  breast, 

And  for  the  holy  maidens 
Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 

To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 
That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 

“  Hew  down  the  bridge,  sir  consul, 
With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 

I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 

In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 
May  well  be  stopp’d  by  three. 

Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 
And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?” 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius — 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he  : 

“  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 
And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.” 

And  out  spake  strong  Herminius — 
Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 

“  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.” 

“  Horatius,”  quoth  the  consul, 

“  As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be.” 

And  straight  against  that  great  array 
Went  forth  the  dauntless  three. 

For  Romans  in  Rome’s  quarrel 
Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 

Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Then  none  was  for  a  party — 

Then  all  were  for  the  state  ; 

Then  the  great  man  help’d  the  poor, 
And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great ; 

Then  lands  were  fairly  portion’d  ; 
Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold  : 

The  Romans  were  like  brothers 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 
More  hateful  than  a  foe, 

And  the  tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  fathers  grind  the  low. 

As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold  ; 

Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  while  the  three  were  tightening 
Their  harness  on  their  backs, 

The  consul  was  the  foremost  man 
To  take  in  hand  an  axe ; 

And  fathers,  mix’d  with  commons, 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow, 

And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  armv, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 

Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 
Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 

Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 
A  peal  of  warlike  glee, 

As  that  great  host  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 
Roll’d  slowly  toward  the  bridge’s  head, 
Where  stood  the  dauntless  three. 

The  three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  look’d  upon  the  foes, 

And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 
F rom  all  the  vanguard  rose  : 

And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 
Before  that  deep  array  ; 

To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they 
drew, 

And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 
To  win  the  narrow  way. 

Aunus,  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  hill  of  vines  : 

And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 
Sicken  in  Ilva’s  mines  ; 

And  Picus,  long  to  Clusium 
Vassal  in  peace  and  war, 

Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  gray  crag,  where,  girt  with 
towers, 

The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 
O’er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


287 


Stout  Lartius  hurl’d  down  Aunus 
Into  the  stream  beneath  ; 

Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth  ; 

At  Picus  brave  Horatius 
Darted  one  fiery  thrust, 

And  the  proud  Umbrian’s  gilded  arms 
Clash’d  in  the  bloody  dust. 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 
Rush’d  on  the  Roman  three  ; 

And  Lausulus  of  Urgo  , 

The  rover  of  the  sea  ;  • 

And  Aruns  of  Yolsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar — 

The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa’s  fen, 

And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughter’d  men, 
Along  Albinia’s  shore. 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns  ; 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low  ; 

Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 
Horatius  sent  a  blow. 

“  Lie  there,”  he  cried,  “  fell  pirate  ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 

From  Ostia’s  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 

No  more  Campania’s  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 
Thy  thrice-accurskd  sail.” 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 
Was  heard  among  the  foes. 

A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 
From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 

Six  spears’  lengths  from  the  entrance 
Halted  that  deep  array, 

And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 
To  win  the  narrow  way. 

But,  hark  !  the  crv  is  Astur  : 

And  lo  !  the  ranks  divide ; 

And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 
Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 

Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield, 

And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 
Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans 
A  smile  serene  and  high  ; 

He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 


Quoth  he,  “  The  she-wolf’s  litter 
Stand  savagely  at  bay ; 

But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ?”  • 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 
With  both  hands  to  the  height, 

He  rush’d  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 

With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 
Right  deftly  turn’d  the  blow. 

The  blow,  though  turn’d,  came  yet  too 
nigh, 

It  miss’d  his  helm,  but  gash’d  his  thigh  — 

The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 
To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

He  reel’d,  and  on  Herminius 
He  lean’d  one  breathing  space  ; 

Then,  like  a  wild-cat  mad  with  wounds, 
Sprang  right  at  Astur’s  face. 

Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet, 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped, 

The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out 
Behind  the  Tuscan’s  head. 

And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 
Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke, 

As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 
A  thunder-smitten  oak. 

Far  o’er  the  crashing  forest 
The  giant  arms  lie  spread  ; 

And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

On  Astur’s  throat  Horatius 
Right  firmly  press’d  his  heel, 

And  thrice  and  four  times  tugg’d  amain, 
Ere  he  wrench’d  out  the  steel. 

“And  see,”  he  cried,  “the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  wait  you  here  ! 

What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 
To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ?” 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 
A  sullen  murmur  ran, 

Mingled  with  wrath,  and  shame,  and 
dread, 

Along  that  glittering  van. 

There  lack’d  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race; 

For  all  Etruria’s  noblest 
Were  round  the  fatal  place. 


288 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  all  Etruria’s  noblest 
Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  three, 

And  from  the  ghastly  entrance, 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 

All  shrank — like  boys  who,  unaware, 
Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare, 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 
Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 

Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 
To  lead  such  dire  attack  : 

But  those  behind  cried  “Forward  !■” 
And  those  before  cried  “  Back  !” 

And  backward  now,  and  forward, 
Wavers  the  deep  array  ; 

And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 
Dies  fitfully  away. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 
Strode  out  before  the  crowd  ; 

Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  three, 
And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud  : 
“Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home  ! 

Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away? 
Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome.” 

Thrice  look’d  he  at  the  city  ; 

Thrice  look’d  he  at  the  dead  ; 

And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turn’d  back  in  dread ; 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 
Scowl’d  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood, 
The  bravest  Tuscans  lav. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 
Have  manfully  been  plied ; 

And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 
Above  the  boiling  tide. 

“Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  !” 

Loud  cried  the  fathers  all — 

‘  Back,  Lartius  !  back,  Herminius  ! 
Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall !” 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius  ; 

Herminius  darted  back  ; 

And,  as  they  pass’d,  beneath  their  feet 
They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 


But  when  they  turn’d  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  cross’d  once  more  ; 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 
Fell  every  loosen’d  beam, 

And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 
Lay  right  athwart  the  stream  ; 

And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 
Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 

As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 
Was  splash’d  the  yellow  foam. 

And  like  a  horse  unbroken, 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 

The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  toss’d  his  tawnv  mane, 

And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded. 

Rejoicing  to  be  free; 

And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier, 
Rush’d  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind — 

Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 
And  the  broad  flood  behind. 

“  Down  with  him  !”  cried  false  Sextus, 
With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face; 

“  Now  yield  thee,”  cried  Lars  Porsena, 
“Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace!” 

Round  turn’d  he,  as  not  deigning 
Those  craven  ranks  to  see; 

Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he  ; 

But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 

And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 
That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome : 

“  0  Tiber !  father  Tiber ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 

A  Roman’s  life,  a  Roman’s  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day !  ” 

So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 
The  good  sword  by  his  side, 

And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 
Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 
Was  heard  from  either  bank, 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


289 


But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank ; 

And  when  above  the  surges 
They  saw  his  crest  appear, 

All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 

And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 
Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain, 

And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 

And  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows ; 

And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer 
In  such  an  evil  case, 

Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 
Safe  to  the  landing-place  ; 

But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 
By  the  brave  heart  within, 

And  our  good  father  Tiber 
Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

“  Curse  on  him  !”  quoth  false  Sextus, — 

“  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 

But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 
We  should  have  sack’d  the  town!” 

“  Heaven  help  him  !”  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 
“And  bring  him  safe  to  shore; 

For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 
Was  never  seen  before.” 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands; 

Now  round  him  throng  the  fathers 
To  press  his  gory  hands; 

And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 

He  enters  through  the  river-gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 

As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 
Could  plough  from  morn  till  night ; 

And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high — 

And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

19 


It  stands  in  the  comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see, — 

Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee; 

And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 

How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 
Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 

As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 
To  charge  the  Volscian  home : 

And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 
For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow. 

And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 
Is  heard  amidst  the  snow  ; 

When  round  the  lonely  cottage 
Roars  loud  the  tempest’s  din, 

And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 
Roar  louder  yet  within  ; 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  open’d, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit ; 

When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  emberSj 
And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit  ; 

When  young  and  old  in  circle 
Around  the  firebrands  close  ; 

When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 
And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows  ; 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armor, 
And  trims  his  helmet’s  plume  ; 

When  the  good  wife’s  shuttle  merrily 
Goes  flashing  through  the  loom  ; 

With  weeping  and  with  laughter 
Still  is  the  story  told, 

How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Thomas  Barington  Macaulay 
- »<>♦  -  — 

Pericles  and  As  pasta. 

This  was  the  ruler  of  the  land 

When  Athens  was  the  land  of  fame ; 
This  was  the  light  that  led  the  band 
When  each  was  like  a  living  flame ; 
The  centre  of  earth’s  noblest  ring, 

Of  more  than  men  the  more  than  king. 


290 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Yet  not  by  fetter,  nor  by  spear, 

His  sovereignty  was  held  or  won ; 
Fear’d, — but  alone  as  freemen  fear, 

Loved, — but  as  freemen  love  alone  ; 

He  waved  the  sceptre  o’er  his  kind 
By  Nature’s  first  great  title — mind  ! 

Resistless  words  were  on  his  tongue ; 

Then  eloquence  first  flash’d  below ; 

Full  arm’d  to  life  the  portent  sprung — 
Minerva  from  the  Thunderer’s  brow  ! 
And  his  the  sole,  the  sacred  hand 
That  shook  her  segis  o’er  the  land. 

And  throned  immortal,  by  his  side, 

A  woman  sits,  with  eye  sublime, — 
Aspasia,  all  his  spirit’s  bride ; 

But,  if  their  solemn  love  were  crime, 
Pity  the  beauty  and  the  sage, — 

Their  crime  was  in  their  darken’d  age. 

He  perish’d,  but  his  wreath  was  won, — • 
He  perish’d  on  his  height  of  fame ; 

Then  sank  the  cloud  on  Athens’  sun, 

Yet  still  she  conquer’d  in  his  name. 
Fill’d  with  his  soul,  she  could  not  die ; 
Her  conquest  was  posterity  ! 

George  Croly. 

- - 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

I  AM  dying,  Egypt,  dying, 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 

And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 
Gather  on  the  evening  blast ; 

Let  thine  arms,  O  Queen,  enfold  me, 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear; 
Listen  to  the  great  heart-secrets, 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarr’d  and  veteran  legions 
Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 

And  my  wreck’d  and  scatter’d  galleys 
Strew  dark  Actium’s  fatal  shore, 

Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me, 
Prompt  to  do  their  master’s  will, 

I  must  perish  like  a  Roman, 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Caesar’s  servile  minions 
Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low ; 

’Twas  no  foeman’s  arm  that  fell’d  him, 
’Twas  his  own  that  struck  the  blow ; 


His  who,  pillow’d  on  thy  bosom, 

Turn’d  aside  from  glory’s  ray, 

His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 
Dare  assail  my  name  at  Rome, 

Where  my  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widow’d  home, 

Seek  her ;  say  the  gods  bear  witness — 
Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings — 

That  her  blood,  with  mine  commingled, 
Yet  shall  mount  the  throne  of  kings. 

As  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian, 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile, 

Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 
With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile. 

Give  the  Csesar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine ; 

I  can  scorn  the  Senate’s  triumphs, 
Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying ; 

Hark !  the  insulting  foeman’s  cry. 

They  are  coming !  quick,  my  falchion, 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 

Ah  !  no  more  amid  the  battle 
Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell ; 

Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee  ! 

Cleopatra,  Rome,  farewell ! 

William  Haines  Lytle. 

- ♦<>« - 

The  Lamentation  of  Don 
Roderick. 

The  hosts  of  Don  Rodrigo  were  scatter’d 
in  dismay, 

When  lost  was  the  eighth  battle,  nor  heart 
nor  hope  had  they  ; 

He,  when  he  saw  that  field  was  lost,  and 
all  his  hope  was  flown, 

He  turn’d  him  from  his  flying  host,  and 
took  his  way  alone. 

His  horse  was  bleeding,  blind,  and  lame — 
he  could  no  farther  go  ; 

Dismounted,  without  path  or  aim,  the  king 
stepp’d  to  and  fro  : 

It  was  a  sight  of  pity  to  look  on  Roderick, 
For,  sore  athirst  and  hungry,  he  stagger’d 
faint  and  sick. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


29] 


All  stain’d  and  strew’d  with  dust  and  blood, 
like  to  some  smouldering  brand 

Pluck’d  from  the  flame,  Rodrigo  show’d : 
his  sword  was  in  his  hand, 

But  it  was  hack’d  into  a  saw  of  dark  and 
purple  tint ; 

His  jewell’d  mail  had  many  a  flaw,  his 
helmet  many  a  dint. 

He  climb’d  unto  a  hill-top,  the  highest  he 
could  see — 

Thence  all  about  of  that  wide  rout  his 
last  long  look  took  he  ; 

He  saw  his  royal  banners,  where  they  lay 
drench’d  and  torn, 

He  heard  the  cry  of  victory,  the  Arab’s 
shout  of  scorn. 

He  look’d  for  the  brave  captains  that  led 
the  hosts  of  Spain, 

But  all  were  fled  except  the  dead,  and  who 
could  count  the  slain  ? 

Where’er  his  eye  could  wander,  all  bloody 
was  the  plain, 

And,  while  thus  he  said,  the  tears  he  shed 
ran  down  his  cheeks  like  rain  : — 

“  Last  night  I  was  the  king  of  Spain — to¬ 
day  no  king  am  I ; 

Last  night  fair  castles  held  my  train — to¬ 
night  where  shall  I  lie  ? 

Last  night  a  hundred  pages  did  serve  me 
on  the  knee, — 

To-night  not  one  I  call  mine  own  : — not 
one  pertains  to  me. 

“  Oh,  luckless,  luckless  was  the  hour,  and 
cursed  was  the  day, 

When  I  was  born  to  have  the  power  of 
this  great  seniory  ! 

Unhappy  me  that  I  should  see  the  sun  go 
down  to-night ! 

0  Death,  why  now  so  slow  art  thou,  why 
fearest  thou  to  smite?” 

(From  the  Spanish.) 

John  Gibson  Lockhart. 

•O* 

Harm  os  an. 

Now  the  third  and  fatal  conflict  for  the 
Persian  throne  was  done, 

And  the  Moslem’s  fiery  valor  had  the 
crowning  victory  won. 


Harmosan,  the  last  and  boldest  the  invader 
to  defy, 

Captive,  overborne  by  numbers,  they  were 
bringing  forth  to  die. 

Then  exclaim’d  that  noble  captive :  “  Lo, 
I  perish  in  my  thirst ; 

Give  me  but  one  drink  of  water,  and  let 
then  arrive  the  worst !” 

In  his  hand  he  took  the  goblet :  but  a  while 
the  draught  forbore, 

Seeming  doubtfully  the  purpose  of  the 
foeman  to  explore. 

Well  might  then  have  paused  the  bravest 
— for  around  him  angry  foes 
With  a  hedge  of  naked  weapons  did  that 
lonely  man  enclose. 

“  But  what  fearest  thou?”  cried  the  caliph, 
“  is  it,  friend,  a  secret  blow  ? 

Fear  it  not !  our  gallant  Moslems  no  such 
treacherous  dealing  know. 

“  Thou  may’st  quench  thy  thirst  securely, 
for  thou  shalt  not  die  before 
Thou  hast  drunk  that  cup  of  water — this 
reprieve  is  thine — no  more  !” 

Quick  the  satrap  dash’d  the  goblet  down 
to  earth  with  ready  hand, 

And  the  liquid  sank  for  ever,  lost  amid  the 
burning  sand. 

“  Thou  hast  said  that  mine  my  life  is,  till 
the  water  of  that  cup 
I  have  drain’d  ;  then  bid  thy  servants  that 
spill’d  water  gather  up  !” 

For  a  moment  stood  the  caliph  as  by  doubt¬ 
ful  passions  stirr’d — 

Then  exclaim’d,  “  For  ever  sacred  must 
remain  a  monarch’s  word. 

!  “  Bring  another  cup,  and  straightway  to 
the  noble  Persian  give  : 

Drink,  I  said  before,  and  perish — now  I 
bid  thee  drink  and  live  !” 

Richard  Chknevix  Trench 


292 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Crescentius. 

I  look’d  upon  his  brow  ;  no  sign 
Of  guilt  or  fear  was  there ; 

He  stood  as  proud  by  that  death-shrine 
As  even  o’er  despair 
He  had  a  power.  In  his  eye 
There  was  a  quenchless  energy, 

A  spirit  that  could  dare 
The  deadliest  form  that  death  could  take, 
And  dare  it  for  the  daring’s  sake. 

He  stood,  the  fetters  on  his  hand ; 

He  raised  them  haughtily  ; 

And  had  that  grasp  been  on  the  brand, 

It  could  not  wave  on  high 
With  freer  pride  than  it  waved  now. 
Around  he  look’d  with  changeless  brow 
On  many  a  torture  nigh  ; 

The  rack,  the  chain,  the  axe,  the  wheel, 
And,  worst  of  all,  his  own  red  steel. 

I  saw  him  once  before ;  he  rode 
Upon  a  coal-black  steed, 

And  tens  of  thousands  throng’d  the  road, 
And  bade  their  warrior  speed. 

His  helm,  his  breast-plate,  were  of  gold, 
And  graved  with  many  a  dent,  that  told 
Of  many  a  soldier’s  deed  ; 

The  sun  shone  on  his  sparkling  mail, 

And  danced  his  snow-plume  on  the  gale. 

But  now  he  stood  chain’d  and  alone, 

The  headsman  by  his  side, 

The  plume,  the  helm,  the  charger  gone ; 

The  sword  which  had  defied 
The  mightiest  lay  broken  near ; 

And  yet  no  sign  or  sound  of  fear 
Came  from  that  lip  of  pride, 

And  never  king’s  or  conqueror’s  brow 
Wore  higher  look  than  li is  did  now. 

He  bent  beneath  the  headsman’s  stroke 
With  an  uncover’d  eye  ; 

A  wild  shout  from  the  numbers  broke 
Who  throng’d  to  see  him  die. 

It  was  a  people’s  loud  acclaim, 

The  voice  of  anger  and  of  shame, 

A  nation’s  funeral  cry, 

Home’s  wail  above  her  only  son, 

Her  patriot,  and  her  latest  one. 

Lajtitia  Elizabeth  Landon  Macleax. 


The  Vengeance  of  Mudara. 

To  the  chase  goes  Rodrigo,  with  hound 
and  with  hawk  ; 

But  what  game  he  desires  is  reveal’d  in 
his  talk : 

“Oh,  in  vain  have  I  slaughter’d  the  In¬ 
fants  of  Lara : 

There’s  an  heir  in  his  hall, — there’s  the 
bastard  Mudara — 

There’s  the  son  of  the  renegade,  spawn  of 
Mahoun — 

If  I  meet  with  Mudara,  my  spear  brings 
him  down.” 

While  Rodrigo  rides  on  in  the  heat  of  his 
wrath, 

A  stripling,  arm’d  capA-pie,  crosses  his 
path : 

“  Good  morrow,  young  esquire.”  “  Good 
morrow,  old  knight.” 

“Will  you  ride  with  our  party  and  share 
our  delight?” 

“Speak  your  name,  courteous  stranger,” 
the  stripling  replied ; 

“Speak  your  name  and  your  lineage,  ere 
with  vou  I  ride.” 

“  My  name  is  Rodrigo,”  thus  answer’d  the 
knight ; 

“  Of  the  line  of  old  Lara,  though  barr’d 
from  my  right, 

For  the  kinsman  of  Salas  proclaims  for 
the  heir 

Of  our  ancestor’s  castles  and  forestries 
fair 

A  bastard,  a  renegade’s  offspring — Mu¬ 
dara — 

Whom  I’ll  send,  if  I  can,  to  the  Infants  of 
Lara.” 

“  I  behold  thee,  disgrace  to  thy  lineage  ! — 
with  joy 

I  behold  thee,  thou  murderer !”  answer’d 
the  boy ; 

“  The  bastard  you  curse,  you  behold  him 
in  me, 

But  his  brothers’  avenger  that  bastard 
shall  be ! 

Draw  !  for  I  am  the  renegade’s  offspring, 
Mudara ; 

We  shall  see  who  inherits  the  life-blood 
of  Lara.” 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


293 


“  I  am  arm’d  for  the  forest-chase,  not  for 
the  fight ; 

Let  me  go  for  my  shield  and  my  sword,” 
cries  the  knight. 

“  Now  the  mercy  you  dealt  to  my  brothers 
of  old, 

Be  the  hope  of  that  mercy  the  comfort  you 
hold; 

Die,  foeman  to  Sancha, — die,  traitor  to 
Lara !” 

As  he  spake,  there  was  blood  on  the  spear 
of  Mudara. 

(From  the  Spanish.) 

John  Gibson  Lockhart. 

- KX - 

The  Bard. 

A  Pindaric  Ode. 

“  Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King ! 

Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ! 

Tho’  fann’d  by  Conquest’s  crimson  wing, 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 

Helm,  nor  hauberk’s  twisted  mail, 

Nor  e’en  thy  virtues,  tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 
From  Cambria’s  curse,  from  Cambria’s 
tears !” 

— Such  were  the  sounds  that  o’er  the 
crested  pride 

Of  the  first  Edward  scatter’d  wild  dis¬ 
may, 

As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon’s  shaggy 
side 

He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long 
array. 

Stout  Glo’ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless 
trance ; 

“  To  arms !”  cried  Mortimer,  and  couch’d 
his  quiv’ring  lance. 

On  a  rock  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o’er  old  Conway’s  foaming  flood, 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 

With  haggard  eyes  the  poet  stood  : 

(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 
Stream’d  like  a  meteor  to  the  troubled  air), 
And  with  a  master’s  hand  and  prophet’s 
fire 

Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre: 

“  Hark,  how  each  giant  oak  and  desert  cave 

Sighs  to  the  torrent’s  awful  voice  be¬ 
neath  ! 


O’er  thee, 0  King!  their  hundred  arms  they 
wave, 

Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs 
breathe ; 

Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria’s  fatal  day, 
To  high-born  Hoel’s  harp,  or  soft  Llewel¬ 
lyn’s  lay. 

“  Cold  is  Cadwallo’s  tongue, 

That  hush’d  the  stormy  main  : 

Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed : 

Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topt 
head. 

On  dreary  Arvon’s  shore  they  lie 
Smear’d  with  gore  and  ghastly  pale : 

Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail ; 

The  famish’d  eagle  screams,  and  passes 
by. 

Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad 
eyes, 

Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my 
heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country’s 
cries — 

No  more  I  weep.  They  do  not  sleep. 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 

I  see  them  sit;  they  linger  yet, 

Avengers  of  their  native  land : 

With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue 
of  thy  line. 

“  Weave  the  warp  and  weave  the  woof, 

The  winding-sheet  of  Edward’s  race  : 
Give  ample  room  and  verge  enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 

Mark  the  year  and  mark  the  night 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death  thro’  Berkley’s  roof 
that  ring, 

Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king ! 

She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting 
fangs, 

That  tear’st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled 
mate. 

From  thee  be  born,  who  o’er  thy  country 
hangs 

The  scourge  of  Heaven  !  What  terrors 
round  him  wait  I 


294 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Amazement  in  his  van,  with  flight  com¬ 
bined, 

And  Sorrow’s  faded  form,  and  Solitude 
behind. 

u  Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord, 

Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies ! 

No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 
A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 

Is  the  sable  warrior  fled  ? 

Thy  son  is  gone.  He  rests  among  the 
dead. 

The  swarm  that  in  thy  noontide  beam 
were  born  ? 

— Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 

Fair  laughs  the  Morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr 
blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o’er  the  azure 
realm 

In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes  : 
Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the 
helm : 

Regardless  of  the  sweeping  Whirlwind’s 
sway, 

That  hush’d  in  grim  repose  expects  his 
evening  prey. 

“  Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 

The  rich  repast  prepare ; 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the 
feast : 

Close  by  the  regal  chair 
Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled 
guest. 

Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 
Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined 
course, 

And  thro’  the  kindred  squadrons  mow 
their  way. 

Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London’s  lasting 
shame, 

With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder 
fed. 

Revere  his  Consort’s  faith,  his  Father’s 
fame, 

And  spare  the  meek  usurper’s  holy  head. 

Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 

.  .  • 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we 

spread : 

The  bristled  boar  in  infant  gore 
Wallows  beneath  the  thorn v  shade. 


Now,  brothers,  bending  o’er  the  accursed 
loom, 

Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify 
his  doom. 

“  Edward,  lo  !  to  sudden  fate 

(Weave  we  the  woof.  The  thread  is 
spun). 

Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 

(The  web  is  wove.  The  work  is  done.) 
Stay,  oh,  stay!  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unbless’d,  unpitied,  here  to 
mourn : 

In  yon  bright  track  that  fires  the  western 

skies 

They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 

But  oh,  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon’s 
height 

Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts 
unroll  ? 

Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight ! 

Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail : — 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings !  Britannia’s 
issue,  hail ! 

“  Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear ; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 

In  the  midst  a  form  divine ! 

Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line: 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face 
Attemper’d  sweet  to  virgin  grace. 

What  strings  symplionious  tremble  in  the 
air, 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round 
her  play ! 

Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin, 
hear ; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring  as  she 
sings, 

Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heaven  her  manv- 
color’d  wings. 

j  “  The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  War  and  faithful  Love, 

\  And  Truth  severe  by  fairy  Fiction  drest. 

In  buskin’d  measures  move 
Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing  Pain, 

With  Horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing 
breast. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


295 


A  voice  as  of  the  cherub-choir 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear, 

And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear 
That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 

Fond  impious  man,  think’st  thou  yon  san¬ 
guine  cloud 

Raised  by  thy  breath  has  quench’d  the 
orb  of  day? 

To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood 
And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled 
ray. 

Enough  for  me  :  with  joy  I  see 

The  diff ’rent  doom  our  fates  assign : 

Be  thine  Despair  and  sceptred  Care ; 

To  triumph  and  to  die  are  mine.” 

— He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  moun¬ 
tain’s  height 

Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to 
endless  night. 

Thomas  Gray. 

■  »o>  - 

Bannockburn. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled — 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led — 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  victorie ! 

Now’s  the  day  and  now’s  the  hour ; 

See  the  front  o’  battle  lower; 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  power — • 
Chains  and  slaverie ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 

Wha  can  fill  a  coward’s  grave? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland’s  king  and  law 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa’ — 

Let  him  on  wi’  me  ! 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains  ! 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 

Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 

Liberty’s  in  every  blow  ! 

Let  us  do,  or  die ! 

Robert  Burns. 

• - »o«  ■  -  •  ■ 


A  VERY  MOURNFUL  BALLAD. 

The  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down 
Through  Granada’s  royal  town  ; 

From  Elvira’s  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

W oe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Alhama’s  city  fell : 

In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 

And  the  messenger  he  slew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course ; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

When  the  Alhambra  walls  he  gain’d, 

On  the  moment  he  ordain’d 

That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 

With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 

That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain, 

Woe  is  me,  Albania  ! 

Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 
That  bloody  Mars  recall’d  them  there, 

One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 

To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before : 
“Wherefore  call  on  us,  O  king? 

What  may  mean  this  gathering?” 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

“  Friends  !  ye  have,  alas  !  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow, 

That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold, 

Have  obtain’d  Alhama’s  hold.” 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 

With  his  beard  so  white  to  see, 

“Good  king,  thou  art  justly  served, 

Good  king,  this  thou  hast  deserved. 

I  Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 


296 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 

The  Abencerrage,  Granada’s  flower  ; 

And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  chivalry. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

“  And  for  this,  O  king !  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement, 

Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 

W oe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

“  He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 

He  must  perish  by  the  law ; 

And  Granada  must  be  won, 

And  thyself  with  her  undone.” 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Fire  flash’d  from  out  the  old  Moor’s  eyes, 
The  monarch’s  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answer’d,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

“  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings — 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  king,  and  doom’d  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

Moor  Alfaqui !  Moor  Alfaqui ! 

Though  thy  beard  so  hoary  be, 

The  king  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seized, 
For  Alhama’s  loss  displeased. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alhambra’s  loftiest  stone  ; 

That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law, 

And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“  Cavalier !  and  man  of  worth  ! 

Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth ; 

Let  the  Moorish  monarch  know, 

That  to  him  I  nothing  owe : 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“  But  on  my  soul  Alhama  weighs, 

And  on  my  inmost  spirit  preys ; 

And  if  the  king  his  land  hath  lost, 

Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 


“  Sires  have  lost  their  children,  wives 
Their  lords,  and  valiant  men  their  lives ; 
One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost,  another  wealth  or  fame. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

“  I  lost  a  damsel  in  that  hour, 

Of  all  the  land  the  loveliest  flower; 
Doubloons  a  hundred  I  would  pay, 

And  think  her  ransom  cheap  that  day.” 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

And  as  these  things  the  old  Moor  said, 
They  sever’d  from  the  trunk  his  head ; 
And  to  the  Alhambra’s  wall  with  speed 
’Twas  carried,  as  the  king  decreed. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  men  and  infants  therein  weep 
Their  loss,  so  heavy  and  so  deep  ; 
Granada’s  ladies,  all  she  rears 
Within  her  walls,  burst  into  tears. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

And  from  the  windows  o’er  the  walls 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls; 

The  king  weeps  as  a  woman  o’er 
His  loss,  for  it  is  much  and  sore. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

(From  the  Spanish.) 
Lord  Byron. 

- *o« - 

The  Lord  of  Butrago. 

“  Your  horse  is  faint,  my  King — my  Lord  ! 

your  gallant  horse  is  sick — 

His  limbs  are  torn,  his  breast  is  gored,  on 
his  eye  the  film  is  thick  ; 

Mount,  mount  on  mine,  oh,  mount  apace, 
I  pray  thee,  mount  and  fly ! 

Or  in  my  arms  I’ll  lift  Your  Grace — their 
trampling  hoofs  are  nigh  ! 

“  My  King — my  King  !  you’re  wounded 
sore — the  blood  runs  from  your  feet  ; 
But  only  lay  a  hand  before,  and  I’ll  lift 
you  to  your  seat : 

Mount,  Juan,  for  they  gather  fast ! — I  hear 
their  coming  cry — 

Mount,  mount,  and  ride  for  jeopardy — I’ll 
save  you  though  I  die  ! 


HISTORICAL  POEMS . 


297 


“  Stand,  noble  steed  !  this  hour  of  need — 
be  gentle  as  a  lamb  : 

I’ll  kiss  the  foam  from  off  thy  mouth — thy 
master  dear  I  am — 

Mount,  Juan,  mount !  whate’er  betide, 
away  the  bridle  fling, 

And  plunge  the  rowels  in  his  side. — My 
horse  shall  save  my  King  ! 

“  Nay,  never  speak  ;  my  sires,  Lord  King, 
received  their  land  from  yours, 

And  joyfully  their  blood  shall  spring,  so 
be  it  thine  secures  : 

If  I  should  fly,  and  thou,  my  King,  be 
found  among  the  dead, 

How  could  I  stand  ’mong  gentlemen,  such 
scorn  on  my  gray  head  ? 

“  Castile’s  proud  dames  shall  never  point 
the  finger  of  disdain, 

And  say  there’s  one  that  ran  away  when 
our  good  lords  were  slain  ! — 

I  leave  Diego  in  your  care — you’ll  fill  his 
father’s  place : 

Strike,  strike  the  spur,  and  never  spare — 
God’s  blessing  on  Your  Grace  !” 

So  spake  the  brave  Montanez,  Butrago’s 
lord  was  he ; 

And  turn’d  him  to  the  coming  host  in 
steadfastness  and  glee ; 

He  flung  himself  among  them,  as  they 
came  down  the  hill — 

He  died,  God  wot !  but  not  before  his 
sword  had  drunk  its  fill. 

(From  the  Spanish.) 

John  Gibson  Lockhart. 

Make  Way  for  Liberty. 

“  Make  way  for  liberty  !” — he  cried ; 
Made  way  for  liberty,  and  died ! 

In  arms  the  Austrian  phalanx  stood, 

A  living  wall,  a  human  wood  ! 

A  wall,  where  every  conscious  stone 
Seem’d  to  its  kindred  thousands  grown  ; 

A  rampart  all  assaults  to  bear, 

Till  time  to  dust  their  frames  should  wear  ; 
A  wood,  like  that  enchanted  grove 
In  which  with  fiends  Rinaldo  strove, 
Where  every  silent  tree  possess’d 
A  spirit  prison’d  in  its  breast, 


Which  the  first  stroke  of  coming  strife 
Would  startle  into  hideous  life ; 

So  dense,  so  still,  the  Austrians  stood, 

A  living  wall,  a  human  wood  ! 
Impregnable  their  front  appears, 

All  horrent  with  projected  spears, 

Whose  polish’d  points  before  them  shine, 
From  flank  to  flank,  one  brilliant  line, 
Bright  as  the  breakers’  splendors  run 
Along  the  billows,  to  the  Sun. 

Opposed  to  these,  a  hovering  band 
Contended  for  their  native  land  : 

Peasants,  whose  new-found  strength  had 
broke 

From  manly  necks  the  ignoble  yoke, 

And  forged  their  fetters  into  swords, 

On  equal  terms  to  fight  their  lords  : 

And  what  insurgent  rage  had  gain’d, 

In  many  a  mortal  fray  maintain’d ; 
Marshall’d  once  more  at  Freedom’s  call. 
They  came  to  conquer  or  to  fall, 

Where  he  who  conquer’d,  he  who  fell, 

Was  deem’d  a  dead  or  living  Tell ! 

Such  virtue  had  that  patriot  breathed, 

So  to  the  soil  his  soul  bequeathed, 

That  wheresoe’er  his  arrows  flew, 

Heroes  in  his  own  likeness  grew,. 

And  warriors  sprang  from  every  sod 
Which  his  awakening  footstep  trod, 

And  now  the  work  of  life  and  death 
Hung  on  the  passing  of  a  breath  ; 

The  fire  of  conflict  burnt  within, 

The  battle  trembled  to  begin  : 

Yet  while  the  Austrians  held  their  ground. 
Point  for  attack  wras  nowhere  found. 
Where’er  the  impatient  Switzers  gazed, 
The  unbroken  line  of  lances  blazed  ; 

That  line  ’twere  suicide  to  meet, 

And  perish  at  their  tyrants’  feet, — 

How  could  they  rest  within  their  graves, 
And  leave  their  homes  the  homes  of  slaves? 
Would  they  not  feel  their  children  tread 
With  clanging  chains  above  their  head  ? 

It  must  not  be  :  this  day,  this  hour, 
Annihilates  the  oppressor’s  power; 

All  Switzerland  is  in  the  field, 

She  will  not  fly,  she  cannot  yield — 

She  must  not  fall ;  her  better  fate 
Here  gives  her  an  immortal  date. 


298 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Few  were  the  number  she  could  boast ; 

But  every  freeman  was  a  host, 

And  felt  as  though  himself  were  he 
On  whose  sole  arm  hung  victory. 

It  did  depend  on  one ,  indeed  ; 

Behold  him — Arnold  Winkelried  ! 

There  sounds  not  to  the  trump  of  fame 
The  echo  of  a  nobler  name. 

Unmark’d,  he  stood  amid  the  throng, 

In  rumination  deep  and  long, 

Till  you  might  see,  with  sudden  grace, 

The  very  thought  come  o’er  his  face, 

And  by  the  motion  of  his  form 
Anticipate  the  bursting  storm  ; 

And  by  the  uplifting  of  his  brow 

Tell  where  the  bolt  would  strike,  and  how. 


And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnish’d  in  warlike  sort, 
March’d  toward  Agincourt 
In  happy  hour — 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopp’d  his  way. 
Where  the  French  gen’ral  lay 
With  all  his  power, 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 

His  ransom  to  provide 
To  the  king  sending ; 

Which  he  neglects  the  while, 

As  from  a  nation  vile, 

Yet,  with  an  angry  smile, 

Their  fall  portending. 


But  ’twas  no  sooner  thought  than  done, 
The  field  was  in  a  moment  won  : — 

“  Make  way  for  Liberty  !”  he  cried, 

Then  ran,  with  arms  extended  wide, 

As  if  his  dearest  friend  to  clasp  ; 

Ten  spears  he  swept  within  his  grasp. 

“  Make  way  for  Liberty  !”  he  cried  : 

Their  keen  points  met  from  side  to  side ; 
He  bow’d  amongst  them  like  a  tree, 

And  thus  made  way  for  Liberty. 

Swift  to  the  breach  his  comrades  fly  ; 

“  Make  way  for  Liberty  !”  they  cry, 

And  through  the  Austrian  phalanx  dart, 
As  rush’d  the  spears  through  Arnold’s 
heart ; 

While,  instantaneous  as  his  fall, 

Rout,  ruin,  panic  scatter’d  all: 

An  earthquake  could  not  overthrow 
A  city  with  a  surer  blow. 

Thus  Switzerland  again  was  free : 

Thus  death  made  way  for  liberty ! 

James  Montgomery. 

- »o«  -  - 

The  Ballad  of  Agincourt. 


And  turning  to  his  men, 

Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then : 
Though  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed ; 

Yet  have  we  well  begun — 

Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 
By  fame  been  raised. 

And  for  myself,  quoth  he, 

This  my  full  rest  shall  be ; 
England,  ne’er  mourn  for  me, 
Nor  more  esteem  me. 

Victor  I  will  remain, 

Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain ; 

Never  shall  she  sustain 
Loss  to  redeem  me. 

Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell. 
Under  our  swords  they  fell; 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 

By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopp’d  the  French  lilies. 


Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 

Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 
Longer  will  tarry ; 

But  putting  to  the  main, 

At  Kaux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 
Landed  King  Harry. 


The  duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led ; 

With  the  main  Henry  sped, 
Amongst  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear — 

A  braver  man  not  there : 

0  Lord  !  how  hot  they  were 
On  the  false  Frenchmen ! 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


299 


They  now  to  fight  are  gone ; 

Armor  on  armor  shone  ; 

Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan — 

To  hear  was  wonder  ; 

That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake ; 

Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 
Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 

0  noble  Erpingham ! 

Which  did  the  signal  aim 
To  our  hid  forces ; 

When,  from  a  meadow  by, 

Like  a  storn.  suddenly, 

The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses, 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 

That  like  to  serpents  stung, 
Piercing  the  weather ; 

None  from  his  fellow  starts, 

But  playing  manly  parts, 

And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbows  drew, 

And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy  : 

Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent ; 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent ; 

Down  the  French  peasants  went; 
Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 

His  broadsword  brandishing, 

Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 

As  to  overwhelm  it ; 

And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 

His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 

And  many  a  cruel  dent 
Bruised  his  helmet. 

Glo’ster,  that  duke  so  good, 

Next  of  the  royal  blood, 

For  famous  England  stood, 

With  his  brave  brother — • 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 

Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 

Yet  in  that  furious  fight 
Scarce  such  another. 


Warwick  in  blood  did  wade ; 

Oxford  the  foe  invade, 

And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 

Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply ; 

Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin’s  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 

Which  fame  did  not  delay 
To  England  to  carry  ; 

Oh,  when  shall  Englishmen 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen, 

Or  England  breed  again 
Such  a  King  Harry? 

Michael  Drayton. 

- •<>•  •  • 

The  Ballad  of  Chevy- C race. 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safetyes  all  ; 

A  woefull  hunting  once  there  did 
In  Clievy-Chace  befall ; 

To  drive  the  deere  with  hound  and  home, 
Erie  Percy  took  his  way, 

The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborne, 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Erie  of  Northumberland 
A  vow  to  God  did  make, 

His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 
Three  summers  days  to  take ; 

The  cheefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chace 
To  kill  and  beare  away. 

These  tydings  to  Erie  Douglas  came, 

In  Scottland  where  he  lay  : 

Who  sent  Erie  Percy  present  word, 

He  would  prevent  his  sport. 

The  English  Erie,  not  fearing  that, 

Did  to  the  woods  resort, 

With  fifteen  hundred  bow-men  bold  ; 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 

Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  neede 
To  ayme  their  shafts  aright. 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran, 

To  chase  the  fallow  deere  : 

On  Munday  they  began  to  hunt, 

Ere  daylight  did  appeare ; 


300 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  long  before  high  noone  they  had 
An  hundred  fat  buckes  slaine  ; 

Then  having  dined,  the  drovyers  went 
To  rouze  the  deare  againe. 

The  bow-men  muster’d  on  the  hills, 

Well  able  to  endure ; 

And  all  their  rear,  with  speciall  care, 

That  day  was  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods, 
The  nimble  deere  to  take, 

That  with  their  cryes  the  hills  and  dales 
An  eccho  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went, 

To  view  the  slaughter’d  deere ; 

Quoth  he,  Erie  Douglas  promised 
This  day  to  meet  me  heere : 

But  if  I  thought  he  wold  not  come, 

Noe  longer  wold  I  stay. 

With  that,  a  brave  younge  gentleman 
Thus  to  the  Erie  did  say : 

Loe,  yonder  doth  Erie  Douglas  come, 

His  men  in  armour  bright ; 

Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speres 
All  marching  in  our  sight; 

All  men  of  pleasant  Tivydale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweede  : 

O  cease  your  sports,  Erie  Percy  said, 

And  take  your  bowes  with  speede. 

And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 

Your  courage  forth  advance; 

For  there  was  never  champion  yett 
In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

That  ever  did  on  horsebacke  come, 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 

I  durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

With  him  to  break  a  spere. 

Erie  Douglas  on  his  milke- white  steede, 
Most  like  a  baron  bold, 

Rode  formost  of  his  company, 

Whose  armour  shone  like  gold. 

Show  me,  sayd  hee,  whose  men  you  bee, 
That  hunt  soe  boldly  heere, 

That,  without  my  consent,  doe  chase 
And  kill  my  fallow-deere. 


The  first  man  that  did  answer  make 
Was  noble  Percy  hee  ; 

Who  sayd,  Wee  list  not  to  declare, 

Nor  shew  whose  men  we  bee. 

Yet  wee  will  spend  our  deerest  blood, 
Thy  cheefest  harts  to  slay. 

Then  Douglas  swore  a  solempne  oathe, 
And  thus  in  rage  did  say, 

Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  bee, 

One  of  us  two  shall  dye : 

I  know  thee  well,  an  erle  thou  art ; 

Lord  Percy,  soe  am  I. 

But  trust  me,  Percy,  pittye  it  were 
And  great  offence  to  kill 

Any  of  these  our  guiltlesse  men, 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

Let  thou  and  I  the  battell  trye, 

And  set  our  men  aside. 

Accurst  bee  he,  Erie  Percy  sayd, 

By  whom  this  is  deny’d. 

Then  stept  a  gallant  squier  forth, 
Witherington  was  his  name, 

Who  said,  I  Avoid  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry  our  king  for  shame, 

That  ere  my  captaine  fought  on  foote 
And  I  stood  looking  on. 

You  bee  two  erles,  sayd  Witherinton, 
And  I  a  squier  alone : 

lie  doe  the  best  that  doe  I  may, 

While  I  ha\re  power  to  stand : 

While  I  have  power  to  Aveeld  my  sword, 
lie  fight  with  heart  and  hand. 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bowes, 
Their  hearts  Avere  good  and  treAV ; 

Att  the  first  flight  of  arroAves  sent, 

Full  four-score  Scots  they  slew. 

[Yet  bides  Earl  Douglas  on  the  bent, 

As  Chieftan  stout  and  good. 

As  Araliant  Captain,  all  unmoved 
The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three, 

As  Leader  ware  and  try’d, 

And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 
Bare  doAvn  on  every  side. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


301 


To  drive  the  deere  with  hound  and  home, 
Douglas  bade  on  the  bent  ; 

Two  captaines  moved  with  mickle  might 
Their  speares  to  shivers  went. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 
They  dealt  full  many  a  wound : 

But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 
All  firmly  kept  their  ground  : 

And  throwing  strait  their  bows  away, 
They  grasp’d  their  swords  so  bright  : 

And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower, 

On  shields  and  helmets  light.] 

They  closed  full  fast  on  everye  side, 

Noe  slacknes  there  was  found  ; 

And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

0  Christ !  it  was  a  griefe  to  see, 

And  likewise  for  to  heare, 

The  cries  of  men  lying  in  their  gore, 

And  scatter’d  here  and  there. 

At  last  these  two  stout  erles  did  meet, 
Like  captaines  of  great  might : 

Like  Ivons  wood,  they  layd  on  lode, 

And  made  a  cruell  fight : 

They  fought  untill  they  both  did  sweat, 
With  swords  of  temper’d  steele; 

Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain, 

They  trickling  downe  did  feele. 

Yeeld  thee,  Lord  Percy,  Douglas  sayd ; 

In  faith  I  will  thee  bringe, 

Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  bee 
By  James  our  Scottish  king : 

Thy  ransome  I  will  freely  give, 

And  this  report  of  thee, 

Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight 
That  ever  I  did  see. 

Noe,  Douglas,  quoth  Erie  Percy  then, 

Thy  proffer  I  doe  scorne  ; 

I  will  not  yeelde  to  any  Scott, 

That  ever  yett  was  borne. 

With  that,  there  came  an  arrow  keene 
Out  of  an  English  bow, 

Which  struck  Erie  Douglas  to  the  heart, 

A  deepe  and  deadlye  blow : 


Who  never  spake  more  words  than  these. 
Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all ; 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end ; 

Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall. 

Then  leaving  liffe,  Erie  Percy  tooke 
The  dead  man  by  the  hand ; 

And  said,  Erie  Douglas,  for  thy  life 
Wold  I  had  lost  my  land. 

O  Christ!  my  verry  hert  doth  bleed 
With  sorrow  for  thy  sake ; 

For  sure,  a  more  redoubted  knight 
Mischance  cold  never  take. 

A  knight  amongst  the  Scotts  there  wras, 
Which  saw  Erie  Douglas  dye, 

Who  streight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 
Upon  the  Lord  Percye  : 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  was  he  call’d, 
Who  with  a  speare  most  bright, 

Well-mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 

Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight ; 

And  past  the  English  archers  all, 
Without  all  dread  or  feare; 

And  through  Erie  Percyes  body  then 
He  thrust  his  hatefull  speare ; 

With  such  a  vehement  force  and  might 
He  did  his  body  gore, 

The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 
A  large  cloth-yard,  and  more. 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  dye, 

Whose  courage  none  could  staine  * 

An  English  archer  then  perceived 
The  noble  erle  was  slaine  ; 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand, 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree  ; 

An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 
Up  to  the  head  drew  hee : 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye, 

So  right  the  shaft  he  sett, 

The  gray  goose-wing  that  was  thereon, 

In  his  harts  blood  was  wett. 

This  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 
Till  setting  of  the  sun, 

For  when  they  rung  the  evening  bell, 

The  battle  scarce  wras  done. 


302 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


With  stout  Erie  Percy,  there  was  slaine 
Sir  John  of  Egerton, 

Sir  Robert  Ratcliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James  that  bold  barron  ; 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 
Both  knights  of  good  account, 

Good  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slaine, 
Whose  prowesse  did  surmount. 

For  Witherington  needs  must  I  wayle 
As  one  in  doleful  dumpes, 

For  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off, 

He  fought  upon  his  stumpes. 

And  with  Erie  Douglas,  there  was  slaine 
Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye, 

Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  from  the  feeld 
One  foote  wold  never  flee. 

Sir  Charles  Murray,  of  Ratcliff,  too, 

His  sisters  sonne  was  hee ; 

Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteem’d, 

Yet  saved  cold  not  bee. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 
Did  with  Erie  Douglas  dye ; 

Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speres, 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  flye. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three ; 

The  rest  were  slaine  in  Chevy-Chace, 
Under  the  greene  woode  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widowes  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewayle ; 

They  washt  their  wounds  in  brinish  teares, 
But  all  wold  not  prevayle. 

Tlieyr  bodies,  bathed  in  purple  gore, 

They  bare  with  them  away, 

They  kist  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 

Ere  they  were  cladd  in  clay. 

The  newes  was  brought  to  Eddcnborrow, 
Where  Scotlands  king  did  raigne, 

That  brave  Erie  Douglas  suddenlye 
Was  with  an  arrow  slaine. 

O  heavy  newes,  King  James  did  say, 
Scotland  may  witnesse  bee, 

I  have  not  any  captaine  more 
Of  such  account  as  hee. 


|  Like  tydings  to  King  Henry  came, 

Within  as  short  a  space, 

That  Percy  of  Northumberland 
Was  slaine  in  Chevy-Chace. 

Now  God  be  with  him,  said  our  king, 

Sith  it  will  noe  better  bee ; 

I  trust  I  have  within  my  realme 
Five  hundred  as  good  as  he ; 

Yett  shall  not  Scotts  nor  Scotland  say, 

But  I  will  vengeance  take ; 

lie  be  revenged  on  them  all, 

For  brave  Erie  Percves  sake. 

* / 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  perform'd 
After,  at  Humbledowne ; 

In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slayne, 

With  lords  of  great  renowne ; 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  thousands  dye ; 

Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy-Chace, 
Made  by  the  Erie  Percye. 

God  save  our  king,  and  bless  this  land 
With  plentye,  joy,  and  peace  ; 

And  grant  henceforth,  that  foule  debate 
’Twixt  noblemen  may  cease. 

Author  Unknown'. 

- *o*— - 

Edinburgh  after  Flodden. 

News  of  battle  ! — news  of  battle  ! 

Hark  !  ’tis  ringing  down  the  street ; 

And  the  archways  and  the  pavement 
Bear  the  clang  of  hurrying  feet. 

News  of  battle  !  who  hath  brought  it  ? 

News  of  triumph  ?  Who  should  bring 
Tidings  from  our  noble  army, 

Greetings  from  our  gallant  King  ? 

All  last  night  we  watch’d  the  beacons 
Blazing  on  the  hills  afar, 

Each  one  bearing,  as  it  kindled, 

Message  of  the  open’d  war, 

All  night  long  the  northern  streamers 
Shot  across  the  trembling  sky  : 

Fearful  lights  that  never  beckon 
Save  when  kings  or  heroes  die. 

News  of  battle  ?  Who  hath  brought  it  ? 

All  are  thronging  to  the  gate  ; 

“  Warder — warder  !  open  quickly ! 

Man — is  this  a  time  to  wait  ?” 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


303 


And  the  heavy  gates  are  open’d  : 

Then  a  murmur  long  and  loud, 

And  a  cry  of  fear  and  wonder 

Bursts  from  out  the  bending  crowd. 

For  they  see  in  batter’d  harness 
Only  one  hard-stricken  man  ; 

And  his  weary  steed  is  wounded, 

And  his  cheek  is  pale  and  wan  : 
Spearless  hangs  a  bloody  banner 
In  his  weak  and  drooping  hand — 

God  !  can  that  be  Randolph  Murray, 
Captain  of  the  city  band  ? 

Round  him  crush  the  people,  crying, 

“  Tell  us  all — oh,  tell  us  true  ! 

Where  are  they  who  went  to  battle, 
Randolph  Murray,  sworn  to  you  ? 
Where  are  they,  our  brothers — children  ? 

Have  they  met  the  English  foe  ? 

Why  art  thou  alone,  unfollow’d  ? 

Is  it  weal  or  is  it  woe  ?” 

Like  a  corpse  the  grisly  warrior 
Looks  from  out  his  helm  of  steel ; 

But  no  word  he  speaks  in  answer — 

Only  with  his  armed  heel 
Chides  his  wearv  steed,  and  onward 
Up  the  city  streets  they  ride  ; 

Fathers,  sisters,  mothers,  children, 
Shrieking,  praying  by  his  side. 

“  By  the  God  that  made  thee,  Randolph  ! 

Tell  us  what  mischance  hath  come.” 
Then  he  lifts  his  riven  banner, 

And  the  asker’s  voice  is  dumb. 

The  elders  of  the  city 

Have  met  within  their  hall — 

The  men  whom  good  King  James  had 
charged 

To  watch  the  tower  and  wall. 

“  Your  hands  are  weak  with  age,”  he  said, 
“  Your  hearts  are  stout  and  true  ; 

So  bide  ye  in  the  Maiden  Town, 

While  others  fight  for  you. 

My  trumpet  from  the  Border-side 
Shall  send  a  blast  so  clear, 

That  all  who  wait  within  the  gate 
That  stirring  sound  may  hear. 

Or,  if  it  be  the  will  of  Heaven 
That  back  I  never  come, 

And  if,  instead  of  Scottish  shouts, 

Ye  hear  the  English  drum — 

Then  let  the  warning  bells  ring  out, 

Then  gird  you  to  the  fray, 


Then  man  the  walls  like  burghers  stout, 
And  fight  while  fight  you  may. 

’Twere  better  that  in  fiery  flame 
The  roofs  should  thunder  down, 

Than  that  the  foot  of  foreign  foe 
Should  trample  in  the  town  !” 

Then  in  came  Randolph  Murray,— 

His  step  was  slow  and  weak, 

And,  as  he  doff’d  his  dinted  helm, 

The  tears  ran  down  his  cheek  : 

They  fell  upon  his  corslet 
And  on  his  mailed  hand, 

As  he  gazed  around  him  wistfully, 
Leaning  sorely  on  his  brand. 

And  none  who  then  beheld  him 
But  straight  were  smote  with  fear, 

For  a  bolder  and  a  sterner  man 
Had  never  couch’d  a  spear. 

They  knew  so  sad  a  messenger 
Some  ghastly  news  must  bring  : 

And  all  of  them  were  fathers, 

And  their  sons  were  with  the  King. 

And  up  then  rose  the  Provost — 

A  brave  old  man  was  he, 

Of  ancient  name,  and  knightly  fame, 
And  chivalrous  degree. 

He  ruled  our  city  like  a  lord 
Who  brook’d  no  equal  here, 

And  ever  for  the  townsman’s  rights 
Stood  up  ’gainst  prince  and  peer. 

And  he  had  seen  the  Scottish  host 
March  from  the  borough-muir, 

With  music-storm  and  clamorous  shout, 
And  all  the  din  that  thunders  out 
When  youth’s  of  victory  sure. 

But  yet  a  dearer  thought  had  he, — 

For,  with  a  father’s  pride, 

He  saw  his  last  remaining  son 
Go  forth  by  Randolph’s  side, 

With  casque  on  head  and  spur  on  heel, 
All  keen  to  do  and  dare ; 

And  proudly  did  that  gallant  boy 
Dunedin’s  banner  bear. 

Oh,  woeful  now  was  the  old  man’s  look, 
And  he  spake  right  heavily — 

“  Now,  Randolph,  tell  thy  tidings, 
However  sharp  they  be  ! 

Woe  is  written  on  thy  visage, 

Death  is  looking  from  thy  face  : 

Speak  !  though  it  be  of  overthrow — 

It  cannot  be  disgrace !” 


304 


FIRESIDE  ENCYLOPJEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Right  bitter  was  the  agony 

That  wrung  that  soldier  proud : 
Thrice  did  he  strive  to  answer, 

And  thrice  he  groan’d  aloud. 

Then  he  gave  the  riven  banner 
To  the  old  man’s  shaking  hand, 
Saying,  “  That  is  all  I  bring  ye 
From  the  bravest  of  the  land! 

Ay  !  ye  may  look  upon  it — 

It  was  guarded  well  and  long 
By  your  brothers  and  your  children, 
By  the  valiant  and  the  strong. 

One  by  one  they  fell  around  it, 

As  the  archers  laid  them  low, 
Grimly  dying,  still  unconquer’d, 
With  their  faces  to  the  foe. 

Ay,  ye  may  well  look  upon  it — 
There  is  more  than  honor  there, 
Else,  be  sure,  I  had  not  brought  it 
From  the  field  of  dark  despair. 
Never  yet  was  royal  banner 
Steep’d  in  such  a  costly  dye ; 

It  hath  lain  upon  a  bosom 

Where  no  other  shroud  shall  lie. 
Sirs,  I  charge  you,  keep  it  holy ; 

Keep  it  as  a  sacred  thing, 

For  the  stain  ye  see  upon  it 
Was  the  life-blood  of  your  King!” 


Woe,  and  woe,  and  lamentation  ! 

What  a  piteous  cry  was  there  ! 

Widows,  maidens,  mothers,  children, 
Shrieking,  sobbing  in  despair ! 

Through  the  streets  the  death-word  rushes, 
Spreading  terror,  sweeping  on — • 

“  Jesu  Christ !  our  King  has  fallen — 

O  Great  God,  King  James  is  gone ! 

Holy  Mother  Mary,  shield  us, 

Thou  who  erst  didst  lose  thy  Son ! 

0  the  blackest  day  for  Scotland 
That  she  ever  knew  before  ! 

0  our  King — the  good,  the  noble, 

Shall  we  see  him  never  more  ? 

Woe  to  us,  and  woe  to  Scotland ! 

O  our  sons,  our  sons  and  men  ! 

Surely  some  have  ’scaped  the  Southron, 
Surely  some  will  come  again  !” 

Till  the  oak  that  fell  last  winter 
Shall  uprear  its  shatter’d  stem — 

Wives  and  mothers  of  Dunedin — 

Ye  may  look  in  vain  for  them  ! 


But  within  the  Council  Chamber 
All  was  silent  as  the  grave, 

Whilst  the  tempest  of  their  sorrow 
Shook  the  bosoms  of  the  brave. 

Well  indeed  might  they  be  shaken 
With  the  weight  of  such  a  blow: 

He  was  gone — their  prince,  their  idol, 
Whom  they  loved  and  worshipp’d  so  ! 
Like  a  knell  of  death  and  judgment 
Rung  from  heaven  by  angel  hand, 

Fell  the  words  of  desolation 
On  the  elders  of  the  land. 

Hoary  heads  were  bow’d  and  trembling, 
Wither’d  hands  were  clasp’d  and  wrung; 
God  had  left  the  old  and  feeble, 

He  had  ta’en  away  the  young. 


Then  the  Provost  he  uprose, 

And  his  lip  was  ashen  white ; 

But  a  flush  was  on  his  brow, 

And  his  eye  was  full  of  light. 

“Thou  hast  spoken,  Randolph  Murray, 
Like  a  soldier  stout  and  true ; 

Thou  hast  done  a  deed  of  daring 
Had  been  perill’d  but  by  few. 

For  thou  hast  not  shamed  to  face  us, 
Nor  to  speak  thy  ghastly  tale, 
Standing — thou  a  knight  and  captain — - 
Here,  alive  within  thy  mail ! 

Now,  as  my  God  shall  judge  me, 

I  hold  it  braver  done, 

Than  hadst  thou  tarried  in  thy  place, 
And  died  above  my  son  ! 

Thou  needst  not  tell  it :  he  is  dead. 

God  help  us  all  this  day ! 

But  speak — how  fought  the  citizens 
Within  the  furious  fray? 

For,  by  the  might  of  Mary  ! 

’Twere  something  still  to  tell 
That  no  Scottish  foot  went  backward 
When  the  Royal  Lion  fell !” 


“  No  one  fail’d  him  !  He  is  keeping 
Royal  state  and  semblance  still; 
Knight  and  noble  lie  around  him, 
Cold  on  Flodden’s  fatal  hill. 

Of  the  brave  and  gallant-hearted, 
Whom  ye  sent  with  prayers  away, 
Not  a  single  man  departed 
From  his  Monarch  yesterday. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS . 


305 


Had  you  seen  them,  O  my  masters  ! 

When  the  night  began  to  fall, 

And  the  English  spearmen  gather’d 
Round  a  grim  and  ghastly  wall! 

As  the  wolves  in  winter  circle 
Round  the  leaguer  on  the  heath, 

So  the  greedy  foe  glared  upward, 
Panting  still  for  blood  and  death. 
But  a  rampart  rose  before  them, 

Which  the  boldest  dare  not  scale  ; 
Every  stone  a  Scottish  body, 

Every  step  a  corpse  in  mail ! 

And  behind  it  lay  our  Monarch, 
Clenching  still  his  shiver’d  sword ; 
Bv  his  side  Montrose  and  Athole, 

At  his  feet  a  Southron  lord. 

All  so  thick  they  lay  together, 

When  the  stars  lit  up  the  sky, 

That  I  knew  not  who  were  stricken, 

Or  who  yet  remain’d  to  die. 

Few  there  were  when  Surrey  halted, 
And  his  wearied  host  withdrew  ; 
None  but  dying  men  around  me, 

When  the  English  trumpet  blew. 
Then  I  stoop’d  and  took  the  banner, 
As  you  see  it,  from  his  breast, 

And  I  closed  our  hero’s  eyelids, 

And  I  left  him  to  his  rest. 

In  the  mountains  growl’d  the  thunder, 
As  I  leap’d  the  woeful  wall, 

And  the  heavy  clouds  were  settling 
Over  Flodden,  like  a  pall.” 


So  he  ended.  And  the  others 

Cared  not  any  answer  then  ; 

Sitting  silent,  dumb  with  sorrow, 

Sitting  anguish-struck,  like  men 

Who  have  seen  the  roaring  torrent 

Sweep  their  happy  homes  away, 

And  yet  linger  by  the  margin, 

Staring  wildly  on  the  spray. 

But,  without,  the  maddening  tumult 

Waxes  ever  more  and  more, 

And  the  crowd  of  wailing  women 

Gather  round  the  council-door. 

Every  dusky  spire  is  ringing 

With  a  dull  and  hollow  knell, 

And  the  Miserere’s  singing 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bell. 

Through  the  streets  the  burghers  hurry, 

Spreading  terror  as  they  go; 

20  * 


And  the  rampart’s  throng’d  with  watchers 
For  the  coming  of  the  foe. 

From  each  mountain-top  a  pillar 
Streams  into  the  torpid  air, 

Bearing  token  from  the  Border 
That  the  English  host  is  there. 

All  without  is  flight  and  terror, 

All  within  is  woe  and  fear — 

God  protect  thee,  Maiden  City, 

For  thy  latest  hour  is  near ! 

No  !  not  yet,  thou  high  Dunedin  ! 

Shalt  thou  totter  to  thy  fall ; 

Though  thy  bravest  and  thy  strongest 
Are  not  there  to  man  the  wall. 

No,  not  yet !  the  ancient  spirit 
Of  our  fathers  hath  not  gone ; 

Take  it  to  thee  as  a  buckler 
Better  far  than  steel  or  stone. 

Oh,  remember  those  who  perish’d 
For  thy  birthright  at  the  time 

When  to  be  a  Scot  was  treason, 

And  to  side  with  Wallace  crime ! 

Have  they  not  a  voice  among  us, 

Whilst  their  hallow’d  dust  is  here  ? 

Hear  ye  not  a  summons  sounding 
From  each  buried  warrior’s  bier? 

Up! — they  say — and  keep  the  freedom 
Which  we  won  you  long  ago: 

Up  !  and  keep  our  graves  unsullied 
From  the  insults  of  the  foe! 

Up  !  and  if  ye  cannot  save  them, 

Come  to  us  in  blood  and  fire : 

Midst  the  crash  of  falling  turrets 
Let  the  last  of  Scots  expire ! 

Still  the  bells  are  tolling  fiercely, 

And  the  cry  comes  louder  in  ; 

Mothers  wailing  for  their  children, 

Sisters  for  their  slaughter’d  kin. 

All  is  terror  and  disorder ; 

Till  the  Provost  rises  up, 

Calm  as  though  he  had  not  tasted 
Of  the  fell  and  bitter  cup. 

All  so  stately  from  his  sorrow, 

Rose  the  old  undaunted  chief, 

That  you  had  not  deem’d,  to  see  him, 

His  was  more  than  common  grief. 

“  Rouse  ye,  sirs  !”  he  said  ;  “  we  may  not 
Longer  mourn  for  what  is  done,; 

If  our  King  be  taken  from  us, 

We  are  left  to  guard  his  son. 


306 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


We  have  sworn  to  keep  the  city 
From  the  foe,  whate’er  they  be, 

And  the  oath  that  we  have  taken 
Never  shall  be  broke  by  me. 

Death  is  nearer  to  us,  brethren, 

Than  it  seem’d  to  those  who  died, 
Fighting  yesterday  at  Flodden, 

By  their  lord  and  master’s  side. 

Let  us  meet  it,  then,  in  patience, 

Not  in  terror  or  in  fear; 

Though  our  hearts  are  bleeding  yonder, 
Let  our  souls  be  steadfast  here. 

Up,  and  rouse  ye !  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  we  yet  have  much  to  do ; 

Up!  and  haste  ye  through  the  city, 

Stir  the  burghers  stout  and  true ! 
Gather  all  our  scatter’d  people, 

Fling  the  banner  out  once  more, — 
Randolph  Murray  !  do  thou  bear  it, 

As  it  erst  was  borne  before : 

Never  Scottish  heart  will  leave  it, 

When  they  see  their  Monarch’s  gore  ! 

“  Let  them  cease  that  dismal  knelling ! 

It  is  time  enough  to  ring 
When  the  fortress-strength  of  Scotland 
Stoops  to  ruin  like  its  King. 

Let  the  bells  be  kept  for  warning, 

Not  for  terror  or  alarm  ; 

When  they  next  are  heard  to  thunder, 
Let  each  man  and  stripling  arm. 

Bid  the  women  leave  their  wailing — 
Do  they  think  that  woeful  strain, 
From  the  bloody  heaps  of  Fiodden 
Can  redeem  their  dearest  slain  ? 

Bid  them  cease, — or  rather  hasten 
To  the  churches  every  one; 

There  to  pray  to  Mary  Mother, 

And  to  her  anointed  Son, 

That  the  thunderbolt  above  us 
May  not  fall  in  ruin  yet; 

That  in  fire  and  blood  and  rapine 
Scotland’s  glory  may  not  set. 

Let  them  pray, — for  never  women 
Stood  in  need  of  such  a  prayer! — 
England’s  yeomen  shall  not  find  them 
Clinging  to  the  altars  there. 

No  !  if  we  are  doom’d  to  perish, 

Man  and  maiden,  let  us  fall, 

And  a  common  gulf  of  ruin 
Open  wide  to  whelm  us  all ! 

Never  shall  the  ruthless  spoiler 
Lay  his  hot  insulting  hand 


On  the  sisters  of  our  heroes, 

Whilst  we  bear  a  torch  or  brand ! 

Up  !  and  rouse  ye,  then,  my  brothers, — 
But  when  next  ye  hear  the  bell 
Sounding  forth  the  sullen  summons 
That  may  be  our  funeral  knell, 

Once  more  let  us  meet  together, 

Once  more  see  each  other’s  face; 

Then,  like  men  that  need  not  tremble, 

Go  to  our  appointed  place. 

God,  our  Father,  will  not  fail  us 
In  that  last  tremendous  hour — 

If  all  other  bulwarks  crumble, 

He  will  be  our  strength  and  tower: 
Though  the  ramparts  rock  beneath  us, 

And  the  walls  go  crashing  down, 

Though  the  roar  of  conflagration 
Bellow  o’er  the  sinking  town  ; 

There  is  yet  one  place  of  shelter, 

Where  the  foeman  cannot  come, 

Where  the  summons  never  sounded 
Of  the  trumpet  or  the  drum. 

There  again  we’ll  meet  our  children, 

Who,  on  Flodden’s  trampled  sod, 

For  their  king  and  for  their  country 
Render’d  up  their  souls  to  God. 

There  shall  we  find  rest  and  refuge, 

With  our  dear  departed  brave; 

And  the  ashes  of  the  city 
Be  our  universal  grave !” 

William  Edmondstoune  Aytoun. 

- K>*— 

The  Flowers  of  the  forest. 

I’ve  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-milk¬ 
ing, 

Lasses  a’  lilting  before  dawn  o’  day ; 

But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green 
loaning — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede 
away. 

At  blights,  in  the  morning,  nae  blythe  lads 
are  scorning, 

Lasses  are  lonely  and  dowie  and  wae ; 
Nae  dafrin’,  nae  gabbin’,  but  sighing  and 
sabbing, 

Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin  and  hies  her  away. 

In  har’st,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now 
are  jeering, 

Bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled,  and 

gray ; 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


307 


At  fair  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae 
fleeching, — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede 
away. 

At  e’en,  in  the  gloaming,  nae  younkers  are 
roaming 

’Bout  stacks  wi’  the  lasses  at  bogle  to 
play ; 

But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her 
dearie — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  weded 
away. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order,  sent  our  lads 
to  the  Border ! 

The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the 
day ; 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  fought  aye 
the  foremost, 

The  prime  of  our  land,  are  cauld  in  the 
clay. 

We’ll  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  the  ewe- 
milking, 

Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and 
wae, 

Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loan¬ 
ing— 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a’  wede 
away. 

Jane  Elliot. 

- -eO« - 

IVRY. 

A  Song  of  the  Huguenots. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from 
whom  all  glories  are  ! 

And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King 
Henry  of  Navarre  ! 

Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music 
and  of  dance, 

Through  thy  cornfields  green,  and  sunny 
vines,  O  pleasant  land  of  France  ! 

And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle, 
proud  city  of  the  waters, 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy 
mourning  daughters ; 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous 
in  our  joy, 

For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who 
wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 


Hurrah !  Hurrah !  a  single  field  hath 
turn’d  the  chance  of  war, 

Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of 
Navarre. 

Oh,  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when  at 
the  dawn  of  day 

We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn 
out  in  long  array  ; 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its 
rebel  peers, 

And  Appenzel’s  stout  infantry,  and  Eg- 
mont’s  Flemish  spears. 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the 
curses  of  our  land  ; 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a 
truncheon  in  his  hand  : 

And,  as  we  look’d  on  them,  we  thought  of 
Seine’s  empurpled  flood, 

And  good  Coligni’s  hoary  hair  all  dabbled 
with  his  blood  ; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who 
rules  the  fate  of  war, 

To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  Henry 
of  Navarre. 

The  King  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his 
armor  drest, 

And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume 
upon  his  gallant  crest. 

He  look’d  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was 
in  his  eye ; 

He  look’d  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance 
was  stern  and  high. 

Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  roll’d 
from  wing  to  wing, 

Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout, 
“  God  save  our  Lord,  the  King  !’’ 

“  And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall 
full  well  he  may, 

For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a 
bloody  fray, 

Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine, 
amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 

And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet 
of  Navarre.” 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving.  Hark  to 
the  mingled  din, 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum, 
and  roaring  culverin. 


308 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint 
Andre’s  plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders 
and  Almavne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gen¬ 
tlemen  of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies !  upon  them 
with  the  lance ! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a 
thousand  spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  be¬ 
hind  the  snow-white  crest ; 

And  in  they  burst,-  and  on  they  rush’d, 
while,  like  a  guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  hel¬ 
met  of  Navarre. 


Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours. 
Mavenne  hath  turn’d  his  rein. 

D’Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter.  The 
Flemish  count  is  slain. 

Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds 
before  a  Biscay  gale  ; 

.  The  field  is  heap’d  with  bleeding  steeds, 
and  flags,  and  cloven  mail. 

And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and, 
all  along  our  van, 

“  Remember  St.  Bartholomew  !”  was  pass’d 
from  man  to  man. 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  “No  French¬ 
man  is  my  foe  : 

Down,  down,  with  every  foreigner,  but  let 
your  brethren  go.” 

Oh !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in 
friendship  or  in  war, 

As  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry,  the 
soldier  of  Navarre? 


Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who 
fought  for  France  to-day  ; 

And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them 
for  a  prey. 

But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best 
in  fight ; 

And  the  good  Lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta’en 
the  cornet  white. 

Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white 
hath  ta’en, 

The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the 
flag  of  false  Lorraine. 


LTp  with  it  high  ;  unfurl  it  wide  ;  that  all 
i  the  host  mav  know 

How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house 
which  wrought  his  Church  such  woe. 

Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound 
their  loudest  point  of  war, 

Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcloth  meet  for 
Henry  of  Navarre. 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna  ;  ho  !  matrons  of 
Lucerne ; 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those 
who  never  shall  return. 

Ho  !  Philip,  send  for  charity  thy  Mexican 
pistoles, 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for 
thy  poor  spearmen’s  souls. 

Ho  !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look 
that  your  arms  be  bright ; 

Ho  !  burghers  of  Saint  Genevieve,  keep 
watch  and  ward  to-night. 

For  our  God  hath  crush’d  the  tvrant,  our 
God  hath  raised  the  slave, 

And  mock’d  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and 
the  valor  of  the  brave. 

Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom 
all  glories  are  ; 

And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King 
Henry  of  Navarre. 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay. 

- - 

The  Landing  of  the  pilgrim 
Fathers  in  New  England. 

“  Look  now  abroad  ; — another  race  has  fill’d 

Those  populous  borders  ;  wide  the  wood  recedes, 
And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  till’d; 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads.” 

Bryant. 

The  breaking  waves  dash’d  high, 

On  a  stern  and  rock -bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  toss’d ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o’er, 

When  a  band  of  exiles  moor’d  their  bark 
On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came ; 

Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 
And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame; 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


309 


Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear, — 

They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 
With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea, 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods 
rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soar’d 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave’s  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest 
roar’d — 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 
Amidst  that  pilgrim  band  : 

Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood’s  land? 

There  was  woman’s  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love’s  truth  ; 

There  was  manhood’s  brow  serenely  high, 
And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 

The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war? 
They  sought  a  faith’s  pure  shrine ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod ; 

They  have  left  unstain’d  what  there  they 
found — 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 

- »o« - 

The  Three  Troopers. 

During  the  Protectorate. 

Into  the  Devil  tavern 
Three  booted  troopers  strode, 

From  spur  to  feather  spotted  and  splash’d 
With  the  mud  of  a  winter  road. 

In  each  of  their  cups  they  dropp’d  a  crust, 
And  stared  at  the  guests  with  a  frown  ; 
Then  drew  their  swords,  and  roar’d  for  a 
toast, 

“  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !” 


A  blue  smoke  rose  from  their  pistol-locks, 
Their  sword-blades  were  still  wet ; 

There  were  long  red  smears  on  their  jerkins 
of  buff, 

As  the  table  they  overset. 

Then  into  their  cups  they  stirr’d  the  crusts, 
And  cursed  old  London  town  ; 

Then  waved  their  swords,  and  drank  with 
a  stamp 

“  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !” 

The  ’prentice  dropp’d  his  can  of  beer, 

The  host  turn’d  pale  as  a  clout; 

The  ruby  nose  of  the  toping  squires 
Grew  white  at  the  wild  men’s  shout. 
Then  into  their  cups  they  flung  the  crusts, 
And  show’d  their  teeth  with  a  frown ; 
They  flash’d  their  swords  as  they  gave  the 
toast, 

“  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !” 

The  gambler  dropp’d  his  dog’s-ear’d  cards, 
The  waiting-women  scream’d, 

As  the  light  of  the  fire  like  stains  of  blood, 
On  the  wild  men’s  sabres  gleam’d. 

Then  into  their  cups  they  splash’d  the 
crusts, 

And  cursed  the  fool  of  a  town, 

And  leap’d  on  the  table,  and  roar’d  a 
toast, 

“  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !” 

Till  on  a  sudden  fire-bells  rang, 

And  the  troopers  sprang  to  horse  ; 

The  eldest  mutter’d  between  his  teeth, 

Hot  curses — deep  and  coarse. 

In  their  stirrup-cups  they  flung  the  crusts, 
And  cried  as  they  spurr’d  through  town, 
With  their  keen  swords  drawn  and  their 
pistols  cock’d, 

“  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !” 

Away  they  dash’d  through  Temple  Bar, 
Their  red  cloaks  flowing  free, 

Their  scabbards  clash’d,  each  back-piece 
shone — 

None  liked  to  touch  the  three. 

The  silver  cups  that  held  the  crusts 
They  flung  to  the  startled  town, 
Shouting  again,  with  a  blaze  of  swords, 

“  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !” 

George  Walter  Tiiornbury. 


-•o* 


310 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Marching  Along. 

A  Cavalier  Song. 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  king, 

Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing: 

And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 

And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk 
droop, 

March’d  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this 
song. 

God  for  King  Charles !  Pym  and  such 
carles 

To  the  Devil  that  prompts  ’em  their  trea¬ 
sonous  paries ! 

Cavaliers,  up !  Lips  from  the  cup, 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor 
sup 

Till  you’re — 

Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this 
song. 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies’  knell 

Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry 
as  well ! 

England,  good  cheer !  Rupert  is  near  ! 

Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here 
Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this 
song? 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles !  Pym  and 
his  snarls 

To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent 
carles ! 

Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might : 

So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the 
fight, 

March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this 
song. 

Robert  Browing. 

- •<>♦ - 

Ja  cobite  Toast. 

God  bless  the  king ! — I  mean  the  Faith’s 
Defender ; 

God  bless  (no  harm  in  blessing)  the  Pre¬ 
tender  ! 


But  who  Pretender  is,  or  who  is  kins — 

7  O 

God  bless  us  all! — that’s  quite  another 
thing. 

John  Byrom. 

- >o«-  ■ 

The  Covenanters'  Battle- 
Chant. 

To  battle !  to  battle ! 

To  slaughter  and  strife ! 

For  a  sad,  broken  Covenant 
We  barter  poor  life. 

The  great  God  of  Judah 
Shall  smite  with  our  hand, 

And  break  down  the  idols 
That  cumber  the  land. 

Uplift  every  voice 

In  prayer  and  in  song ; 

Remember  the  battle 
Is  not  to  the  strong  ; 

Lo  !  the  Ammonites  thicken, 

And  onward  they  come, 

To  the  vain  noise  of  trumpet. 

Of  cymbal,  and  drum. 

They  haste  to  the  onslaught, 

With  hagbut  and  spear ; 

They  lust  for  a  banquet 
That’s  deathful  and  dear. 

Now  horseman  and  footman 
Sweep  down  the  hillside ; 

They  come,  like  fierce  Pharaohs, 

To  die  in  their  pride ! 

See,  long  plume  and  pennon 
Stream  gay  in  the  air ! 

They  are  given  us  for  slaughter,— 
Shall  God’s  people  spare? 

Nay,  nay  ;  lop  them  off, 

Friend,  father,  and  son ; 

All  earth  is  athirst  till 
The  good  work  be  done. 

Brace  tight  every  buckler, 

And  lift  high  the  sword, 

For  biting  must  blades  be 
That  fight  for  the  Lord. 

Remember,  remember, 

How  saints’  blood  was  shed, 

As  free  as  the  rain,  and 
Homes  desolate  made  I 


SPEEE  . 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


311 


Among  them  !  among  them  ! 

Unburied  bones  cry, 

Avenge  us,  or,  like  us, 

Faith’s  true  martyrs  die. 

Hew  !  hew  down  the  spoilers ! 

Slay  on,  and  spare  none ; 

Then  shout  forth  in  gladness, 

Heaven’s  battle  is  won  ! 

W illiam  Motherwell. 


The  Cavaliers  Song. 

A  steed  !  a  steed  of  matclilesse  speed, 

A  sword  of  metal  keene ! 

All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drosse, 

All  else  on  earth  is  meane. 

The  neighynge  of  the  war-horse  prowde, 
The  rowlinge  of  the  drum, 

The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde, 

Be  soundes  from  heaven  that  come ; 

And  oh  the  thundering  presse  of  knightes, 
Whenas  their  war-cryes  swell, 

May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  bright, 

And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mounte !  then  mounte,  brave  gallants 
all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine: 

Deathe’s  couriers,  fame  and  honour,  call 
Us  to  the  field  againe. 

No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 
When  the  sword-hilt’s  in  our  hand — 
Heart  whole  we’ll  part,  and  no  whit 
sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land ; 

Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight, 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye ; 

Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  die ! 

William  Motherwell. 

--•O*  ■  — 

Naseby. 

Oh,  wherefore  come  ye  forth  in  triumph 
from  the  north, 

With  your  hands,  and  your  feet,  and 
your  raiment  all  red? 

And  wherefore  doth  your  rout  send  forth  a 
joyous  shout? 

And  whence  be  the  grapes  of  the  wine¬ 
press  which  ye  tread  ? 


Oh,  evil  was  the  root,  and  bitter  was  the 
fruit, 

And  crimson  was  the  juice  of  the  vintage 
that  we  trod  ; 

For  we  trampled  on  the  throng  of  the 
haughty  and  the  strong, 

Who  sate  in  the  high  places  and  slew 
the  saints  of  God. 

It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  of 
June, 

That  we  saw  their  banners  dance  and 
their  cuirasses  shine, 

And  the  Man  of  Blood  was  there,  with  his 
long  essenced  hair, 

And  Astlev,  and  Sir  Marmaduke,  and 
Rupert  of  the  Rhine. 

Like  a.  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  Bible 
and  his  sword, 

The  general  rode  along  us  to  form  us  for 
the  fight ; 

When  a  murmuring  sound  broke  out,  and 
swell’d  into  a  shout 

Among  the  godless  horsemen  upon  the 
tyrant’s  right. 

And  hark  !  like  the  roar  of  the  billows  on 
the  shore, 

The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charg¬ 
ing  line: 

For  God  !  for  the  Cause  !  for  the  Church  ! 
for  the  Laws ! 

For  Charles,  king  of  England,  and 
Rupert  of  the  Rhine  ! 

The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  clar¬ 
ions  and  his  drums, 

His  bravoes  of  Alsatia  and  pages  of 
Whitehall ; 

They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks !  Grasp 
your  pikes  !  Close  your  ranks  ! 

For  Rupert  never  comes,  but  to  conquer, 
or  to  fall. 

They  are  here — they  rush  on — we  are  bro¬ 
ken — we  are  gone — 

Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble 
on  the  blast. 

0  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might!  O  Lord,  de¬ 
fend  the  right ! 

Stand  back  to  back,  in  God’s  name  !  and 
fight  it  to  the  last ! 


312 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Stout  Skippon  hath  a  wound — the  centre 
hath  given  ground. 

Hark  !  hark !  what  means  the  trampling 
of  horsemen  on  our  rear? 

Whose  banner  do  I  see,  boys?  ’Tis  he! 
thank  God  !  ’tis  he,  boys ! 

Bear  up  another  minute !  Brave  Oliver 
is  here ! 

Their  heads  all  stooping  low,  their  points 
all  in  a  row, 

Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a 
deluge  on  the  dikes, 

Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of 
the  accurst, 

And  at  a  shock  have  scatter’d  the  forest 
of  his  pikes. 

Fast,  fast,  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe 
nook  to  hide 

Their  coward  heads,  predestined  to  rot 
on  Temple  Bar ; 

And  he — he  turns !  he  flies !  shame  on  1 
those  cruel  eyes 

That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dare 
not  look  on  war ! 

Ho,  comrades !  scour  the  plain  ;  and  ere  ye 
strip  the  slain, 

First  give  another  stab  to  make  your 
search  secure  ; 

Then  shake  from  sleeves  and  pockets  their 
broad-pieces  and  lockets, 

The  tokens  of  the  wanton,  the  plunder 
of  the  poor. 

Fools  !  your  doublets  shone  with  gold,  and 
your  hearts  were  gay  and  bold, 

When  you  kiss’d  your  lily  hands  to  your 
lemans  to-day ; 

And  to-morrow  shall  the  fox  from  her 
chambers  in  the  rocks 

Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  above 
the  prey. 

Where  be  your  tongues,  that  late  mock’d 
at  heaven,  and  hell,  and  fate? 

And  the  Angers  that  once  were  so  busy 
with  your  blades? 

Your  perfumed  satin  clothes,  your  catches 
and  your  oaths? 

Your  stage-plays  and  your  sonnets,  your 
diamonds  and  your  spades? 


Down !  down !  for  ever  down  with  the 
mitre  and  the  crown  ! 

With  the  Belial  of  the  court,  and  the 
Mammon  of  the  Pope ! 

There  is  woe  in  Oxford  halls,  there  is  wail 
in  Durham’s  stalls; 

The  Jesuit  smites  his  bosom,  the  bishop 
rends  his  cope. 

And  she  of  the  seven  hills  shall  mourn  her 
children’s  ills, 

And  tremble  when  she  thinks  on  the 
edge  of  England’s  sword ; 

And  the  kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  shudder 
when  they  hear 

What  the  hand  of  God  hath  wrought  for 
the  Houses  and  the  Word ! 

Thomas  Babingtox  Macaulay, 

- K>« - 

On  the  Funeral  of  Charles 
the  First, 

At  Night  in  St.  George’s  Chapel, 

.  Windsor. 

The  castle  clock  had  toll’d  midnight. 

With  mattock  and  with  spade — 

And  silent  by  the  torches’  light — 

His  corse  in  earth  we  laid. 

The  coffin  bore  his  name,  that  those 
Of  other  years  might  know, 

When  earth  its  secrets  should  disclose, 
Whose  bones  were  laid  below. 

“  Peace  to  the  dead  !”  no  children  sung, 
Slow  pacing  up  the  nave ; 

No  prayers  were  read,  no  knell  was  rung 
As  deep  we  dug  his  grave. 

We  only  heard  the  winter’s  wind, 

In  many  a  sullen  gust, 

As  o’er  the  open  grave  inclined, 

We  murmur’d,  “  Dust  to  dust!” 

A  moonbeam  from  the  arch’s  height 
Stream’d,  as  we  placed  the  stone  ; 

The  long  aisles  started  into  light, 

And  all  the  windows  shone. 

We  thought  we  saw  the  banners  then 
That  shook  along  the  walls, 

Whilst  the  sad  shades  of  mailed  men 
Were  gazing  on  the  stalls. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


313 


;Tis  gone  ! — Again  on  tombs  defaced 
Sits  darkness  more  profound  ; 

And  only  by  the  torch  we  traced 
The  shadows  on  the  ground. 

And  now  the  chilling,  freezing  air 
Without  blew  long  and  loud ; 

Upon  our  knees  we  breathed  one  prayer, 
Where  he  slept  in  his  shroud. 

We  laid  the  broken  marble  floor, — 

No  name,  no  trace  appears ! 

And  when  we  closed  the  sounding  door, 

We  thought  of  him  with  tears. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


When  the  Assault  was  In¬ 
tended  to  the  City. 

Captain,  or  colonel,  or  knight  in  arms, 

Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doors 
may  seize, 

If  deed  of  honor  did  thee  ever  please, 

Guard  them,  and  him  within  protect  from 
harms. 

He  can  requite  thee ;  for  he  knows  the 
charms 

That  call  fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as 
these, 

And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o’er  lands 
and  seas, 

Whatever  clime  the  sun’s  bright  circle 
warms. 

Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses’ 
bower : 

The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare 

The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and 
tower 

Went  to  the  ground;  and  the  repeated 
air 

Of  sad  Electra’s  poet  had  the  power 

To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin 
bare. 

John  Milton. 


On  the  Late  Massacre  in 
Piedmont. 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughter’d  saints, 
whose  bones 

Lie  scatter’d  on  the  Alpine  mountains 
cold  ; 


Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure 
of  old 

When  all  our  fathers  worshipt  stocks  and 
stones. 

Forget  not:  In  thy  book  record  their 
groans 

Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  an¬ 
cient  fold 

Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that 
roll’d 

Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.  Tlicir 
moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  Heaven.  Their  martyr’d  blood  and 
ashes  sow 

O’er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth 
sway 

The  triple  tyrant,  that  from  these  may 
grow 

A  hundred-fold,  who,  having  learnt  Thy 
way, 

Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

John  Milton. 


The  Execution  of  Montrose. 

Come  hither,  Evan  Cameron  ! 

Come,  stand  behind  my  knee — 

I  hear  the  river  roaring  down 
Toward  the  wintry  sea. 

There’s  shouting  on  the  mountain-side, 
There’s  war  within  the  blast — 

Old  faces  look  upon  me, 

Old  forms  go  trooping  past. 

I  hear  the  pibroch  wailing 
Amidst  the  din  of  fight, 

And  my  dim  spirit  wakes  again 
Upon  the  verge  of  night. 

’Twas  I  that  led  the  Highland  host 
Through  wild  Lochaber’s  snows, 

What  time  the  plaided  clans  came  down 
To  battle  with  Montrose. 

I’ve  told  thee  how  the  Southrons  fell 
Beneath  the  broad  claymore, 

And  how  we  smote  the  Campbell  clan 
By  Inverlochy’s  shore. 

I’ve  told  thee  how  we  swept  Dundee, 
And  tamed  the  Lindsays’  pride ; 

But  never  have  I  told  thee  yet 
How  the  great  Marquis  died. 


314 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


A  traitor  sold  him  to  his  foes  ; — 

0  deed  of  deathless  shame  ! 

I  charge  thee,  boy,  if  e’er  thou  meet 
With  one  of  Assynt’s  name — 

Be  it  upon  the  mountain’s  side, 

Or  yet  within  the  glen, 

Stand  he  in  martial  gear  alone, 

Or  back’d  by  armed  men — 

Face  him  as  thou  wouldst  face  the  man 
Who  wrong’d  thy  sire’s  renown  ; 
Remember  of  what  blood  thou  art, 

And  strike  the  caitiff  down  ! 

They  brought  him  to  the  Watergate, 

Hard  bound  with  hempen  span, 

As  though  they  held  a  lion  there, 

And  not  a  ’fenceless  man. 

They  set  him  high  upon  a  cart — 

The  hangman  rode  below — 

They  drew  his  hands  behind  his  back, 

And  bared  his  noble  brow. 

Then,  as  a  hound  is  slipp’d  from  leash, 
They  cheer’d  the  common  throng, 

And  blew  the  note  with  yell  and  shout, 
And  bade  him  pass  along. 

It  would  have  made  a  brave  man’s  heart 
Grow  sad  and  sick  that  day, 

To  watch  the  keen,  malignant  eyes 
Bent  down  on  that  array. 

There  stood  the  Whig  west-country  lords 
In  balcony  and  bow  ; 

There  sat  their  gaunt  and  wither’d  dames, 
And  their  daughters  all  a-row. 

And  every  open  window 
Was  full  as  full  might  be 
With  black-robed  Covenanting  carles, 
That  goodly  sport  to  see ! 

But  when  he  came,  though  pale  and  wan, 
He  look’d  so  great  and  high, 

So  noble  was  his  manly  front, 

So  calm  his  steadfast  eye  ; — 

The  rabble  rout  forbore  to  shout, 

And  each  man  held  his  breath, 

For  well  they  knew  the  hero’s  soul 
Was  face  to  face  with  death. 

And  then  a  mournful  shudder 
Through  all  the  people  crept, 

And  some  that  came  to  scoff  at  him 
Now  turn’d  aside  and  wept. 


But  onward — always  onward, 

In  silence  and  in  gloom, 

The  dreary  pageant  labor’d, 

Till  it  reach’d  the  house  of  doom. 

Then  first  a  woman’s  voice  was  heard 
In  jeer  and  laughter  loud, 

And  an  angry  cry  and  a  hiss  arose 
From  the  heart  of  the  tossing  crowd: 
Then,  as  the  Grseme  looked  upward, 

He  saw  the  ugly  smile 
Of  him  who  sold  his  king  for  gold — 

The  master-fiend  Argyle ! 

The  Marquis  gazed  a  moment, 

And  nothing  did  he  say, 

But  the  cheek  of  Argyle  grew  ghastly  pale, 
And  he  turn’d  his  eyes  away. 

The  painted  harlot  by  his  side, 

She  shook  through  every  limb, 

For  a  roar  like  thunder  swept  the  street, 
And  hands  were  clench’d  at  him  ; 

And  a  Saxon  soldier  cried  aloud, 

“  Back,  coward,  from  thy  place  ! 

For  seven  long  years  thou  hast  not  dared 
To  look  him  in  the  face.” 

Had  I  been  there  with  sword  in  hand, 

And  fifty  Camerons  by, 

That  day  through  high  Dunedin’s  streets 
Had  peal’d  the  slogan-cry. 

Not  all  their  troops  of  trampling  horse, 
Nor  might  of  mailed  men — 

Not  all  the  rebels  in  the  south 
Had  borne  us  backward  then  ! 

Once  more  his  foot  on  Highland  heath 
Had  trod  as  free  as  air, 

Or  I,  and  all  who  bore  my  name, 

Been  laid  around  him  there  ! 

It  might  not  be.  They  placed  him  next 
Within  the  solemn  hall, 

Where  once  the  Scottish  kings  were  throned 
Amidst  their  nobles  all. 

But  there  was  dust  of  vulgar  feet 
On  that  polluted  floor, 

And  perjured  traitors  fill’d  the  place 
Where  good  men  sate  before. 

With  savage  glee  came  Warriston 
To  read  the  murderous  doom  ; 

And  then  uprose  the  great  Montrose 
In  the  middle  of  the  room  : 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


315 


“  Now,  by.  my  faith  as  belted  knight 
And  by  the  name  I  bear, 

And  by  the  bright  St.  Andrew’s  cross 
That  waves  above  us  there — 

Yea,  by  a  greater,  mightier  oath — 

And  oh  that  such  should  be ! — 

By  that  dark  stream  of  royal  blood 
That  lies  ’twixt  you  and  me — 

I  have  not  sought  in  battle-field 
A  wreath  of  such  renown, 

Nor  dared  I  hope  on  my  dying  day 
To  win  the  martyr’s  crown  ! 

“  There  is  a  chamber  far  away 
Where  sleep  the  good  and  brave, 

But  a  better  place  ye  have  named  for  me 
Than  by  my  fathers’  grave. 

For  truth  and  right,  ’gainst  treason’s  might, 
This  hand  hath  always  striven, 

And  ye  raise  it  up  for  a  witness  still 
In  the  eye  of  earth  and  heaven. 

Then  nail  my  head  on  yonder  tower — 
Give  every  town  a  limb — 

And  God  who  made  shall  gather  them  : 

I  go  from  you  to  Him  !” 

The  morning  dawn’d  full  darkly, 

The  rain  came  flashing  down, 

And  the  jagged  streak  of  the  levin-bolt 
Lit  up  the  gloomy  town  ; 

The  thunder  crash’d  across  the  heaven, 
The  fatal  hour  was  come  ; 

Yet  aye  broke  in,  with  muffled  beat, 

The  ’larum  of  the  drum. 

There  was  madness  on  the  earth  below 
And  anger  in  the  sky, 

And  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor. 
Came  forth  to  see  him  die. 

Ah,  God  !  that  ghastly  gibbet ! 

How  dismal  ’tis  to  see 
The  great  tall  spectral  skeleton, 

The  ladder  and  the  tree  ! 

Hark  !  hark  !  it  is  the  clash  of  arms — 

The  bells  begin  to  toll — 

“  He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  ! 

God’s  mercy  on  his  soul !” 

One  last  long  peal  of  thunder — 

The  clouds  are  clear’d  away, 

And  the  glorious  sun  once  more  looks  down 
Amidst  the  dazzling  day. 


“  He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  !” 

Like  a  bridegroom  from  his  room, 

Came  the  hero  from  his  prison 
To  the  scaffold  and  the  doom. 

There  was  glory  on  his  forehead, 

There  was  lustre  in  his  eye, 

And  he  never  walk’d  to  battle 
More  proudly  than  to  die  ; 

There  was  color  in  his  visage, 

Though  the  cheeks  of  all  were  wan. 
And  they  marvell’d  as  they  saw  him  pass, 
That  great  and  goodly  man  ! 

He  mounted  up  the  scaffold, 

And  he  turn’d  him  to  the  crowd  ; 

But  they  dared  not  trust  the  people, 

So  he  might  not  speak  aloud  ; 

But  he  look’d  upon  the  heavens, 

And  they  were  clear  and  blue, 

And  in  the  liquid  ether 
The  eye  of  God  shone  through. 

Yet  a  black  and  murky  battlement 
Lay  resting  on  the  hill, 

As  though  the  thunder  slept  within — 

All  else  was  calm  and  still. 

The  grim  Geneva  ministers 
With  anxious  scowl  drew  near, 

As  you  have  seen  the  ravens  flock 
Around  the  dying  deer. 

He  would  not  deign  them  word  nor  sign, 
But  alone  he  bent  the  knee  ; 

And  veil’d  his  face  for  Christ’s  dear  grace 
Beneath  the  gallows  tree. 

Then  radiant  and  serene  he  rose, 

And  cast  his  cloak  away  : 

For  he  had  ta’en  his  latest  look 
Of  earth  and  sun  and  day. 

A  beam  of  light  fell  o’er  him, 

Like  a  glory  round  the  shriven, 

And  he  climb’d  the  lofty  ladder 
As  it  were  the  path  to  heaven. 

Then  came  a  flash  from  out  the  cloud, 

And  a  stunning  thunder-roll ; 

And  no  man  dared  to  look  aloft, 

For  fear  was  on  every  soul. 

There  was  another  heavy  sound, 

A  hush  and  then  a  groan  ; 

And  darkness  swept  across  the  sky — 

The  work  of  death  was  done  ! 

William  Elmondstoune  Aytoun. 


316 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Bonnets  of  Bonnie 
Dundee. 

To  the  lords  of  convention  ’twas  Claver- 
house  who  spoke, 

“  Ere  the  king’s  crown  shall  fall  there  are 
crowns  to  be  broke ; 

So  let  each  cavalier  who  loves  honor  and 
me 

Come  follow  the  bonnets  of  bonnie  Dun¬ 
dee!” 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up 
your  men ; 

Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us 
gang  free, 

And  it’s  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
bonnie  Dundee! 

I 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the 
street, 

The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums 
they  are  beat ; 

But  the  provost,  douce  man,  said,  “  Just 
e’en  let  him  be, 

The  gude  toun  is  well  quit  of  that  de’il  of 
Dundee !” 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can  ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up 
your  men; 

Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us 
gang  free, 

And  it’s  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
bonnie  Dundee ! 

As  he  rode  doun  the  sanctified  bends  of 
the  Bow 

Ilk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her 
pow  ; 

But  the  young  plants  of  grace  they  look’d 
cowthie  and  slee, 

Thinking,  Luck  to  thy  bonnet,  thou  bonnie 
Dundee! 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up 
your  men  ; 

Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us 
gang  free, 

And  it’s  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
bonnie  Dundee ! 


With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grass- 
market  was  th rang’d 

As  if  half  the  west  had  set  tryst  to  be 
hang’d ; 

There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was 
fear  in  each  ee, 

As  they  watch’d  for  the  bonnets  of  bonnie 
Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up 
your  men ; 

Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us 
gang  free, 

And  it’s  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
bonnie  Dundee ! 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and 
had  spears, 

And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  cavaliers; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads,  and  the 
causeway  was  free 

At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  bonnie  Dun¬ 
dee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up 
your  men ; 

Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us 
gang  free, 

And  it’s  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
bonnie  Dundee  ! 

He  spurr’d  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  castle 
rock, 

And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly 
spoke : 

“Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak 
twa  words  or  three, 

For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  bonnie  Dun¬ 
dee.” 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up 
vour  men ; 

Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us 
gang  free, 

And  it’s  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
bonnie  Dundee ! 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way 
he  goes — 

“  Where’er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of 
Montrose ! 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


317 


Your  Grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tid¬ 
ings  of  me, 

Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  bonnie 
Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can  ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up 
your  men ; 

Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us 
gang  free, 

And  it’s  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
bonnie  Dundee! 

“  There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland  and 
lands  beyond  Forth; 

If  there’s  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there’s 
chiefs  in  the  north  ; 

There  are  wild  Duniewassals  three  thou¬ 
sand  times  three 

Will  cry  ‘Hoigh  !’  for  the  bonnet  of  bonnie 
Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up 
your  men ; 

Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us 
gang  free, 

And  it’s  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
bonnie  Dundee ! 

“  There’s  brass  on  the  target  of  barken’d 
bull-hide, 

There’s  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles 
beside ; 

The  brass  shall  be  burnish’d,  the  steel 
shall  flash  free, 

At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  bonnie  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up 
your  men ; 

Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us 
gang  free, 

And  it’s  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
bonnie  Dundee !  . 

“Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the 
rocks ; 

Ere  I  own  an  usurper  I’ll  couch  with  the  fox ; 

And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  of 
your  glee, 

You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet 
and  me.” 


Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up 
your  men ; 

Come  open  the  Westport  and  let  us 
gang  free, 

And  it’s  room  for  the  bonnets  of 
bonnie  Dundee ! 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  the  trump¬ 
ets  were  blown, 

The  kettle-drums  clash’d,  and  the  horse¬ 
men  rode  on, 

Till  on  Ravelston’s  cliffs  and  on  Clermis- 
ton’s  lea 

Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  bonnie 
Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 
can  ; 

Come  saddle  the  horses,  and  call  up 
the  men ; 

Come  open  your  doors  and  let  me  gae 
free, 

For  it’s  up  with  the  bonnets  of  bonnie 
Dundee ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


The  Burial- March  of  Dundee . 

Sound  fife,  and  cry  the  slogan — 

Let  the  pibroch  shake  the  air 
With  its  wild  triumphal  music, 

Worthy  of  the  freight  we  bear, 
i  Let  the  ancient  hills  of  Scotland 

l 

Hear  once  more  the  battle-song 
Swell  within  their  glens  and  valleys 
As  the  clansmen  march  along  ! 

Never  from  the  field  of  combat, 

Never  from  the  deadly  fray, 

Was  a  nobler  trophy  carried 
Than  we  bring  with  us  to-day  ; 

Never  since  the  valiant  Douglas 
On  his  dauntless  bosom  bore 
Good  King  Robert’s  heart — the  priceless— 
To  our  dear  Redeemer’s  shore  ! 

Lo  !  we  bring  with  us  the  hero — 

Lo  !  we  bring  the  conquering  Graeme, 
Crown’d  as  best  beseems  a  victor 
From  the  altar  of  his  fame ; 

Fresh  and  bleeding  from  the  battle 
Whence  his  spirit  took  its  flight, 

Midst  the  crashing  charge  of  squadrons, 
And  the  thunder  of  the  fight ! 


318 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Strike,  I  say,  the  notes  of  triumph, 

As  we  march  o’er  moor  and  lea  ! 

Is  there  any  here  will  venture 
To  bewail  our  dead  Dundee  ? 

Let  the  widows  of  the  traitors 
Weep  until  their  eyes  are  dim  ! 

Wail  ye  may  full  well  for  Scotland — 
Let  none  dare  to  mourn  for  him  ! 

See  !  above  his  glorious  body 
Lies  the  royal  banner’s  fold — 

See  !  his  valiant  blood  is  mingled 
With  its  crimson  and  its  gold. 

See  how  calm  he  looks  and  stately, 
Like  a  warrior  on  his  shield, 

Waiting  till  the  flush  of  morning 
Breaks  along  the  battle-field  ! 

See — Oh  never  more,  my  comrades, 
Shall  we  see  that  falcon  eye 
Redden  with  its  inward  lightning, 

As  the  hour  of  fight  drew  nigh  ! 
Never  shall  we  hear  the  voice  that, 
Clearer  than  the  trumpet’s  call, 

Bade  us  strike  for  King  and  Country, 
Bade  us  win  the  field,  or  fall ! 

On  the  heights  of  Killiecrankie 
Yester-morn  our  army  lay  : 

Slowly  rose  the  mist  in  columns 
From  the  river’s  broken  way  ; 
Hoarsely  roar’d  the  swollen  torrent, 
And  the  pass  was  wrapp’d  in  gloom, 
When  the  clansmen  rose  together 
From  their  lair  amidst  the  broom. 
Then  we  belted  on  our  tartans, 

And  our  bonnets  down  we  drew, 
And  we  felt  our  broadswords’  edges, 
And  we  proved  them  to  be  true  ; 
And  we  pray’d  the  prayer  of  soldiers, 
And  we  cried  the  gathering-cry, 
And  we  clasp’d  the  hands  of  kinsmen, 
And  we  swore  to  do  or  die  ! 

Then  our  leader  rode  before  us 
On  his  war-horse  black  as  night — 
Well  the  Cameronian  rebels 

Knew  that  charger  in  the  fight ! — 
And  a  cry  of  exultation 

From  the  bearded  warriors  rose  ; 
For  we  loved  the  house  of  Claver’se, 
And  we  thought  of  good  Montrose. 
But  he  raised  his  hand  for  silence — 

“  Soldiers  !  I  have  sworn  a  vow  : 
Ere  the  evening  star  shall  glisten 
On  Schehallion’s  lofty  brow, 


Either  we  shall  rest  in  triumph, 

Or  another  of  the  Grsemes 
Shall  have  died  in  battle-harness 
For  his  Country  and  King  James  ! 
Think  upon  the  Royal  Martyr — 

Think  of  what  his  race  endure — 
Think  on  him  whom  butchers  murder’d 
On  the  field  of  Magus  Muir : 

By  his  sacred  blood  I  charge  ye, 

By  the  ruin’d  hearth  and  shrine — 

By  the  blighted  hopes  of  Scotland, 

By  your  injuries  and  mine — 

Strike  this  day  as  if  the  anvil 

Lav  beneath  vour  blows  the  while, 

Be  they  Covenanting  traitors, 

Or  the  brood  of  false  Argyle  ! 

Strike  !  and  drive  the  trembling  rebels 
Backward  o’er  the  stormy  Forth  ; 

Let  them  tell  their  pale  Convention 
How  they  fared  within  the  North. 

Let  them  tell  that  Highland  honor 
Is  not  to  be  bought  nor  sold, 

That  we  scorn  their  prince’s  anger 
As  we  loathe  his  foreign  gold. 

Strike  !  and  when  the  fight  is  over, 

If  you  look  in  vain  for  me, 

Where  the  dead  are  lying  thickest 
Search  for  him  that  was  Dundee  !” 

Loudly  then  the  hills  re-echoed 
With  our  answer  to  his  call, 

But  a  deeper  echo  sounded 
In  the  bosoms  of  us  all. 

For  the  lands  of  wide  Breadalbane, 

Not  a  man  who  heard  him  speak 
Would  that  day  have  left  the  battle. 

Burning  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
Told  the  clansmen’s  fierce  emotion, 

And  they  harder  drew  their  breath ; 
For  their  souls  were  strong  within  them 
Stronger  than  the  grasp  of  death. 
Soon  we  heard  a  challenge-trumpet 
Sounding  in  the  pass  below, 

And  the  distant  tramp  of  horses, 

And  the  voices  of  the  foe ; 

Down  we  crouch’d  amid  the  bracken, 
Till  the  Lowland  ranks  drew  near, 
Panting  like  the  hounds  in  summer, 
When  they  scent  the  stately  deer. 
From  the  dark  defile  emerging, 

Next  we  saw  the  squadrons  come, 
Leslie’s  foot  and  Leven’s  troopers 
Marching  to  the  tuck  of  drum  ; 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


319 


Through  the  scatter’d  wood  of  birches, 
O’er  the  broken  ground  and  heath, 
Wound  the  long  battalion  slowly, 

Till  they  gain’d  the  field  beneath ; 

Then  we  bounded  from  our  covert. — 
Judge  how  look’d  the  Saxons  then, 
When  they  saw  the  rugged  mountain 
Start  to  life  with  armed  men ! 

Like  a  tempest  down  the  ridges 
Swept  the  hurricane  of  steel, 

Rose  the  Slogan  of  Macdonald — 

Flash’d  the  broadsword  of  Lochiel ! 
Vainly  sped  the  withering  volley 
’Mongst  the  foremost  of  our  band — 

On  we  pour’d  until  we  met  them, 

Foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand. 

Horse  and  man  went  down  like  drift 
wood 

When  the  floods  are  black  at  Yule, 

And  their  carcasses  are  whirling 
In  the  Garry’s  deepest  pool. 

Horse  and  man  went  down  before  us — 
Living  foe  there  tarried  none 
On  the  field  of  Killiecrankie, 

When  that  stubborn  fight  was  done ! 

And  the  evening  star  was  shining 
On  Schehallion’s  distant  head, 

When  we  wiped  our  bloody  broadswords 
And  return’d  to  count  the  dead. 

There  we  found  him  gash’d  and  gory, 
Stretch’d  upon  the  cumber’d  plain, 

As  he  told  us  where  to  seek  him, 

In  the  thickest  of  the  slain. 

And  a  smile  was  on  his  visage, 

For  within  his  dying  ear 
Peal’d  the  joyful  note  of  triumph, 

And  the  clansmen’s  clamorous  cheer : 
So,  amidst  the  battle’s  thunder. 

Shot,  and  steel,  and  scorching  flame, 

In  the  glory  of  his  manhood 
Pass’d  the  spirit  of  the  Grseme ! 

Open  wide  the  vaults  of  Athol, 

Where  the  bones  of  heroes  rest — 

Open  wide  the  hallow’d  portals 
To  receive  another  guest ! 

Last  of  Scots,  and  last  of  freemen — 

Last  of  all  that  dauntless  race 
Who  would  rather  die  unsullied 
Than  outlive  the  land’s  disgrace  ! 


O  thou  lion-hearted  warrior  ! 

Reck  not  of  the  after-time  : 

Honor  may  be  deem’d  dishonor, 
Loyalty  be  called  a  crime. 

Sleep  in  peace  with  kindred  ashes 
Of  the  noble  and  the  true, 

Hands  that  never  failed  their  country, 
Hearts  that  never  baseness  knew. 
Sleep  ! — and  till  the  latest  trumpet 
Wakes  the  dead  from  earth  and  sea, 
Scotland  shall  not  boast  a  braver 
Chieftain  than  our  own  Dundee ! 

William  Edmondstoune  Aytoun. 


Herve  Riel. 

On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hun¬ 
dred  ninety-two, 

Did  the  English  fight  the  French, — woe 
to  France  ! 

And  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter 
through  the  blue, 

Like  a  crowd  of  frighten’d  porpoises  a 
shoal  of  sharks  pursue, 

Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St.  Malo 
on  the  Ranee, 

With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 

’Twas  the  squadron  that  escap’d,  with  the 
victor  in  full  chase  : 

First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his 
great  ship,  Damfreville  ; 

Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 

Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ; 

And  they  signall’d  to  the  place, 

“  Help  the  winners  of  a  race  ! 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take  us 
quick  ;  or,  quicker  still, 

Here’s  the  English  can  and  will !” 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk, 
and  leap’d  on  board  : 

“  Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships 
like  these  to  pass  ?”  laugh’d  they  • 

“  Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the 
passage  scarr’d  and  scored. 

Shall  the  ‘  Formidable’  here  with  her  twelve 
and  eighty  guns  % 

Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the 
single  narrow  way, 

Trust  to  enter  where  ’tis  ticklish  for  a  craft 
of  twenty  tons, 


320 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  with  flow  at  full  beside  ? 

Now  ’tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 

Reach  the  mooring  ?  Rather  say, 

While  rock  stands,  or  water  runs, 

Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay  !” 

Then  was  call’d  a  council  straight : 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate. 

“Here’s  the  English  at  our  heels :  would 
you  have  them  take  in  tow 
All  that’s  left  us  of  the  fleet,  link’d  to¬ 
gether  stern  and  bow, 

For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound? 

Better  run  the  ships  aground  !” 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech.) 

“Not  a  minute  more  to  wait ! 

Let  the  captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  ves¬ 
sels  on  the  beach  ! 

France  must  undergo  her  fate.” 

“Give  the  word  !”  But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard  : 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepp’d,  for  in 
struck,  amid  all  these, — 

A  captain  ?  a  lieutenant  ?  a  mate, — first, 
second,  third  ? 

No  such  man  of  mark  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete  ! 

But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  press’d  by  Tour- 
ville  for  the  fleet, 

A  poor  coasting-pilot  he, — Herve  Riel 
the  Croisickese. 

And  “  What  mockery  or  malice  have  we 
here  ?”  cries  Herve  Riel. 

“  Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins  ?  Are  you 
cowards,  fools,  or  rogues  ? 

Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals  ?  me,  who 
took  the  soundings,  tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow, 
every  swell, 

’Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve,  where 
the  river  disembogues  ? 

Are  you  bought  by  English  gold  ?  Is  it 
lfjve  the  lying’s  for  ? 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 

Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 

Enter’d  free  and  anchor’d  fast  at  the  foot 
of  Solidor. 


Burn  the  fleet,  and  ruin  France?  That 
were  worse  than  fifty  Hogues  ! 

Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth  !  Sirs, 
believe  me,  there’s  a  way  ! 

Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer. 

Get  this  ‘  Formidable  ’  clear, 

Make  the  others  follow  mine, 

And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a 
passage  I  know  well, 

Right  to  Solidor,  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound  ; 

And,  if  one  ship  misbehave, — 

Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, — 

Why,  I’ve  nothing  but  my  life :  here’s 
my  head  !”  cries  Herve  Riel. 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 

“  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great ! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the 
squadron  !”  cried  its  chief. 

Captains,  give  the  sailor  place  ! 

He  is  admiral,  in  brief. 

Still  the  north  wind,  by  God’s  grace. 

See  the  noble  fellow’s  face, 

As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 

Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 

Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were 
the  wide  sea’s  profound  ! 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock  ! 

Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that 
grates  the  ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief! 

The  peril,  see,  is  past ! 

All  are  harbor’d  to  the  last ! 

And  just  as  Herv6  Riel  holloas  “  Anchor !” 
sure  as  fate, 

Up  the  English  come, — too  late  ! 

So  the  storm  subsides  to  calm  : 

They  see  the  green  trees  wave 
On  the  heights  o’erlooking  Gr&ve  ; 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanch’d  with 
balm. 

“  Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 

Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 
As  they  cannonade  away  ! 

’Neath  rampir’d  Solidor  pleasant  riding 
on  the  Ranee !” 

How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  cap¬ 
tain’s  countenance ! 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


321 


Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

“  This  is  paradise  for  hell ! 

Let  France,  let  France’s  king, 

Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing  !” 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

“  Herve  Riel !” 

As  he  stepp’d  in  front  once  more ; 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 
In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, — 

Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

Then  said  Damfreville,  “  My  friend, 

I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard  : 

Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips  : 

You  have  saved  the  king  his  ships  ; 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
’Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse  ! 

Demand  whate’er  you  will, 

France  remains  your  debtor  still. 

Ask  to  heart’s  content,  and  have !  or  my 
name’s  not  Damfreville.” 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 

As  the  honest  heart  laugh’d  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue  : — 

“  Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say  ; 

Since  on  board  the  duty’s  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point 
what  is  it  but  a  run  ? — 

Since  ’tis  ask  and  have,  I  may  ; 

Since  the  others  go  ashore, — 

Come  !  A  good  whole  holiday  ! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I 
call  the  Belle  Aurore  !” 

That  he  ask’d,  and  that  he  got, — noth¬ 
ing  more. 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost : 

Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it 
befell ; 

Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had 
gone  to  wrack 

All  that  France  sav’d  from  the  fight 
whence  England  bore  the  bell. 

Go  to  Paris  ;  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
21 


On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank  : 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you 
come  to  Herve  Riel. 

So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 

Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse  ! 

In  my  verse,  Herv6  Riel,  do  thou  once 
more 

Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love  thy 
wife,  the  Belle  Aurore  ! 

Robert  Browning. 


FONTENO  Y. 

Thrice,  at  the  huts  of  Fontenoy,  the  Eng¬ 
lish  column  fail’d, 

And  twice  the  lines  of  Saint  Antoine  the 
Dutch  in  vain  assail’d, 

For  town  and  slope  were  fill’d  with  fort 
and  flanking  battery, 

And  well  they  swept  the  English  ranks 
and  Dutch  auxiliary. 

As  vainly,  through  De  Barri’s  wood,  the 
British  soldiers  burst, 

The  French  artillery  drove  them  back,  di¬ 
minish’d  and  dispersed. 

The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld 
with  anxious  eye, 

And  order’d  up  his  last  reserve,  his  latest 
chance  to  try ; 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  how  fast  his 
generals  ride ! 

And  mustering  come  his  chosen  troops, 
like  clouds  at  eventide. 

Six  thousand  English  veterans  in  stately 
column  tread, 

Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank, 
Lord  Hay  is  at  their  head ; 

Steady  they  step  adown  the  slope,  steady 
they  climb  the  hill, 

Steady  they  load,  steady  they  fire,  moving 
right  onward  still, 

Betwixt  the  wood  and  Fontenoy,  as  through 
a  furnace-blast, 

Through  rampart,  trench,  and  palisade, 
and  bullets  showering  fast ; 

And  on  the  open  plain  above  they  rose^ 
and  kept  their  course, 

With  ready  fire  and  grim  resolve,  that 
mock’d  at  hostile  force  : 


322 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Past  Fontenoy,  past  Fontenoy,  while  thin¬ 
ner  grow  their  ranks — 

They  break,  as  broke  the  Zuyder  Zee 
through  Holland’s  ocean  banks. 

More  idly  than  the  summer  flies  French 
tirailleurs  rush  round ; 

As  stubble  to  the  lava  tide  French  squad¬ 
rons  strew  the  ground ; 

Bomb-shell,  and  grape,  and  round-shot 
tore,  still  on  they  march’d  and 
fired — 

Fast,  from  each  volley,  grenadier  and  vol- 
tigeur  retired. 

“  Push  on,  my  household  cavalry !”  King 
Louis  madly  cried : 

To  death  they  rush,  but  rude  their  shock ; 
not  unavenged  they  died. 

On  through  the  camp  the  column  trod — 
King  Louis  turns  his  rein  : 

“Not  yet,  my  liege,”  Saxe  interposed,  “the 
Irish  troops  remain 

And  Fontenoy,  famed  Fontenoy,  had  been 
a  Waterloo, 

Were  not  these  exiles  ready  then,  fresh, 
vehement,  and  true. 

“Lord  Clare,”  he  says,  “you  have  your 
wish,  there  are  your  Saxon  foes !” 

The  Marshal  almost  smiles  to  see,  so  fu¬ 
riously  he  goes. 

How  fierce  the  look  these  exiles  wear, 
who’re  wont  to  be  so  gay ; 

The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in 
their  hearts  to-day — 

The  treatv  broken,  ere  the  ink  wherewith 
’twas  writ  could  dry, 

Their  plunder’d  homes,  their  ruin’d 
shrines,  their  women’s  parting  cry, 

Their  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves, 
their  country  overthrown, — 

Each  looks  as  if  revenge  for  all  were 
staked  on  him  alone. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet 
elsewhere, 

Rush’d  on  to  fight  a  nobler  band  than 
these  proud  exiles  were. 

O’Brien’s  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy,  as, 
halting,  he  commands, 

“  Fix  bay’nets  ” — “  Charge ;”  like  moun¬ 
tain-storm  rush  on  these  fiery  bands. 


Thin  is  the  English  column  now,  and  faint 
their  volleys  grow, 

Yet,  must’ring  all  the  strength  they  have, 
they  make  a  gallant  show. 

They  dress  their  ranks  upon  the  hill  to  face 
that  battle-wind, 

Their  bayonets  the  breakers’  foam,  like 
rocks  the  men  behind ; 

One  volley  crashes  from  their  line,  when, 
through  the  surging  smoke, 

With  empty  guns  clutch’d  in  their  hands, 
the  headlong  Irish  broke. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that 
fierce  huzza : 

“  Revenge !  remember  Limerick !  dash  down 
the  Sacsanach !” 

Like  lions  leaping  at  a  fold,  when  mad 
with  hunger’s  pang, 

Right  up  against  the  English  line  the  Irish 
exiles  sprang ; 

Bright  was  their  steel,  ’tis  bloody  now, 
their  guns  are  fill’d  with  gore  ; 

Through  shatter’d  ranks,  and  sever’d  files, 
and  trampled  flags  they  tore ; 

The  English  strove  with  desperate  strength, 
paused,  rallied,  stagger’d,  fled, — 

The  green  hillside  is  matted  close  with 
dying  and  with  dead. 

Across  the  plain  and  far  away  pass’d  on 
that  hideous  wrack, 

While  cavalier  and  fantassin  dash  in  upon 
their  track. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in 
the  sun, 

With  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand — the 

field  is  fought  and  won ! 

Thomas  Osborne  Davis. 

- - 

Battle  of  Fontenoy. 

By  our  camp-fires  rose  a  murmur 
At  the  dawning  of  the  day, 

And  the  tread  of  many  footsteps 
Spoke  the  advent  of  the  fray ; 

And  as  we  took  our  places, 

Few  and  stern  were  our  words, 

While  some  were  tightening  horse-girths, 
And  some  were  girding  swords. 

The  trumpet-blast  has  sounded 
Our  footmen  to  array — 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


323 


The  willing  steed  has  bounded, 

Impatient  for  the  fray — 

The  green  flag  is  unfolded, 

While  rose  the  cry  of  joy — 

“  Heaven  speed  dear  Ireland’s  banner 
To-day  at  Fontenoy  !” 

We  look’d  upon  that  banner, 

And  the  memory  arose 
Of  our  homes  and  perish’d  kindred 
Where  the  Lee  or  Shannon  flows  ; 

We  look’d  upon  that  banner, 

And  we  swore  to  God  on  high, 

To  smite  to-day  the  Saxon’s  might — 

To  conquer  or  to  die. 

> 

Loud  swells  the  charging  trumpet — 

’Tis  a  voice  from  our  own  land — 

God  of  battles  !  God  of  vengeance  ! 

Guide  to-day  the  patriot’s  brand  ; 

There  are  stains  to  wash  away, 

There  are  memories  to  destroy, 

In  the  best  blood  of  the  Briton 
To-day  at  Fontenoy. 

Plunge  deep  the  fiery  rowels 
In  a  thousand  reeking  flanks — 

Down,  chivalry  of  Ireland, 

Down  on  the  British  ranks  ! 

Now  shall  their  serried  columns 
Beneath  our  sabres  reel — 

Through  their  ranks,  then,  with  the  war- 
horse — 

Through  their  bosoms  with  the  steel. 

With  one  shout  for  good  King  Louis, 

And  the  fair  land  of  the  vine, 

Like  the  wrathful  Alpine  tempest, 

We  swept  upon  their  line — 

Then  rang  along  the  battle-field 
Triumphant  our  hurrah, 

And  we  smote  them  down,  still  cheering, 

“  Erin ,  slanthagal  go  bragh.” 

As  prized  as  is  the  blessing 
From  an  aged  father’s  lip — 

As  welcome  as  the  haven 

To  the  tempest-driven  ship — 

As  dear  as  to  the  lover 
The  smile  of  gentle  maid — - 
Is  this  day  of  long-sought  vengeance 
To  the  swords  of  the  Brigade. 


See  their  shatter’d  forces  flying, 

A  broken,  routed  line — 

See,  England,  what  brave  laurels 
For  your  brow  to-day  we  twine. 

Oh,  thrice  bless’d  the  hour  that  witness’d 
The  Briton  turn  to  flee 
From  the  chivalry  of  Erin 
And  France’s  “  jleur  de  lis.” 

As  we  lay  beside  our  camp-fires, 

When  the  sun  had  pass’d  away, 

And  thought  upon  our  brethren 
Who  had  perish’d  in  the  fray, 

We  pray’d  to  God  to  grant  us, 

And  then  we’d  die  with  joy, 

One  day  upon  our  own  dear  land 
Like  this  of  Fontenoy. 

Bartholomew  Dowling. 


Locii i eiis  Warning. 

W  IZARD — LOCHIEL. 

Wizard. 

Lochiel,  Locliiel !  beware  of  the  day 

When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in 
battle-array ! 

For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my 
sight, 

And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scatter’d  in 
fight. 

They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom 
and  crown ; 

Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them 
down ! 

Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the 
slain, 

And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to 
the  plain. 

But  hark  !  through  the  fast-flashing  light¬ 
ning  of  war 

What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frant  ic  and  far  ? 

’Tis  thine,  O  Glenullin!  whose  bride  shall 
await, 

Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at 
the  gate. 

A  steed  comes  at  morning :  no  rider  is 
there ; 

But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  de¬ 
spair. 

Weep,  Albin!  to  death  and  captivity  led — 

Oh  weep!  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the 
dead  ; 


324 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall 
wave, 

Culloden  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the 
brave. 

Lochiel. 

Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-tell¬ 
ing  seer ! 

Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear, 

Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering 
sight 

This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of 
fright. 

Wizard. 

Ha!  laugh’st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to 
scorn  ? 

Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume 
shall  be  torn  ! 

Say,  rush’d  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth 

From  his  home  in  the  dark-rolling  clouds 
of  the  north  ? 

Lo !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding, 
he  rode 

Companionless,  bearing  destruction 
abroad ; 

But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on 
high ! 

Ah  !  home  let  him  speed — for  the  spoiler  is 
nigh. 

Why  flames  the  far  summit?  Why  shoot 
to  the  blast 

Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament 
cast? 

’Tis  the  lire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully 
driven 

From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness 
of  heaven. 

Oh,  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in  might, 

Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements’ 
height, 

Heaven’s  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and 
to  burn ; 

Return  to  thy  dwelling!  all  lonely  return! 

For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark 
where  it  stood, 

And  a  wild  mother  scream  o’er  her  famish¬ 
ing  brood. 

Lochiel. 

False  wizard,  avaunt!  I  have  marshall’d 
my  clan ; 

Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms 
are  one ! 


They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and 
their  breath, 

And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of 
death. 

Then  welcome  be  Cumberland’s  steed  to 
the  shock ! 

Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave 
on  the  rock ! 

But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his 
cause, 

When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly 
draws  ; 

When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory 
crowd, 

Clanronald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the 
proud, 

All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan 
array - 

Wizard. 

- Lochiel,  Lochiel!  beware  of  the  day; 

For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may 
seal, 

But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  re¬ 
veal  ; 

’Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical 
lore, 

And  coming  events  casts  their  shadows  be¬ 
fore. 

I  tell  thee,  Culloden’s  dread  echoes  shall 
ring 

With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy 
fugitive  king. 

Lo !  anointed  by  heaven  with  the  vials  of 
wrath, 

Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  ! 

Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps 
from  my  sight: 

Rise,  rise  !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his 
flight! 

’Tis  finish’d.  Their  thunders  are.  hush’d 
on  the  moors ; 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  de¬ 
plores. 

But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner? 
where? 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  de¬ 
spair. 

Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banish’d, 
forlorn, 

i  7 

Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding 
i  and  torn  ? 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


325 


All  no !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near  ; 

The  war-drum  is  muffled  and  black  is  the 
bier ; 

His  death-bell  is  tolling.  Oh !  mercy, 
dispel 

Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to 
tell ! 

Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering 
limbs, 

And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony 
swims. 

Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his 
feet, 

Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown  ere  it 
ceases  to  beat, 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the 
gale - 

Lochiel. 

- Down,  soothless  insulter!  I  trust  not 

the  tale : 

For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 

So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  re¬ 
treat. 

Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be 
strew’d  in  their  gore, 

Like  ocean-weeds  heap’d  on  the  surf- 
beaten  shore, 

Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 

While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom 
remains, 

Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 

With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to 
the  foe ! 

And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his 
name, 

Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death¬ 
bed  of  fame. 

Thomas  Campbell. 

- *>•  - 

Young  Airly. 

Ken  ye  aught  of  brave  Lochiel? 

Or  ken  ye  aught  of  Airly? 

They  have  belted  on  their  bright  broad 
swords, 

And  off  and  awa’  wi’  Charlie. 

Now  bring  me  fire,  my  merry,  merry  men, 
And  bring  it  red  and  yarelv — 

At  mirk  midnight  there  flash’d  a  light 
O’er  the  topmost  towers  of  Airly. 


What  lowe  is  yon,  quo’  the  gude  Lochiel, 
Which  gleams  so  red  and  rarely  ? 

By  the  God  of  my  kin,  quo’  young  Ogilvie, 
It’s  my  ain  bonnie  liame  of  Airly! 

Put  up  your  sword,  said  the  brave  Lochiel, 
And  calm  your  mood,  quo’  Charlie; 

Ere  morning  glow  we’ll  raise  a  lowe 
Far  brighter  than  bonnie  Airly. 

Oh,  yon  fair  tower’s  my  native  tower! 

Nor  will  it  soothe  my  mourning, 

Were  London  palace,  tower,  and  town 
As  fast  and  brightly  burning. 

It’s  no  my  hame — my  father’s  hame, 

That  reddens  my  cheek  sae  sairlie — 

But  my  wife,  and  twa  sweet  babes  I  left 
To  smoor  in  the  smoke  of  Airly. 

Author  Unknown- 


Charlie  is  my  Darling. 

’Twas  on  a  Monday  morning, 
Right  early  in  the  year, 

That  Charlie  came  to  our  town, 
The  young  Chevalier. 

An’  Charlie  is  my  darling, 
My  darling,  my  darling, 
Charlie  is  my  darling, 

The  young  Chevalier. 

As  Charlie  he  came  up  the  gate, 
His  face  shone  like  the  day ; 

I  grat  to  see  the  lad  come  back 
That  had  been  lang  away. 

An’  Charlie  is  my  darling, 
My  darling,  my  darling, 
Charlie  is  my  darling, 

The  young  Chevalier. 

Then  ilka  bonnie  lassie  sang, 

As  to  the  door  she  ran, 

Our  king  shall  hae  his  ain  again, 
An’  Charlie  is  the  man : 

For  Charlie  he’s  my  darling. 

My  darling,  my  darling, 
Charlie  he’s  my  darling, 

The  young  Chevalier. 

Out  owre  yon  moory  mountain, 

An’  down  the  craigv  glen, 

Of  naething  else  our  lasses  sing 
But  Charlie  an’  his  men. 


326 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


An’  Charlie  he’s  my  darling, 

My  darling,  my  darling, 
Charlie  he’s  my  darling, 

The  young  Chevalier. 

Our  Highland  hearts  are  true  an’  leal, 
An’  glow  without  a  stain  ; 

Our  Highland  swords  are  metal  keen, 
An’  Charlie  he’s  our  ain. 

An’  Charlie  he’s  my  darling, 

My  darling,  my  darling, 
Charlie  he’s  my  darling, 

The  young  Chevalier. 

James  Hogg. 


Bonnie  Prince  Charlie. 

Cam  ye  by  Athol,  lad  wi’  the  philabeg, 

Down  by  the  Tummel,  or  banks  o’  the 
Garry ; 

Saw  ye  our  lads,  wi’  their  bonnets  and 
white  cockades, 

Leaving  their  mountains  to  follow 
Prince  Charlie? 

Follow  thee!  follow  thee!  wha  wadna 
follow  thee  ? 

Lang  hast  thou  loved  and  trusted  us 
fairly  : 

Charlie,  Charlie,  wha  wadna  follow 
thee, 

King  o’  the  Highland  hearts,  bonny 
Prince  Charlie? 

I  hae  but  ae  son,  my  gallant  young  Donald  ; 

But  if  I  had  ten,  they  should  follow 
Glengary. 

Health  to  M‘Donnel,  and  gallant  Clan- 
Ronald, 

For  these  are  the  men  that  will  die  for 
their  Charlie ! 

Follow  thee!  follow  thee!  wha  wadna 
follow  thee? 

Lang  hast  thou  loved  and  trusted  us 
fairly : 

Charlie,  Charlie,  wha  wadna  follow 
thee, 

King  o’  the  Highland  hearts,  bonny 
Prince  Charlie? 

I’ll  to  Lochiel  and  Appin,  and  kneel  to 
them, 

Down  by  Lord  Murray,  and  Roy  of 
Kildarlie ; 


Brave  MTntosh  he  shall  fly  to  the  field 
with  them  ; 

These  are  the  lads  I  can  trust  wi’  my 
Charlie ! 

Follow  thee !  follow  thee !  wha  wadna 
follow  thee? 

Lang  hast  thou  loved  and  trusted  us 
fairly : 

Charlie,  Charlie,  wha  wadna  follow 
thee, 

King  o’  the  Highland  hearts,  bonny 
Prince  Charlie? 

Down  through  the  Lowlands,  down  wi’  the 
Whigamore ! 

Loyal  true  Highlanders,  down  wi’  them 
rarely ! 

Ronald  and  Donald,  drive  on  wi’  the  broad 
claymore, 

Over  the  necks  of  the  foes  of  Prince 
Charlie ! 

Follow  thee!  follow  thee!  wha  wadna 
follow  thee? 

Lang  hast  thou  loved  and  trusted  us 
fairly : 

Charlie,  Charlie,  wha  wadna  follow 
thee, 

King  o’  the  Highland  hearts,  bonny 
Prince  Charlie? 

James  Hogg. 

- K>« - 

WANS  ME  FOR  PRINCE  CHARLIE! 

A  wee  bird  came  to  our  ha’-door ; 

He  warbled  sweet  and  clearly  ; 

And  aye  the  o’ercome  o’  his  sang 

Was  “  Wae’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie!” 

Oh,  when  I  heard  the  bonny,  bonny  bird, 

The  tears  came  drapping  rarely ; 

I  took  my  bonnet  aff  my  head, 

For  weel  I  lo’ed  Prince  Charlie. 

Quoth  I :  “  My  bird,  my  bonny,  bonny 
bird, 

Is  that  a  tale  ye  borrow  ? 

Or  is’t  some  words  ye’ve  learn’d  by  rote, 

Or  a  lilt  o’  dool  and  sorrow  ?” 

“  Oh,  no,  no,  no!”  the  wee  bird  sang, 

“  I’ve  flown  sin’  morning  early ; 

But  sic  a  day  o’  wind  and  rain ! — 

|  Oh,  wae’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie  ! 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


327 


“  On  hills  that  are  by  right  his  ain 
He  roams  a  lonely  stranger ; 

On  ilka  hand  he’s  press’d  by  want, 

On  ilka  side  by  danger. 

Yestreen  I  met  him  in  the  glen, 

My  heart  near  bursted  fairly  ; 

For  sadly  changed  indeed  was  he — 

Oh,  wae’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie  ! 

“  Dark  night  came  on ;  the  tempest  howl’d 
Out  owre  the  hills  and  valleys ; 

And  where  was’t  that  your  prince  lay 
down, 

Whase  hame  should  be  a  palace  ? 

He  row’d  him  in  a  Highland  plaid, 

Which  cover’d  him  but  sparely, 

And  slept  beneath  a  bush  o’  broom — 

Oh,  wae’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie !” 

But  now  the  bird  saw  some  red-coats, 

And  he  shook  his  wings  wi’  anger : 

“  Oh,  this  is  no  a  land  for  me — 

I’ll  tarry  here  nae  langer.” 

A  while  he  hover’d  on  the  wing, 

Ere  he  departed  fairly  ; 

But  weel  I  mind  the  farewell  strain, 

’Twas  “  Wae’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie!” 

William  Glen. 


The  Tears  of  Scotland. 

Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 
Thy  banish’d  peace,  thy  laurels  torn ! 

Thy  sons,  for  valor  long  renown’d, 

Lie  slaughter’d  on  their  native  ground ; 
Thy  hospitable  roofs  no  more 
Invite  the  stranger  to  the  door; 

In  smoky  ruins  sunk  they  lie, 

The  monuments  of  cruelty. 

The  wretched  owner  sees  afar 
His  all  become  the  prey  of  war  ; 

Bethinks  him  of  his  babes  and  wife, 

Then  smites  his  breast,  and  curses  life. 
Thy  swains  are  famish’d  on  the  rocks, 
Where  once  they  fed  their  wanton  flocks : 
Thy  ravish’d  virgins  shriek  in  vain  ; 

Thy  infants  perish  on  the  plain. 

What  boots  it,  then,  in  every  clime, 
Through  the  wide-spreading  waste  of 
time, 

Thy  martial  glory,  crown’d  with  praise, 
Still  shone  with  undiminish’d  blaze! 


Thy  tow’ring  spirit  now  is  broke, 

Thy  neck  is  bended  to  the  yoke. 

What  foreign  arms  could  never  quell, 

By  civil  rage  and  rancor  fell. 

The  rural  pipe  and  merry  lay 
No  more  shall  cheer  the  happy  day: 

No  social  scenes  of  gay  delight 
Beguile  the  dreary  winter  night : 

No  strains  but  those  of  sorrow  flow, 

And  naught  be  heard  but  sounds  of  woe, 
While  the  pale  phantoms  of  the  slain 
Glide  nightly  o’er  the  silent  plain. 

O  baneful  cause!  O  fatal  morn  ! 

Accursed  to  ages  yet  unborn  ! 

The  sons  against  their  father  stood, 

The  parent  shed  his  children’s  blood. 

Yet,  when  the  rage  of  battle  ceased, 

The  victor’s  soul  was  not  appeased : 

The  naked  and  forlorn  must  feel 
Devouring  flames  and  murd’ring  steel ! 

The  pious  mother,  doom’d  to  death, 
Forsaken  wanders  o’er  the  heath  ; 

The  bleak  wind  whistles  round  her  head, 
Her  helpless  orphans  cry  for  bread ; 

Bereft  of  shelter,  food,  and  friend, 

She  views  the  shades  of  night  descend ; 
And,  stretch’d  beneath  th’  inclement  skies 
Weeps  o’er  her  tender  babes,  and  dies. 

While  the  warm  blood  bedews  my  veins, 
And  unimpair’d  remembrance  reigns, 
Resentment  of  my  country’s  fate 
Within  my  filial  breast  shall  beat; 

And,  spite  of  her  insulting  foe, 

My  sympathizing  verse  shall  flow  : 

“  Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 
Thy  banish’d  peace,  thy  laurels  torn.” 

Tobias  Smollett. 

- »o»— 

The  Pompadour. 

Versailles  ! — Up  the  chestnut  alley, 

All  in  flower,  so  white  and  pure, 

Strut  the  red  and  yellow  lacqueys 
Of  this  Madame  Pompadour. 

“  Clear  the  way  !”  cry  out  the  lacqueys. 
Elbowing  the  lame  and  poor 
From  the  chapel’s  stately  porches, — 
“Way  for  Madame  Pompadour!” 


328 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Old  bent  soldiers,  crippled  veterans, 

Sigh  and  hobble,  sad,  footsore, 

Jostled  by  the  chariot-horses 
Of  this  woman — Pompadour. 

Through  the  levee  (poet,  marquis, 

Wistful  for  the  opening  door), 

With  a  rippling  sweep  of  satin, 

Sail’d  the  queenly  Pompadour. 

Sighs  by  dozens,  as  she  proudly 
Glides,  so  confident  and  sure, 

With  her  fan  that  breaks  through  hal¬ 
berds — 

In  went  Madame  Pompadour. 

Starving  abbe,  wounded  marshal, 
Speculator,  lean  and  poor, 

Cringe  and  shrink  before  the  creatures 
Of  this  harlot  Pompadour. 

“  Rose  in  sunshine  !  Summer  lily  !” 

Cries  a  poet  at  the  door, 

Squeezed  and  trampled  by  the  lacqueys 
Of  the  witching  Pompadour. 

“  Bathed  in  milk  and  fed  on  roses !” 

Sighs  a  pimp  behind  the  door, 

Jamm’d  and  bullied  by  the  courtiers 
Of  this  strumpet  Pompadour. 

“Rose  of  Sharon!”  chants  an  abbe, 

Fat  and  with  the  voice  of  four, 

Black  silk  stockings  soil’d  by  varlets 
Of  this  Rahab  Pompadour. 

“Neck  so  swan-like, — Dea  eerie! 

Fit  for  monarchs  to  adore  !” 

“  Clear  the  way  !”  was  still  the  echo, 

“  For  this  Venus — Pompadour.” 

Open  ! — with  the  jar  of  thunder 

Fly  the  portals, — clocks  strike  four  ; 
With  a  burst  of  drums  and  trumpets 
Come  the  king  and  Pompadour.  . 

George  W’alter  Thornbury. 

- •<>•— 

LOUIS  XV. 

The  king  with  all  his  kingly  train 
Had  left  his  Pompadour  behind, 

And  forth  he  rode  in  Senart’s  wood, 

The  royal  beasts  of  chase  to  find. 

That  day  by  chance  the  monarch  mused, 
And,  turning  suddenly  away, 


He  struck  alone  into  a  path 

That  far  from  crowds  and  courtiers  lay. 

He  saw  the  pale  green  shadows  play 
Upon  the  brown  untrodden  earth; 

He  saw  the  birds  around  him  flit 
As  if  he  were  of  peasant  birth  ; 

He  saw  the  trees  that  know  no  king 
But  him  who  bears  a  woodland  axe; 

He  thought  not,  but  he  look’d  about 
Like  one  who  skill  in  thinking  lacks. 

Then  close  to  him  a  footstep  fell, 

And  glad  of  human  sound  was  he, 

For,  truth  to  say,  he  found  himself 

A  weight  from  which  he  fain  would  flee. 
But  that  which  he  would  ne’er  have 
guess’d 

Before  him  now  most  plainly  came ; 

The  man  upon  his  weary  back 
A  coffin  bore  of  rudest  frame. 

“Why,  who  art  thou?”  exclaimed  the 
king, 

“  And  what  is  that  I  see  thee  bear?” 

“  I  am  a  laborer  in  the  wood, 

And  ’tis  a  coffin  for  Pierre. 

Close  by  the  royal  hunting-lodge 
You  may  have  often  seen  him  toil; 

But  he  will  never  work  again, 

And  I  for  him  must  dig  the  soil.” 

The  laborer  ne’er  had  seen  the  king, 

And  this  he  thought  was  but  a  man, 
Who  made  at  first  a  moment’s  pause, 

And  then  anew  his  talk  began  : 

“I  think  I  do  remember  now, — 

He  had  a  dark  and  glancing  eye, 

And  I  have  seen  his  slender  arm 

AVith  wondrous  blows  the  pickaxe  ply. 

“  Pray  tell  me,  friend,  what  accident 
Can  thus  have  kill’d  our  good  Pierre  ?” 
“  Oh,  nothing  more  than  usual,  sir, 

He  died  of  living  upon  air. 

’Twas  hunger  kill’d  the  poor  good  man, 
AVTho  long  on  empty  hopes  relied ; 

He  could  not  pay  gabell  and  tax, 

And  feed  his  children,  so  he  died.” 

The  man  stopp’d  short,  and  then  went 
on, — 

“  It  is,  you  know,  a  common  thing  ; 

|  Our  children’s  bread  is  eaten  up 

By  courtiers,  mistresses,  and  king.” 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


329 


The  king  look’d  hard  upon  the  man, 

And  afterward  the  coffin  eyed  ; 

Then  spurr’d  to  ask  of  Pompadour 

How  came  it  that  the  peasants  died. 

John  Sterling. 

—  -  »o*  - 

Warren\s  Address. 

Stand  !  the  ground’s  your  own,  my  braves ! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves? 

Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still  ? 

What’s  the  mercy  despots  feel  ? 

Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal! 

Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel ! 

Ask  it, — ve  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire? 

Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire? 

Look  behind  you! — they’re  afire! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it!  From  the  vale 
On  they  come  ! — and  will  ye  quail  ? 

Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 
Let  their  welcome  be ! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust ! 

Die  we  may, — and  die  we  must: 

But,  oh  where  can  dust  to  dust 
Be  consign’d  so  well, 

As  where  Heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyr’d  patriot’s  bed, 

And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head 
Of  his  deeds  to  tell? 

John  Pierpont. 

- K>« - 

Paul  Revere’ s  Ride. 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy- 
five  ; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and 
year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  “If  the  British 
march 

By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal 
light, — 

One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea; 

And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 


Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and 
farm, 

For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm.” 

Then  he  said  “  Good-night,”  arwd  with 
muffled  oar 

Silentlv  row’d  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war ; 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and 
spar 

Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 

And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magni¬ 
fied 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile  his  friend,  through  alley  and 
street, 

Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 

Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack-door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the 
shore. 

Then  he  climb’d  the  tower  of  the  Old 
North  Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfrv-chamber  overhead, 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him 
made 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — ■ 

By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 

To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 

Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churclivard,  lav  the  dead. 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapp’d  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel’s  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  “  All  is  well !” 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 
Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret 
dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead ; 


330 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 
A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurr’d,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walk’d  Paul  Re- 
vere. 

Now  he  patted  his  horse’s  side, 

Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamp’d  the  earth, 

And  turn’d  and  tighten’d  his  saddle- 
girth  ; 

But  mostly  he  watch’d  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry’s  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 

He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he 
turns, 

But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns. 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the 
dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing, 
a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and 
fleet : 

That  was  all ;  and  yet,  through  the  gloom 
and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed  in 
his  flight 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the 
steep, 

And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and 
deep, 

Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides, 

And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the 
ledge, 

Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he 
rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  cross’d  the  bridge  into  Medford 
town. 


He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer’s  dog, 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  pass’d, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank 
and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord 
town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest ;  in  the  books  you  have 
read, 

How  the  British  regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farmyard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 

Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Bevere, 
And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of 
alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 

A  cry  of  defiance,  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the 
door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  for  evermore ! 
For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness,  and  peril,  and 
need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Re¬ 
vere. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


331 


Song  of  Marion's  Men. 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 

The  British  soldier  trembles 
When  Marion’s  name  is  told. 

Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress  tree ; 

We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea ; 

We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 

Its  safe  and  silent  islands 
Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 
That  little  dread  us  near ! 

On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 
A  strange  and  sudden  fear ; 

When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 

And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 
Are  beat  to  earth  again  ; 

And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 
A  mighty  host  behind, 

And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 
Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 
From  danger  and  from  toil : 

We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle’s  spoil. 

The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 
As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 

And  woodland  flowers  are  gather’d 
To  crown  the  soldier’s  cup. 

With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 
That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 

And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 
On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 
The  band  that  Marion  leads — 

The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 

’Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 
Across  the  moonlight  plain  ; 

?Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 
That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 

A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 


Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 
Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs  ; 

Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 

And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 
With  kindliest  welcoming, 

With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 
And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 

For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 
And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 
For  ever  from  our  shore. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


Carmen  Bellicosum. 

In  their  ragged  regimentals, 

Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not, 

When  the  grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 

When  the  files 
Of  the  isles, 

From  the  smoky  night  encampment, 
Bore  the  banner  of  the  rampant 
Unicorn, 

And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer, 
Roll’d  the  roll  of  the  drummer, 
Through  the  morn ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 

And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires ; 

And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 

And  in  streams  flashing  redly 
Blazed  the  fires ; 

As  the  roar 
On  the  shore 

Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers 
O’er  the  green-sodded  acres 
Of  the  plain : 

And  louder,  louder,  louder, 

Crack’d  the  black  gunpowder, 
Crack’d  amain ! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
W ork’d  the  red  St.  George’s 
Cannoneers, 

And  the  “villainous  saltpetre ” 

Rang  a  fierce  discordant  metre 
Round  their  ears ; 


332 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


As  the  swift 
Storm-drift 

With  hot  sweeping  anger, 

Came  the  liorseguards’  clangor 
On  our  flanks ; 

Then  higher,  higher,  higher, 

Burn’d  the  old-fashion’d  fire 
Through  the  ranks ! 

Then  the  old-fashion’d  colonel 
Gallop’d  through  the  white  infernal 
Powder-cloud ; 

And  his  broad  sword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 
Trumpet  loud. 

Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 

And  the  trooper-jackets  redden 
At  the  touch  of  the  leaden 
Rifle-breath ; 

And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder 
Roar’d  the  iron  six-pounder, 

Hurling  death ! 

Guy  Humphrey  McMaster. 


La  Tricoteuse. 

The  fourteenth  of  July  had  come, 

And  round  the  guillotine 

The  thieves  and  beggars,  rank  by  rank, 
Moved  the  red  flags  between. 

A  crimson  heart,  upon  a  pole, — 

The  long  march  had  begun ; 

But  still  the  little  smiling  child 
Sat  knitting  in  the  sun. 

The  red  caps  of  those  men  of  France 
Shook  like  a  poppy-field  ; 

Three  women’s  heads,  with  gory  hair, 
The  standard-bearers  wield. 

Cursing,  with  song  and  battle-hymn, 
Five  butchers  dragg’d  a  gun  ; 

Yet  still  the  little  maid  sat  there, 
A-knitting  in  the  sun. 

An  axe  was  painted  on  the  flags, 

A  broken  throne  and  crown, 

A  ragged  coat,  upon  a  lance, 

Hung  in  foul  black  shreds  down. 

“  More  heads !”  the  seething  rabble  cry, 
And  now  the  drums  begun  ; 

But  still  the  little  fair-hair’d  child 
Sat  knitting  in  the  sun. 


And  every  time  a  head  roll’d  off, 

They  roll  like  winter  seas, 

And,  with  a  tossing  up  of  caps, 

Shouts  shook  the  Tuileries. 

Whizz — went  the  heavy  chopper  down, 
And  then  the  drums  begun ; 

But  still  the  little  smiling  child 
Sat  knitting  in  the  sun. 

The  Jacobins,  ten  thousand  strong, 

And  every  man  a  sword  ; 

The  red  caps,  with  the  tricolors, 

Led  on  the  noisy  horde. 

“The  Sans  Culottes  to-day  are  strong,” 

The  gossips  say,  and  run  ; 

But  still  the  little  maid  sits  there, 
A-knitting  in  the  sun. 

Then  the  slow  death-cart  moved  along ; 
And,  singing  patriot  songs, 

A  pale,  doom’d  poet  bowing  comes 
And  cheers  the  swaying  throngs. 

Oh,  when  the  axe  swept  shining  down, 
The  mad  drums  all  begun  ; 

But,  smiling  still,  the  little  child 
Sat  knitting  in  the  sun. 

“  Le  marquis,”  linen  snowy  white, 

The  powder  in  his  hair, 

Waving  his  scented  handkerchief, 

Looks  down  with  careless  stare. 

A  whirr,  a  chop — another  head — 

Hurrah  !  the  work’s  begun  ; 

But  still  the  little  child  sat  there, 
A-knitting  in  the  sun. 

A  stir,  and  through  the  parting  crowd 
The  people’s  friends  are  come  ; 

Marat  and  Robespierre — “  Vivat ! 

Roll  thunder  from  the  drum.” 

The  one  a  wild  beast’s  hungry  eye, 

Hair  tangled — hark  !  a  gun  ! — 

The  other  kindly  kiss’d  the  child 
A-knitting  in  the  sun. 

“And  why  not  work  all  night?”  the  child 
Said  to  the  knitters  there. 

Oh  how  the  furies  shook  their  sides. 

And  toss’d  their  grizzled  hair ! 

Then  clapp’d  a  bonnet  rouge  on  her, 

And  cried,  “  ’Tis  well  begun  !” 

And  laugh’d  to  see  the  little  child 
Knit,  smiling  in  the  sun. 

George  Walter  Thornbury. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


333 


FRANCE:  AN  ODE. 

February,  1797. 

Ye  Clouds !  that  far  above  me  float  and 
pause, 

Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may 
control ! 

Ye  Ocean- Waves  !  that,  wheresoe’er  ye 
roll, 

Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws ! 

Ye  Woods !  that  listen  to  the  night- 
birds  singing, 

Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope 
reclined, 

Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches 
swinging 

Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind ! 

Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 

Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman 
trod, 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy, 

My  moonlight  way  o’er  flowering  weeds 
I  wound, 

Inspired  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 

By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquer¬ 
able  sound  ! 

0  ye  loud  Waves  !  and  0  ye  Forests  high! 

And  O  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me 
soar’d ! 

Thou  rising  Sun!  thou  blue,  rejoicing 
Skv! 

Yea,  everything  that  is  and  will  be 
free ! 

Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe’er  ye  be, 

With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored 

The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty. 

When  France  in  wrath  her  giant  limbs 
uprear’d, 

And  with  that  oath,  which  smote  air, 
earth,  and  sea, 

Stamp’d  her  strong  foot  and  said  she 
would  be  free, 

Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  and 
fear’d ! 

With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 

Unawed  I  sang,  amid  a  slavish  band  : 

And  when  to  whelm  the  disenchanted 
nation, 

Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard’s  wand, 
The  Monarchs  march’d  in  evil  dav, 
And  Britain  join’d  the  dire  array  ; 


Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling 
ocean, 

Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful 

loves 

Had  swoln  the  patriot  emotion, 

And  flung  a  magic  light  o’er  all  her  hills 
and  groves ; 

Yet  still  my  voice,  unalter’d,  sang  de¬ 
feat 

To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling 
lance, 

And  shame  too  long  delay’d  and  vain 
retreat ! 

For  ne’er,  O  Liberty !  with  partial  aim 

I  dimm’d  thy  light  or  damp’d  thy  holy 
flame ; 

But  bless’d  the  paeans  of  deliver’d 
France, 

And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain’s 
name. 

“And  what,”  I  said,  “though  Blasphemy’s 
loud  scream 

With  that  sweet  music  of  deliverance 
strove ! 

Though  all  the  fierce  and  drunken  pas¬ 
sions  wove 

A  dance  more  wild  than  e’er  was  maniac’s 
dream  ! 

Ye  Storms,  that  round  the  dawning  east 
assembled, 

The  Sun  was  rising,  though  ye  hid  his 
light !” 

And  when  to  soothe  my  soul,  that  hoped 
and  trembled, 

The  dissonance  ceased,  and  all  seem’d 
calm  and  bright ; 

When  France  her  front  deep-scarr’d  and 
gory 

Conceal’d  with  clustering  wreaths  of 
glory ; 

When,  insupportably  advancing, 

Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  warrior’s 
tramp  ; 

While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing, 

Domestic  Treason,  crush’d  beneath  her 
fatal  stamp, 

Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his  gore; 

Then  I  reproach’d  my  fears  that  would 
not  flee ; 

“  And  soon,”  I  said,  “shall  Wisdom  teach 
her  lore 


334 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and 
groan  ! 

And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone, 
Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be 
free, 

Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call 
the  Earth  their  own.” 


Forgive  me,  Freedom !  oh,  forgive  those 
dreams  ! 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  la¬ 
ment, 

From  bleak  Helvetia’s  icy  cavern  sent; 

I  hear  thy  groans  upon  her  blood-stain’d 
streams ! 

Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country 
perish’d, 

And  ye  that,  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain- 
snows 

With  bleeding  wounds  ;  forgive  me  that 
I  cherish’d 

One  thought  that  ever  bless’d  your  cruel 
foes ! 

To  scatter  rage  and  traitorous  guilt, 

Where  Peace  her  jealous  home  had  built; 

A  patriot  race  to  disinherit 

Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so 
dear  ; 

And  with  inexpiable  spirit 

To  taint  the  bloodless  freedom  of  the  ! 
mountaineer — 

0  F  ranee,  that  mockest  Heaven,  adulterous, 
blind, 

And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils, 

Are  these  thy  boasts,  Champion  of  human 
kind  ? 

To  mix  with  Kings  in  the  low  lust  of 
sway, 

Yell  in  the  hunt,  and  share  the  murder¬ 
ous  prey ; 

To  insult  the  shrine  of  Liberty  with 
spoils 

From  freemen  torn  ;  to  tempt  and  to 
betrav  ? 


The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion !  In 
mad  game 

They  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the 
name 

Of  Freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain  ! 


O  Liberty !  with  profitless  endeavor 
Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour  ; 
But  thou  nor  swell’st  the  victor’s  strain, 
nor  ever 

Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human 
power. 

Alike  from  all,  howe’er  they  praise  thee 
(Nor  prayer,  nor  boastful  name  delays 
thee), 

Alike  from  Priestcraft’s  harpy  minions, 
And  factious  Blasphemy’s  obscener 
slaves, 

Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions, 

The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  play^ 
mate  of  the  waves  ! 

And  there  I  felt  thee ! — on  that  sea-clifFs 
verge, 

Whose  pines,  scarce  travell’d  by  the 
breeze  above, 

Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant 
surge ! 

Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  tem¬ 
ples  bare, 

And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea, 
and  air, 

Possessing  all  things  with  intensest 
love, 

O  Liberty  !  mv  spirit  felt  thee  there. 

Samuel  Tay^lor  Coleridge. 

- K>« - 

The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum. 
Part  I. 

At  Paris,  hard  by  the  Maine  barriers, 
Whoever  will  choose  to  repair, 

Midst  a  dozen  of  wooden-legg’d  warriors. 
May  haply  fall  in  with  old  Pierre. 

On  the  sunshiny  bench  of  a  tavern, 

He  sits  and  he  prates  of  old  wars, 

And  moistens  his  pipe  of  tobacco 
With  a  drink  that  is  named  after  Mars. 

The  beer  makes  his  tongue  run  the  quicker, 
And  as  long  as  his  tap  never  fails, 

Thus  over  his  favorite  liquor 
Old  Peter  will  tell  his  old  tales. 

Says  he,  “  In  my  life’s  ninety  summers 
Strange  changes  and  chances  I’ve  seen,— 
So  here’s  to  all  gentlemen  drummers 
That  ever  have  thump’d  on  a  skin. 

“  Brought  up  in  the  art  military 
For  four  generations  we  are ; 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


335 


My  ancestors  drumm’d  for  King  Harry, 
The  Huguenot  lad  of  Navarre; 

And  as  each  man  in  life  has  his  station, 
According  as  fortune  may  fix, 

While  Conde  was  waving  the  baton, 

My  grandsire  was  trolling  the  sticks. 

“  Ah  !  those  were  the  days  for  commanders ! 

What  glories  my  grandfather  won, 

Ere  bigots,  and  lackeys,  and  panders, 

The  fortunes  of  France  had  undone! 

In  Germany,  Flanders,  and  Holland, — 
What  foeman  resisted  us  then  ? 

No ;  my  grandsire  was  ever  victorious, 

My  grandsire  and  Monsieur  Turenne. 

“  He  died,  and  our  noble  battalions 
The  jade,  fickle  Fortune,  forsook; 

And  at  Blenheim,  in  spite  of  our  valiance, 
The  victory  lay  with  Malbrook. 

The  news  it  was  brought  to  King  Louis ; 

Corbleu  !  how  His  Majesty  swore, 

When  he  heard  they  had  taken  my  grand¬ 
sire, 

And  twelve  thousand  gentlemen  more  ! 

“  At  Namur,  Ramillies,  and  Malplaquet 
Were  we  posted,  on  plain  or  in  trench ; 
Malbrook  only  need  to  attack  it, 

And  away  from  him  scamper’d  we 
French. 

Cheer  up !  ’tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  boys, — 
’Tis  written,  since  fighting  begun, 

That  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  conquer, 
And  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  run. 

“To  fight  and  to  run  was  our  fate ; 

Our  fortune  and  fame  had  departed  ; 
And  so  perish’d  Louis  the  Great, — 

Old,  lonely,  and  half  broken-hearted. 
His  coffin  they  pelted  with  mud, 

His  body  they  tried  to  lay  hands  on  ; 
And  so  having  buried  King  Louis, 

They  loyally  served  his  great-grandson. 

“  God  save  the  beloved  King  Louis ! 

(For  so  he  was  nicknamed  by  some), 
And  now  came  my  father  to  do  his 
King's  orders,  and  beat  on  the  drum. 

My  grandsire  was  dead,  but  his  bones 
Must  have  shaken,  I’m  certain,  for  joy, 
To  hear  daddy  drumming  the  English 
From  the  meadows  of  famed  Fonte- 
noy. 


“  So  well  did  he  drum  in  that  battle, 

That  the  enemy  show’d  us  their  backs  ; 
Corbleu  !  it  was  pleasant  to  rattle 
The  sticks,  and  to  follow  old  Saxe ! 

We  next  had  Soubise  as  a  leader, 

And  as  luck  hath  its  changes  and  fits, 

At  Rossbach,  in  spite  of  dad’s  drumming, 
’Tis  said  we  were  beaten  by  Fritz. 

“  And  now  daddy  crossed  the  Atlantic, 

To  drum  for  Montcalm  and  his  men; 
Morbleu !  but  it  makes  a  man  frantic, 

To  think  we  were  beaten  again  ! 

My  daddy  he  cross’d  the  wide  ocean, 

Mv  mother  brought  me  on  her  neck, 
And  we  came  in  the  year  fifty-seven 
To  guard  the  good  town  of  Quebec. 

“  In  the  year  fifty-nine  came  the  Britons, — 

Full  well  I  remember  the  day, — 

They  knock’d  at  our  gates  for  admittance, 

Their  vessels  were  moor’d  in  our  bav. 

* 

Says  our  general,  ‘  Drive  me  yon  red-coats 
Away  to  the  sea,  whence  they  come  V 
So  we  march'd  against  Wolfe  and  his 
bull-dogs, 

We  march’d  at  the  s*ound  of  the  drum. 

“  I  think  I  can  see  my  poor  mammy 
With  me  in  her  hand  as  she  waits, 

And  our  regiment,  slowly  retreating, 

Pours  back  through  the  citadel-gates. 
Dear  mammy,  she  looks  in  their  faces, 
And  asks  if  her  husband  is  come. 

— He  is  lying  all  cold  on  the  glacis, 

And  will  never  more  beat  on  the  drum. 

“  Come,  drink,  ’tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  boys ; 

He  died  like  a  soldier — in  glory  ; 

Here’s  a  glass  to  the  health  of  all  drum-bovs, 
And  now  I’ll  commence  my  own  story. 
Once  more  did  we  cross  the  salt  ocean  ; 

We  came  in  the  year  eightv-one  ; 

And  the  wrongs  of  my  father  the  drummer 
Were  avenged  by  the  drummer  his  son. 

“  In  Chesapeake  Bay  we  were  landed  ; 

In  vain  strove  the  British  to  pass  ; 
Rochambeau  our  armies  commanded, 

Our  ships  they  were  led  by  De  Grasse. 
Morbleu  !  how  I  rattled  the  drumsticks, 
The  dav  we  march’d  into  Yorktown  ! 
Ten  thousand  of  beef-eating  British 
Their  weapons  we  caused  to  lay  down. 


33G 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Then  homeward  returning  victorious, 

In  peace  to  our  country  we  came, 

And  were  thank’d  for  our  glorious  actions 
By  Louis  Sixteenth  of  the  name. 

What  drummer  on  earth  could  be  prouder 
Than  I,  while  I  drumm’d  at  Versailles 

To  the  lovely  court-ladies  in  powder, 

And  lappets,  and  long  satin  tails  ? 

“  The  princes  that  day  pass’d  before  us, 
Our  countrymen’s  glory  and  hope  ; 

Monsieur,  who  was  learn’d  in  Horace, 
D’Artois,  who  could  dance  the  tight-rope. 

One  night  we  kept  guard  for  the  Queen 
At  Her  Majesty’s  opera-box, 

While  the  King,  that  majestical  monarch, 
Sat  filing  at  home  at  his  locks. 

# 

“  Yes,  I  drumm’d  for  the  fair  Antoinette  ; 
And  so  smiling  she  look’d,  and  so  tender, 

That  our  officers,  privates,  and  drummers 
All  vow’d  they  would  die  to  defend  her. 

But  she  cared  not  for  us  honest  fellows, 
Who  fought  and  who  bled  in  her  wars  ; 

She  sneer’d  at  our  gallant  Rochambeau, 
And  turn’d  Lafayette  out  of  doors. 

“  Ventrebleu  !  then  I  swore  a  great  oath 
No  more  to  such  tyrants  to  kneel ; 

And  so,  just  to  keep  up  my  drumming, 
One  day  I  drumm’d  down  the  Bastile ! 

Ho,  landlord  !  a  stoup  of  fresh  wine  ; 
Come,  comrades,  a  bumper  we’ll  try, 

And  drink  to  the  year  eighty-nine, 

And  the  glorious  Fourth  of  July  ! 

“  Then  bravely  our  cannon  it  thunder’d, 
As  onward  our  patriots  bore  ; 

Our  enemies  were  but  a  hundred, 

And  we  twenty  thousand  or  more. 

They  carried  the  news  to  King  Louis, 

He  heard  it  as  calm  as  you  please ; 

And  like  a  majestical  monarch, 

Kept  filing  his  locks  and  his  keys. 

“We  show’d  our  republican  courage, 

We  storm’d  and  we  broke  the  great  gate 
in, 

And  we  murder’d  the  insolent  governor 
For  daring  to  keep  us  a-waiting. 

Lambesc  and  his  squadrons  stood  by  ; 

They  never  stirr’d  finger  or  thumb  ; 

The  saucy  aristocrats  trembled 
As  they  heard  the  republican  drum. 


“  Hurrah  !  what  a  storm  was  a-brewing  ! 

The  day  of  our  vengeance  was  come ; 
Through  scenes  of  what  carnage  and  ruin 
Did  I  beat  on  the  patriot  drum  ! 

Let’s  drink  to  the  famed  tenth  of  August : 

At  midnight  I  beat  the  tattoo, 

And  woke  up  the  pikemen  of  Paris 
To  follow  the  bold  Barbaroux. 

“  With  pikes,  and  with  shouts,  and  with 
torches, 

March’d  onward  our  dusty  battalions  ; 
And  we  girt  the  tall  castle  of  Louis, 

A  million  of  tatterdemalions  ! 

We  storm’d  the  fair  gardens  where  tower’d 
The  walls  of  his  heritage  splendid  ; 

Ah,  shame  on  him,  craven  and  coward, 
That  had  not  the  heart  to  defend  it ! 

“  With  the  crown  of  his  sires  on  his  head, 
His  nobles  and  knights  by  his  side, 

At  the  foot  of  his  ancestors’  palace 
’Twere  easy,  methinks,  to  have  died. 

But  no :  when  we  burst  through  his  bar¬ 
riers, 

’Mid  heaps  of  the  dying  and  dead, 

In  vain  through  the  chambers  we  sought 
him, — 

He  had  turn’d  like  a  craven  and  fled. 

****** 

“  You  all  know  the  Place  de  la  Concorde? 

’Tis  hard  by  the  Tuilerie  wall ; 

’Mid  terraces,  fountains,  and  statues, 

There  rises  an  obelisk  tall. 

There  rises  an  obelisk  tall, 

All  garnish’d  and  gilded  the  base  is ; 
’Tis  surely  the  gayest  of  all 
Our  beautiful  city’s  gay  places. 

“  Around  it  are  gardens  and  flowers, 

And  the  cities  of  France  on  their 
thrones, 

Each  crown’d  with  his  circlet  of  flowers, 
Sits  watching  this  biggest  of  stones  ! 

1  I  love  to  go  sit  in  the  sun  there, 

The  flowers  and  fountains  to  see, 

And  to  think  of  the  deeds  that  were  done 
there, 

In  the  glorious  year  ninety-three. 

“  ’Twas  here  stood  the  Altar  of  Freedom, 
And  though  neither  marble  nor  gilding 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


337 


Was  used  in  those  days  to  adorn 
Our  simple  republican  building, 

Corbleu!  but  the  Mere  Guillotine 
Cared  little  for  splendor  or  show, 

go  you  gave  her  an  axe  and  a  beam, 

And  a  plank  and  a  basket  or  so. 

“Awful,  and  proud,  and  erect, 

Here  sat  our  republican  goddess ; 

Each  morning  her  table  we  deck’d 
With  dainty  aristocrats’  bodies. 

The  people  each  day  flock’d  around, 

As  she  sat  at  her  meat  and  her  wine : 

’Twas  always  the  use  of  our  nation 
To  witness  the  sovereign  dine. 

“Young  virgins  with  fair  golden  tresses, 
Old  silver-hair’d  prelates  and  priests, 

Dukes,  marquises,  barons,  princesses, 

Were  splendidly  served  at  her  feasts. 

Ventrebleu  !  but  we  pamper’d  our  ogress 
With  the  best  that  our  nation  could 
bring, 

And  dainty  she  grew  in  her  progress, 

And  call’d  for  the  head  of  a  king ! 

“She  call’d  for  the  blood  of  our  king, 

And  straight  from  his  prison  we  drew 
him ; 

And  to  her  with  shouting  we  led  him, 

And  took  him,  and  bound  him,  and  slew 
him. 

‘  The  monarchs  of  Europe  against  me 
Have  plotted  a  godless  alliance; 

I’ll  fling  them  the  head  of  King  Louis,’ 
She  said,  1  as  my  gage  of  defiance.’ 

“  I  see  him  as  now,  for  a  moment, 

Away  from  his  jailers  he  broke, 

And  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold, 

And  linger’d,  and  fain  would  have  spoke. 

‘Ho,  dr*  mer!  quick!  silence  yon  Capet,’ 
Says  Santerre,  ‘with  a  beat  of  your 
drum ;’ 

Lustily  then  did  I  tap  it, 

And  the  son  of  St.  Louis  was  dumb.” 

****** 

Part  II. 

“The  glorious  days  of  September 
Saw  many  aristocrats  fall ; 

’Twas  then  that  our  pikes  drunk  the  blood 
In  the  beautiful  breast  of  Lamballe. 

22 


Pardi,  ’twas  a  beautiful  lady! 

I  seldom  have  look’d  on  her  like; 

And  I  drumm’d  for  a  gallant  procession 
That  march’d  with  her  head  on  a  pike. 

“  Let’s  show  the  pale  head  to  the  Queen, 
We  said — she’ll  remember  it  well. 

She  look'd  from  the  bars  of  her  prison, 
And  shriek’d  as  she  saw  it,  and  fell. 

We  set  up  a  shout  at  her  screaming, 

We  laugh’d  at  the  fright  she  had  shown 
At  the  sight  of  the  head  of  her  minion; 
How  she’d  tremble  to  part  with  her 
own ! 

“  We  had  taken  the  head  of  King  Capet, 
We  call’d  for  the  blood  of  his  wife ; 
Undaunted  she  came  to  the  scaffold, 

And  bared  her  fair  neck  to  the  knife. 

As  she  felt  the  foul  fingers  that  touch’d 
her, 

She  shrunk,  but  she  deign’d  not  to 
speak : 

She  look’d  with  a  royal  disdain, 

And  died  with  a  blush  on  her  cheek. 

“  ’Twas  thus  that  our  country  was  saved: 

So  told  us  the  safety  committee ! 

But  pshaw !  I’ve  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 

All  gentleness,  mercy,  and  pity. 

I  loathed  to  assist  at  such  deeds, 

And  my  drum  beat  its  loudest  of  tunes 
As  we  offered  to  Justice  offended 
The  blood  of  the  bloody  tribunes. 

“Away  with  such  foul  recollections! 

No  more  of  the  axe  and  the  block ; 

I  saw  the  last  fight  of  the  sections, 

As  they  fell  ’neatli  our  guns  at  Saint 
Rock. 

Young  Bonaparte  led  us  that  day; 

When  he  sought  the  Italian  frontier, 

I  follow’d  my  gallant  young  captain, 

I  follow’d  him  many  a  long  year. 

“  We  came  to  an  army  in  rags, 

Our  general  was  but  a  boy, 

When  we  first  saw  the  Austrian  flags 
Flaunt  proud  in  the  fields  of  Savoy. 

In  the  glorious  year  ninety-six, 

We  march’d  to  the  banks  of  the  Po ; 

I  carried  my  drum  and  my  sticks, 

And  we  laid  the  proud  Austrian  low. 


338 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  In  triumph  we  enter’d  Milan, 

We  seized  on  the  Mantuan  keys ; 

The  troops  of  the  Emperor  ran, 

And  the  Pope  he  fell  down  on  his 
knees.” — 

Pierre’s  comrades  here  called  a  fresh 
bottle, 

And,  clubbing  together  their  wealth, 
They  drank  to  the  Army  of  Italy, 

And  General  Bonaparte’s  health. 

The  drummer  now  bared  his  old  breast, 
And  show’d  us  a  plenty  of  scars, 

Rude  presents  that  Fortune  had  made 
him 

In  fifty  victorious  wars. 

“  This  came  when  I  follow’d  bold  Kleber — 
’Twas  shot  by  a  Mameluke  gun  ; 

And  this  from  an  Austrian  sabre, 

When  the  field  of  Marengo  was  won. 

“  My  forehead  has  many  deep  furrows, 

But  this  is  the  deepest  of  all ; 

A  Bruuswicker  made  it  at  Jena, 

Beside  the  fair  river  of  Saal. 

This  cross,  ’twas  the  Emperor  gave  it 
(God  bless  him !) ;  it  covers  a  blow; 

I  had  it  at  Austerlitz  fight, 

As  I  beat  on  my  drum  in  the  snow. 

“’Twas  thus  that  we  conquer’d  and  fought; 

But  wherefore  continue  the  story? 

• / 

There’s  never  a  baby  in  France 

But  has  heard  of  our  chief  and  our 
glory, — 

But  has  heard  of  our  chief  and  our  fame, 
His  sorrows  and  triumphs  can  tell, 

How  bravely  Napoleon  conquer’d, 

How  bravely  and  sadly  he  fell. 

“  It  makes  my  old  heart  to  beat  higher 
To  think  of  the  deeds  that  I  saw; 

I  follow’d  bold  Ney  through  the  fire, 

And  charged  at  the  side  of  Murat.” 

And  so  did  old  Peter  continue 
His  story  of  twenty  brave  years ; 

His  audience  follow’d  with  comments — 
Rude  comments  of  curses  and  tears. 

He  told  how  the  Prussians  in  vain 
Had  died  in  defence  of  their  land ; 

His  audience  laugh’d  at  the  story, 

And  vow’d  that  their  captain  was  grand ! 


He  had  fought  the  red  English,  he  said, 

In  many  a  battle  of  Spain  ; 

They  cursed  the  red  English,  and  pray’d 
To  meet  them  and  fight  them  again. 

He  told  them  how  Russia  was  lost, 

Had  winter  not  driven  them  back ; 

And  his  company  cursed  the  quick  frost, 
And  doubly  they  cursed  the  Cossack. 

He  told  how  the  stranger  arrived  ; 

They  wept  at  the  tale  of  disgrace ; 

And  they  long’d  but  for  one  battle  more, 
The  stain  of  their  shame  to  efface  ! 

“Our  country  their  hordes  overrun, 

We  fled  to  the  fields  of  Champagne, 
And  fought  them,  though  twenty  to  one, 
And  beat  them  again  and  again ! 

Our  warrior  was  conquer’d  at  last ; 

They  bade  him  his  crown  to  resign ; 

To  fate  and  his  country  he  yielded 
The  rights  of  himself  and  his  line. 

“  He  came,  and  among  us  he  stood, 
Around  him  we  press’d  in  a  throng, 

We  could  not  regard  him  for  weeping, 
Who  had  led  us  and  loved  us  so  long. 

‘  I  have  led  you  for  twenty  long  years,’ 
Napoleon  said  ere  he  went  ; 

‘  Wherever  was  honor  I  found  you, 

And  with  you,  my  sons,  am  content. 

“  ‘  Though  Europe  against  me  was  arm’d. 
Your  chiefs  and  my  people  are  true  ; 

I  still  might  have  struggled  with  fortune, 
And  baffled  all  Europe  with  you. 

“‘But  France  would  have  suffer’d  the 
while ; 

‘  Tis  best  that  I  suffer  alone  : 

I  go  to  my  place  of  exile, 

To  write  of  the  deeds  we  have  done. 

“  ‘  Be  true  to  the  king  that  they  give  you ; 

We  may  not  embrace  ere  we  part  ; 

But,  General,  reach  me  your  hand, 

And  press  me,  I  pray,  to  your  heart.’ 

“  He  called  for  our  old  battle-standard ; 

One  kiss  to  the  eagle  he  gave. 

‘  Dear  eagle  !’  he  said,  ‘  may  this' kiss 
Long  sound  in  the  hearts  of  the  brave!’ 
’Twas  thus  that  Napoleon  left  us  ; 

Our  people  were  weeping  and  mute, 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


339 


And  he  passed  through  the  lines  of  his 
guard, 

And  our  drums  beat  the  notes  of  salute. 

****** 

“ 1  look’d  when  the  drumming  was  o’er, 

I  look’d,  but  our  hero  was  gone  ; 

We  were  destined  to  see  him  once  more, 
When  we  fought  on  the  mount  of  St. 
John. 

The  Emperor  rode  through  our  files  ; 

’Twas  June,  and  a  fair  Sunday  morn ; 
The  lines  of  our  warriors  for  miles 

Stretched  wide  through  the  Waterloo 
corn. 

“  In  thousands  we  stood  on  the  plain  ; 

The  red-coats  were  crowning  the  height ; 
‘  Go  scatter  yon  English,’  he  said  ; 

‘We’ll  sup,  lads,  at  Brussels  to-night.’ 
We  answer’d  his  voice  with  a  shout; 

Our  eagles  were  bright  in  the  sun  ; 

Our  drums  and  our  cannon  spoke  out, 

And  the  thundering  battle  begun. 

“  One  charge  to  another  succeeds, 

Like  waves  that  a  hurricane  bears ; 

All  day  do  our  galloping  steeds 

Dash  fierce  on  the  enemy’s  squares. 

At  noon  we  began  the  fell  onset ; 

We  charged  up  the  Englishman’s  hill ; 
And  madly  we  charged  it  at  sunset — 

His  banners  were  floating  there  still. 

“ — Go  to  !  I  will  tell  vou  no  more  ; 

You  know  how  the  battle  was  lost. 

Ho!  fetch  me  a  beaker  of  wine, 

And,  comrades,  I’ll  give  you  a  toast. 

I’ll  give  you  a  curse  on  all  traitors, 

Who  plotted  our  Emperor’s  ruin ; 

And  a  curse  on  those  red-coated  English, 
Whose  bayonets  help’d  our  undoing. 

“  A  curse  on  those  British  assassins 
Who  order’d  the  slaughter  of  Nev  ; 

A  curse  on  Sir  Hudson,  who  tortured 
The  life  of  our  hero  away. 

A  curse  on  all  Russians — I  hate  them — 

On  all  Prussian  and  Austrian  fry ; 

And,  oh  !  but  I  pray  we  may  meet  them, 
And  fight  them  again  ere  I  die !” 

♦<>•  - 


’Twas  thus  old  Peter  did  conclude 
His  chronicle  with  curses  fit. 

He  spoke  the  tale  in  accents  rude, 

In  ruder  verse  I  copied  it. 

Perhaps  the  tale  a  moral  bears 

(All  tales  in  time  to  this  must  come), 
The  story  of  two  hundred  years 
Writ  on  the  parchment  of  a  drum. 

What  Peter  told  with  drum  and  stick 
,  Is  endless  theme  for  poet’s  pen  : 

Is  found  in  endless  quartos  thick, 
Enormous  books  by  learned  men. 

And  ever  since  historian  writ, 

And  ever  since  a  bard  could  sing, 

Doth  each  exalt,  with  all  his  wit, 

The  noble  art  of  murdering. 

We  love  to  read  the  glorious  page, 

How  bold  Achilles  kill’d  his  foe, 

And  Turnus,  fell’d  by  Trojans’  rage, 

Went  howling  to  the  shades  below. 

How  Godfrey  led  his  red-cross  knights, 
How  mad  Orlando  slash’d  and  slew  ; 
There’s  not  a  single  bard  that  writes, 

But  doth  the  glorious  theme  renew. 

And  while  in  fashion  picturesque 
The  poet  rhymes  of  blood  and  blows, 
The  grave  historian,  at  his  desk, 

Describes  the  same  in  classic  prose. 

Go  read  the  works  of  Reverend  Cox ; 

You’ll  duly  see  recorded  there 
The  history  of  the  selfsame  knocks 

Here  roughly  sung  by  Drummer  Pierre. 

|  Of  battles  fierce  and  warriors  big, 

He  writes  in  phrases  dull  and  slow, 

And  waves  his  cauliflower  wig, 

And  shouts,  “  St.  George  for  Marlborow !” 

Take  Doctor  Southey  from  the  shelf, 

An  LL.I)., — a  peaceful  man  ; 

Good  Lord,  how  doth  he  plume  himself 
Because  we  beat  the  Corsican  ! 

From  first  to  last  his  page  is  fill’d 
With  stirring  tales  how  blows  were 
struck. 

He  shows  how  we  the  Frenchmen  kill’d, 
And  praises  God  for  our  good  luck. 


340 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETR  Y. 


Borne  hints,  ’tis  true,  of  politics 

The  doctors  give,  and  statesman’s  art ; 
Pierre  only  bangs  his  drum  and  sticks, 
And  understands  the  bloody  part. 

He  cares  not  what  the  cause  may  be, 

He  is  not  nice  for  wrong  and  right ; 
But  show  him  where’s  the  enemy, 

He  only  asks  to  drum  and  tight. 

They  bid  him  fight, — perhaps  he  wins  ; 

And  when  he  tells  the  story  o’er, 

The  honest  savage  brags  and  grins, 

And  only  longs  to  fight  once  more. 

But  luck  may  change,  and  valor  fail, 

Our  drummer,  Peter,  meet  reverse, 

And  with  a  moral  points  his  tale — 

The  end  of  all  such  tales — a  curse. 

Last  year,  my  love,  it  was  my  hap 
Behind  a  grenadier  to  be, 

And,  but  he  wore  a  hairy  cap, 

No  taller  man,  metliinks,  than  me. 

Prince  Albert  and  the  Queen,  God  wot! 

(Be  blessings  on  the  glorious  pair!) 
Before  us  pass’d,  I  saw  them  not, 

I  only  saw  a  cap  of  hair. 

Your  orthodox  historian  puts 
In  foremost  rank  the  soldier  thus, 

The  red-coat  bullv  in  his  boots, 

That  hides  the  march  of  men  from  us. 

He  puts  him  there  in  foremost  rank, 

You  wonder  at  his  cap  of  hair  : 

You  hear  his  sabre’s  cursed  clank, 

His  spurs  are  jingling  everywhere. 

Go  to  !  I  hate  him  and  his  trade  : 

Who  bade  us  so  to  cringe  and  bend, 
And  all  God’s  peaceful  people  made 
To  such  as  him  subservient  ? 

Tell  me  what  find  we  to  admire 
In  epaulets  and  scarlet  coats, 

In  men  because  they  load  and  fire, 

And  know  the  art  of  cutting  throats  ? 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Ah,  gentle,  tender  lady  mine  ! 

The  winter  wind  blows  cold  and  shrill, 
Come,  fill  me  one  more  glass  of  wine, 
And  give  the  silly  fools  their  will. 


And  what  care  we  for  war  and  wrack, 
How  kings  and  heroes  rise  and  fall  ? 

Look  yonder  ;  in  his  coffin  black, 

There  lies  the  greatest  of  them  all ! 

To  pluck  him  down,  and  keep  him  up, 
Died  many  million  human  souls  ; 

’Tis  twelve  o’clock,  and  time  to  sup, 

Bid  Mary  heap  the  fire  with  coals. 

He  captured  many  thousand  guns  ; 

He  wrote  “ The  Great  ”  before  his  name; 

And  dying  only  left  his  sons 
The  recollection  of  his  shame. 

Though  more  than  half  the  world  was  his, 
He  died  without  a  rood  his  own  ; 

And  borrow’d  from  his  enemies 
Six  foot  of  ground  to  lie  upon. 

He  fought  a  thousand  glorious  wars, 

And  more  than  half  the  world  was  his, 

And  somewhere,  now,  in  yonder  stars, 

Can  tell,  mayhap,  what  greatness  is. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


Hohenlinden. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 

All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array’d, 

Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh’d 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven ; 
Then  rush’d  the  steed  to  battle  driven ; 
And,  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flash’d  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden’s  hills  of  stained  snow, 

And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

’Tis  morn  ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


341 


Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulpli’rous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.  On,  ye  brave, 

Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 

Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet; 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier’s  sepulchre. 

Thomas  Campbell. 

- K>» 

The  Battle  of  the  Baltic. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 
Sing  the  glorious  day’s  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark’s  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly 
shone ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 
In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 
On  the  lofty  British  line : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flush’d 
To  anticipate  the  scene ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush’d 
O’er  the  deadly  space  between. 

“Hearts  of  oak!”  our  captains  cried;  when 
each  gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

Again  !  again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 
To  our  cheering  sent  us  back; — 


Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom — 
Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter’d  sail, 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hail’d  them  o’er  the  wave  : 

“  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save : 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring ; 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England’s  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  king.” 

Then  Denmark  bless’d  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day, 
While  the  sun  look’d  smiling  bright 
|  O’er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 
j  Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities’  blaze, 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 

And  yet,  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts  !  to  Britain’s  pride 
Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou — 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o’er  their 
grave ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid’s  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave  ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


Incident  of  the  French  Camp, 

You  know  we  French  storm’d  Ratisbon : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 

On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 
Stood  on  our  storm  i  ng-day ; 


342 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


With  neck  out- thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  lock’d  behind, 

As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 
Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  “My  plans 
That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 

Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 
Waver  at  yonder  wall,” — 

Out  ’twixt  the  batterv-smokes  there  flew 
A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full  galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 
Until  he  reach’d  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse’s  mane,  a  boy ; 

You  hardly  could  suspect 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compress’d, 
Scarce  any  blood  came  through), 

You  look’d  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 
W  as  all  but  shot  in  two. 

“Well,”  cried  he,  “Emperor,  by  God’s 

grace 

We’ve  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 

The  Marshal’s  in  the  market-place, 

And  you’ll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 
Where  I,  to  heart’s  desire, 

Perch’d  him  !”  The  chief’s  eye  flash’d ; 
his  plans 

Soar’d  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief’s  eye  flash’d,  but  presently 
Soften’d  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother  eagle’s  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes : 

“  You’re  wounded  !”  “  Nay,”  his  soldier’s 

pride 

Touch’d  to  the  quick,  he  said, 

“  I’m  kill’d,  sire !”  And,  his  chief  beside, 
Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Robert  Browning. 

~  ■  •<>• - 

The  Contrast. 

Written  under  Windsor  Terrace,  the 
Day  after  the  Funeral  of  George 
the  Third. 

I  SAW  him  last  on  this  terrace  proud, 
Walking  in  health  and  gladness, 

Begirt  with  his  court;  and  in  all  the  crowd 
Not  a  single  look  of  sadness. 


Bright  was  the  sun,  and  the  leaves  were 
green, 

Blithely  the  birds  were  singing  ; 

The  cymbal  replied  to  the  tambourine, 
And  the  bells  were  merrily  ringing. 

I  have  stood  with  the  crowd  beside  his  bier, 
When  not  a  word  was  spoken  ; 

But  every  eye  was  dim  with  a  tear, 

And  the  silence  by  sobs  was  broken. 

I  have  heard  the  earth  on  his  coffin  pour 
To  the  muffled  drum’s  deep  rolling, 
While  the  minute-gun,  with  its  solemn 
roar, 

Drown’d  the  death-bells’  tolling. 

The  time  since  he  walk’d  in  his  glory  thus, 
To  the  grave  till  I  saw  him  carried, 

Was  an  age  of  the  mightiest  change  to  us, 
But  to  him  a  night  unvaried. 

We  have  fought  the  fight;  from  his  lofty 
throne 

The  foe  of  our  land  we  have  tumbled  ; 
And  it  gladden’d  each  eye,  save  his  alone, 
For  whom  that  foe  we  humbled. 

A  daughter  beloved,  a  queen,  a  son, 

And  a  son’s  sole  child,  have  perish’d  ; 
And  sad  was  each  heart,  save  only  the  one 
By  which  they  were  fondest  cherish’d  ; 

For  his  eyes  were  seal’d  and  his  mind  was 
dark, 

And  he  sat  in  his  age’s  lateness 
Like  a  vision  throned,  as  a  solemn  mark 
Of  the  frailty  of  human  greatness  ; 

His  silver  beard,  o’er  a  bosom  spread 
Unvex’d  by  life’s  commotion, 

Like  a  yearly  lengthening  snow-drift  shed 
On  the  calm  of  a  frozen  ocean. 

O’er  him  oblivion’s  waters  boom’d 
As  the  stream  of  time  kept  flowing  ; 

And  we  only  heard  of  our  king  when 
doom’d 

To  know  that  his  strength  was  going. 

At  intervals  thus  the  waves  disgorge, 

By  weakness  rent  asunder, 

A  piece  of  the  wreck  of  the  Royal  George, 
For  the  people’s  pity  and  wonder. 

Horace  Smith. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


343 


The  Present  Crisis. 

Whex  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through 
the  broad  earth’s  aching  breast 

Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on 
from  east  to  west, 

And  the  slave,  where’er  he  cowers,  feels 
the  soul  within  him  climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the 
energy  sublime 

Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the 
thorny  stem  of  Time. 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots 
the  instantaneous  throe, 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings  earth’s 
systems  to  and  fro  ; 

At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a  recog¬ 
nizing  start, 

Nation  wildly  looks  at  nation,  standing 
with  mute  lips  apart, 

And  glad  Truth’s  yet  mightier  man-child 
leaps  beneath  the  Future’s  heart. 

So  the  Evil’s  triumph  sendeth,  with  a  terror 
and  a  chill, 

Under  continent  to  continent,  the  sense  of 
coming  ill, 

And  the  slave,  where’er  he  cowers,  feels  his 
sympathies  with  God 

In  hot  tear-drops  ebbing  earthward,  to  be 
drunk  up  by  the  sod, 

Till  a  corpse  crawls  round  unburied,  delv¬ 
ing  in  the  nobler  clod. 

For  mankind  are  one  in  spirit,  and  an 
instinct  bears  along, 

Round  the  earth’s  electric  circle,  the  swift 
flash  of  right  or  wrong ; 

Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet 
Humanity’s  vast  frame 

Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres  feels  the 
gush  of  joy  or  shame  ; — 

In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race  all  the  rest 
have  equal  claim. 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  comes  the 
moment  to  decide, 

In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for 
the  good  or  evil  side ; 


Some  great  cause,  God’s  new  Messiah,  of¬ 
fering  each  the  bloom  or  blight, 
Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the 
sheep  upon  the  right, 

And  the  choice  goes  by  for  ever  ’twixt  that 
darkness  and  that  light. 

Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  people,  on  whose 
party  thou  slialt  stand, 

Ere  the  Doom  from  its  worn  sandals 
shakes  the  dust  against  our  land? 
Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  ’tis 
Truth  alone  is  strong, 

And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  I  see 
around  her  throng 

Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  en- 
sliield  her  from  all  wrong. 

Backward  look  across  the  ages,  and  the  bea¬ 
con-moments  see, 

That,  like  peaks  of  some  sunk  continent, 
jut  through  Oblivion’s  sea  ; 

Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the  low 
foreboding  cry 

Of  those  Crises,  God’s  stern  winnowers, 
from  whose  feet  earth’s  chaff  must 

fly; 

Never  shows  the  choice  momentous  till  the 
judgment  hath  passed  by. 

Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger ;  history’s 
pages  but  record 

One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  ’twixt 
old  systems  and  the  Word  ; 

Truth  for  ever  on  the  scaffold,  Wrong  for 
ever  on  the  throne, — 

Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and, 
behind  the  dim  unknown, 

Standetli  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping 
watch  above  His  own. 

We  see  dimly  in  the  Present  what  is  small 
and  what  is  great, 

Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn 
the  iron  helm  of  fate, 

But  the  soul  is  still  oracular;  amid  the 
market’s  din, 

List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the 
Delphic  cave  within, — 

“They  enslave  their  children’s  children 
who  make  compromise  with  sin.” 


344 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Slavery,  the  earth-born  Cyclops,  fellest  of 
the  giant  brood, 

Sons  of  brutish  Force  and  Darkness,  who 
have  drenched  the  earth  with  blood, 
Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blinded 
by  our  purer  day, 

Gropes  in  yet  unblasted  regions  for  his  mis¬ 
erable  prey ; — 

Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where  our 
helpless  children  play  ? 

Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble  when  we 
share  her  wretched  crust, 

Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,  and 
’tis  prosperous  to  be  just ; 

Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while 
the  coward  stands  aside, 

Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  till  his  Lord 
is  crucified, 

And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the  faith 
they  had  denied. 

Count  me  o’er  earth’s  chosen  heroes, — they 
were  souls  that  stood  alone, 

While  the  men  they  agonized  for  hurled 
the  contumelious  stone, 

Stood  serene,  and  down  the  future  saw  the 
golden  beam  incline 

To  the  side  of  perfect  justice,  mastered  by 
their  faith  divine, 

By  one  man’s  plain  truth  to  manhood  and 
to  God’s  supreme  design. 

By  the  light  of  burning  heretics  Christ’s 
bleeding  feet  I  track, 

Toiling  up  new  Calvaries,  ever  with  the 
cross  that  turns  not  back, 

And  these  mounts  of  anguish  number  how 
each  generation  learned 
One  new  word  of  that  grand  Credo  which 
in  prophet-hearts  hath  burned 
Since  the  first  man  stood  God-conquered 
with  his  face  to  heaven  upturned. 

For  Humanity  sweeps  onward :  where  to¬ 
day  the  martyr  stands, 

On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the 
silver  in  his  hands  ; 


Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready  and  the 
crackling  fagots  burn, 

While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in 
silent  awe  return 

To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  His¬ 
tory’s  golden  urn. 

’Tis  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle 
slaves 

Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our 
fathers’  graves, 

Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the 
present  light  a  crime ; — 

Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards, 
steered  by  men  behind  their  time? 
Turn  those  tracks  toward  Past  or  Future, 
that  make  Plymouth  Rock  sublime  ? 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  stalwart 
old  iconoclasts, 

Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all  vir¬ 
tue  was  the  Past’s  ; 

But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood, 
thinking  that  hath  made  us  free, 
Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments,  while 
our  tender  spirits  flee 
The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse  which 
drove  them  across  the  sea. 

They  have  rights  who  dare  maintain  them  ; 

we  are  traitors  to  our  sires, 
Smothering  in  their  holy  ashes  Freedom’s 
new-lit  altar-fires  ; 

Shall  we  make  their  creed  our  jailer  ?  Shall 
we,  in  our  haste  to  slay, 

From  the  tombs  of  the  old  prophets  steal 
the  funeral  lamps  away 
To  light  up  the  martyr-fagots  round  the 
prophets  of  to-day? 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties ;  Time 
makes  ancient  good  uncouth  ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who 
would  keep  abreast  of  Truth  ; 

Lo!  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires!  we 
ourselves  must  Pilgrims  be, 

Launch  our  Mavflower,  and  steer  boldly 
through  the  desperate  winter  sea, 
Nor  attempt  the  Future’s  portal  with  the 

Past’s  blood-rusted  key. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


345 


Casabianca. 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 
Whence  all  but  he  had  fled ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle’s  wreck 
Shone  round  him  o’er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm ; 

A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  roll’d  on — he  would  not  go 
Without  his  father’s  word  ; 

That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  call’d  aloud,  “  Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  is  done?” 

He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 
Unconscious  of  his  son. 

“  Speak,  father,”  once  again  he  cried, 

“  If  I  may  yet  be  gone !” 

And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  roll’d  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 

And  look’d  from  that  lone  post  of  death 
In  still,  yet  brave  despair. 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

“  My  father,  must  I  stay  ?” 

While  o’er  him  fast,  through  sail  and 
shroud, 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 
They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 

And  stream’d  above  the  gallant  child 
Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder-sound — • 
The  boy! — oh,  where  was  he? 

Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 
With  fragments  strew’d  the  sea  ! — 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 
That  well  had  borne  their  part, — 

But  the  noblest  thing  which  perish’d  there 

Was  that  young,  faithful  heart! 

Felicia  Dorothea  IIemans. 


The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista. 

Speak  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking 
northward  far  away, 

O’er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o’er  the 
Mexican  array, 

Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  are  they 
far  or  come  they  near? 

Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither 
rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

“  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the 
storm  of  battle  rolls ; 

Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying ;  God  have 
mercy  on  their  souls  !” 

Who  is  losing?  who  is  Winning? — “Over 
hill  and  over  plain, 

I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through 
the  mountain-rain.” 

Holy  Mother!  keep  our  brothers!  Look, 
Ximena,  look  once  more. 

“  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling 
darkly  as  before, 

Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend 
and  foeman,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweep¬ 
ing  down  its  mountain-course.” 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!  “Ah!  the 
smoke  has  roll’d  away  ; 

And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming 
down  the  ranks  of  gray. 

Hark !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles !  there 
the  troop  of  Minon  wheels; 

There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with 
the  cannon  at  their  heels. 

“  Jesu,  pity!  how  it  thickens!  now  retreat 
and  now  advance  ! 

Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers 
Puebla’s  charging  lance ! 

Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders; 
horse  and  foot  together  fall : 

Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through 
them  ploughs  the  Northern  ball.” 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling 
fast  and  frightful  on  : 

Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has 
lost,  and  who  has  won? 

“Alas!  alas!  I  know  not;  friend  and  foe 
together  fall, 

O’er  the  dying  rush  the  living;  pray,  my 
sisters,  for  them  all ! 


-♦O* 


346 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Lo !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting : 
Blessed  Mother,  save  my  brain  ! 

I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out 
from  heaps  of  slain. 

Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding;  now 
they  fall,  and  strive  to  rise ; 

Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest 
they  die  before  our  eyes ! 

u  O  my  heart’s  love  !  O  my  dear  one !  lay 
thy  poor  head  on  my  knee: 

Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee? 
Canst  thou  hear  me?  canst  thou 
see? 

O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle !  O  my 
Bernal,  look  once  more 

On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee!  Mercy! 
mercy  !  all  is  o’er!” 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy 
dear  one  down  to  rest ; 

Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the 
cross  upon  his  breast; 

Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his 
funeral  masses  said ; 

To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living 
ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and 
young,  a  soldier  lay, 

Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances, 
bleeding  slow  his  life  away  ; 

But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lo.rn 
Ximena  knelt, 

She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his 
pistol-belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she 
turn’d  away  her  head  ; 

With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  look’d  she 
back  upon  her  dead  ; 

But  she  heard  the  youth’s  low  moaning,  and 
his  struggling  breath  of  pain, 

And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his 
parching  lips  again. 

IVhisper’d  low  the  dying  soldier,  press’d 
her  hand  and  faintly  smiled: 

Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother’s?  did 
she  watch  beside  her  child? 


All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her 
woman’s  heart  supplied  ; 

With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  “  Moth¬ 
er  !”  murmur’d  he  and  died ! 

“  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who 
led  thee  forth, 

From  some  gentle  sad-eyed  mother,  weep¬ 
ing,  lonely,  in  the  North  !” 

Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she 
laid  him  with  her  dead, 

And  turn’d  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind 
the  wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !  “  Like  a 
cloud  before  the  wind 

Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leav¬ 
ing  blood  and  death  behind  ; 

Ah  !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy ;  in  the 
dust  the  wounded  strive  ; 

Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels !  O  thou 
Christ  of  God,  forgive  !” 

Sink,  O  night,  among  thy  mountains !  let 
the  cool  gray  shadows  fall ; 

Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy 
curtain  over  all ! 

Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight, 
wide  apart  the  battle  roll’d, 

In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  can¬ 
non’s  lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their 
holy  task  pursued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow, 
worn  and  faint  and  lacking  food ; 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a 
tender  care  they  hung, 

And  the  dying  foeman  bless’d  them  in  a 
strange  and  Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father!  is  this  evil 
world  of  ours ; 

Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes, 
spring  afresh  the  Eden  flowers ; 

From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and 
Pity  send  their  prayer, 

And  still  thy  white-wing’d  angels  hover 

dimly  in  our  air. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


347 


Marco  Bozzaris. 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance 
bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power : 

In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he 
bore 

The  trophies  of  a  conqueror ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard, 
Then  wore  his  monarch’s  signet-ring, 

Then  press’d  that  monarch’s  throne — a 
king; 

As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden’s  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 

True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 
Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 

There  had  the  Persian’s  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their 
blood, 

On  old  Platsea’s  day ; 

And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted 
air 

The  sons  of  sires  who  conquer’d  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far,  as  they. 

An  hour  pass’d  on  — the  Turk  awoke : 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 

He  woke,  to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 

“  To  arms !  they  come !  the  Greek  !  the 
Greek!” 

He  woke,  to  die  ’midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 
And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud  ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 
Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : 

“Strike,  till  the  last  arm’d  foe  expires; 
Strike,  for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike,  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 
God  and  your  native  land  !” 

They  fought,  like  brave  men,  long  and 
well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem 
slain ; 

They  conquer’d — but  Bozzaris  fell, 
Bleeding  at  every  vein. 


His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 
And  the  red  field  was  won ; 

Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night’s  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death, 

Come  to  the  mother’s,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born’s  breath; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 

And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 

Come  in  consumption’s  ghastly  form, 

The  earthquake-shock,  the  ocean-storm  ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and 
warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance  and 
wine ; 

And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 

The  groan,  the  knelk  the  pail,  the  bier; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 
Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 
Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 

Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet’s  word, 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 
The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 

Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought, 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought, 
Come  in  her  crowning  hour,  and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye’s  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 
Of  sky  and  stars  to  prison’d  men  ; 

Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 

Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 
To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 

When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 
Blew  o’er  the  Ilaytian  seas. 

Bozzaris  !  with  the  storied  brave 
Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory’s  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow’s  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb. 


348 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone ; 

For  thee  her  poet’s  lyre  is  wreathed, 

Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birth-day  bells, 

Of  thee  her  babes’  first  lisping  tells ; 

For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed ; 

Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 

Gives,  for  thy  sake,  a  deadlier  bloAv ; 

His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears; 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 

And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 

Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh ; 

For  thou  art  Freedom’s  now,  and  Fame’s, 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck. 

- K>* - 

Monterey. 

We  were  not  many — we  who  stood 
Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day  ; 

Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 
Have  with  us  been  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  it  hail’d 
In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 

Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quail’d 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them 
wail’d 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on — still  on  our  column  kept 

Through  walls  of  flame  its  withering 
way ; 

Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 

Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoil’d  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
We  swoop’d  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Storm’d  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 


Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play  ; 

Where  orange-boughs  above  their  grave 

Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many — we  who  press’d 
Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day — 

But  who  of  us  has  not  confess’d 

He’d  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey  ? 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman. 

- *<>« - 

On  the  Extinction  of  the 
Venetian  Republic. 

Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in 
fee  ; 

And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West:  the 
worth 

Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 

Venice,  the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 

She  was  a  Maiden  City,  bright  and  free  ; 

No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  vio¬ 
late  ; 

And,  when  She  took  unto  herself  a 
Mate, 

She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 

And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories 
fade, 

Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  de¬ 
cay ; 

Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 

When  her  long  life  hath  reach’d  its  final 
day : 

Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even 
the  Shade 

Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  pass’d 
away. 

William  Wordsworth. 
- »o«  — 

The  Charge  of  trie  Light  Bri¬ 
gade. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

“Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 

Charge  for  the  guns !”  he  said: 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


349 


“  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade !” 

Was  there  a  man  dismay’d? 

Not  though  the  soldier  knew 
Some  one  had  blunder’d  : 

Their’s  not  to  make  reply, 

Their’s  not  to  reason  why, 

Their’s  but  to  do  and  die : 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volley’d  and  thunder’d; 

Storm’d  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 

Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred : 

Flash’d  all  their  sabres  bare, 

Flash’d  as  they  turn’d  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 

Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wonder’d : 

Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 

Right  through  the  line  they  broke ; 

Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel’d  from  the  sabre-stroke 
Shatter’d  and  sunder’d. 

Then  they  rode  back,  but  not — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  behind  them 
Volley’d  and  thunder’d; 

Storm’d  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 

They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 

Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wonder’d. 

Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 

Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred ! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


Ail  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac. 

“All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,”  they 
say, 

“  Except,  now  and  then,  a  stray  picket 

Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and 
fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket.” 

’Tis  nothing — a  private  or  two  now  and 
then 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle; 

Not  an  officer  lost — only  one  of  the  men 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle. 

***** 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dream¬ 
ing  ; 

Their  tents,  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn 
moon 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fire,  are  gleam¬ 
ing. 

A  tremulous  sigh  of  the  gentle  night- 
wind 

Through  the  forest-leaves  softly  is  creep¬ 
ing, 

While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering 
eyes, 

Keep  guard,  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There’s  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry’s 
tread 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  foun¬ 
tain, 

And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle- 
bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 

His  musket  falls  slack ;  his  face,  dark  and 
grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender 

As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children 
asleep — 

For  their  mother;  may  Heaven  defend 
her ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brighcfy 
as  then, 

That  night  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 

Leaped  up  to  his  lips — when  low-murmur 
ed  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 


350 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Then,  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his 

eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its 
place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine 
tree, 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 

Yet  onward  he  goes  through  the  broad  belt 
of  light, 

Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  so 
dreary. 

Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled 
the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flash¬ 
ing? 

It  looked  like  a  rifle — “  Ha !  Mary,  good¬ 
bye  !” 

The  red  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plash¬ 
ing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river  ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the 
dead — 

The  picket’s  off  duty  for  ever ! 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers. 

- •<>•  -  — 

The  Cumberland . 

Magnificent  thy  fate, 

Once  Mistress  of  the  Seas ! 

No  braver  vessel  ever  flung 
A  pennon  to  the  breeze ; 

No  bark  e’er  died  a  death  so  grand ; 

Such  heroes  never  vessel  manned ; 

Your  parting  broadside  broke  the  wave 
That  surged  above  your  patriot  grave ; 
Your  flag,  the  gamest  of  the  game, 

Sank  proudly  with  you — not  in  shame, 

But  in  its  ancient  glory ; 

The  memory  of  its  parting  gleam 
Will  never  fade  while  poets  dream ; 

The  echo  of  your  dying  gun 
Will  last  till  man  his  race  has  run, 

Then  live  in  Angel  Story. 

Author  Unknown. 

■  +o*  ■  ■ 


Barbara  Frietchie. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  cluster’d  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-wall’d  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 

Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eves  of  the  famish’d  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  march’d  over  the  mountain- 
wall, — 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 

Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 

Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapp’d  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  look’d  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 

Bow’d  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  haul’d 
down  ; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 

To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouch’d  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced:  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

“  Halt !” — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
“Fire!” — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shiver’d  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 

It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatch’d  the  silken  scarf. 

She  lean’d  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 

And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

“  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country’s  flag,”  she  said. 


HISTORICAL  POEMS. 


351 


A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirr’d 
To  life  at  that  woman’s  deed  and  word : 

“  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !  March  on !”  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet: 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 
On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved- it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie’s  work  is  o’er, 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall’s  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie’s  grave, 

Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Bound  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 

On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

•<>• 

Sheridan’s  Ride. 

Up  from  the  south,  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 

The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste  to  the  chieftain’s 
door, 

The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and 
roar, 

Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thunder’d  along  the  horizon’s  bar; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  roll’d 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontroll’d, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 


But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good  broad  highway  leading  down ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morn¬ 
ing  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight, 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need  ; 

He  stretch’d  away  with  his  utmost  speed; 

Hills  rose  and  fell ;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprang  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thun¬ 
dering  south, 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon’s 
mouth, 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster 
and  faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the 
master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting 
their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls ; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strain’d 
to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flow’d 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind  ; 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace 
ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 

But,  lo !  he  is  nearing  his  heart’s  desire  ; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring 
fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the 
groups 

Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating 
troops  ; 

i  What  was  done  ?  what  to  do  ?  a  glance 
told  him  both. 

Then  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible 
oath, 

He  dash’d  down  the  line,  ’mid  a  storm  of 
huzzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  check’d  its  course 
there,  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compell’d  it  to 
pause. 


352 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger 
was  gray  ; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nos¬ 
tril’s  play 

He  seem’d  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 
“  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down,  to  save  the  day.” 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man  ! 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 

The  American  soldier’s  Temple  of  Fame, 
There  with  the  glorious  general’s  name 
Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright : 

“  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 

From  Winchester — twenty  miles  away!” 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 

-  -404 - 

History. 

Thou  chronicle  of  crimes!  I  read  no 
more — 

For  I  am  one  who  willingly  would  love 
His  fellow-kind.  0  gentle  Poesy, 

Receive  me  from  the  court’s  polluted 

scenes, 

From  dungeon  horrors,  from  the  fields  of 
war, 

Receive  me  to  your  haunts, — that  I  may 
nurse 

My  nature’s  better  feelings,  for  my  soul 
Sickens  at  man’s  misdeeds  ! 

I  spake — when  Jo ! 

There  stood  before  me,  in  her  majesty, 


Clio,  the  strong-eyed  Muse.  Upon  her 
brow 

Sate  a  calm  anger.  Go,  young  man,  she 
cried, 

Sigh  among  myrtle  bowers,  and  let  thy 
soul 

Effuse  itself  in  strains  so  sorrowful  sweet, 
That  love-sick  maids  may  weep  upon  thy 
page, 

Soothed  with  delicious  sorrow.  Oh  shame! 
shame ! 

Was  it  for  this  I  waken’d  thy  young 
mind  ? 

Was  it  for  this  I  made  thy  swelling  heart 
Throb  at  the  deeds  of  Greece,  and  thy 
boy’s  eye 

So  kindle  when  that  glorious  Spartan 
died? 

Boy !  boy !  deceive  me  not !  what  if  the 
tale 

Of  murder’d  millions  strike  a  chilling 
pang, 

What  if  Tiberius  in  his  island  stews, 

And  Philip  at  his  beads,  alike  inspire 
Strong  anger  and  contempt;  hast  thou 
not  risen 

With  nobler  feelings?  with  a  deeper  love 
For  freedom?  Yes;  if  righteously  thy 
soul 

Loathes  the  black  history  of  human  crimes 
And  human  misery,  let  that  spirit  fill 
Thy  song,  and  it  shall  teach  thee,  boy !  to 
raise 

Strains  such  as  Cato  might  have  deign’d 
to  hear, 

As  Sidney  in  his  hall  of  bliss  may  love. 

Robert  Southey. 


Poems  of  Patriotism. 


The  Star-Spangled  Banner. 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn’s  early 
light 

What  so  proudly  we  hail’d  at  the  twi¬ 
light’s  last  gleaming — 

Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars 
through  the  perilous  fight, 

O’er  the  ramparts  we  watch’d,  were  so 
gallantly  streaming  ? 

And  the  rocket’s  red  glare,  the  bombs 
bursting  in  air, 

Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag 
was  still  there ; 

Oh,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet 
wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of 
the  brave  ? 

On  that  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the 
mists  of  the  deep, 

Where  the  foe’s  haughty  host  in  dread 
silence  reposes, 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o’er  the 
towering  steep, 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now 
discloses  ? 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning’s 
first  beam, 

In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on  the 
stream  ; 

’Tis  the  star-spangled  banner;  oh,  long 
may  it  wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of 
the  brave ! 

And  where  are  the  foes  who  so  vauntingly 
swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle’s 
confusion 
23 


A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no 
more  ? 

Their  blood  has  wash’d  out  their  foul 
footsteps’  pollution. 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and 
slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of 
the  grave  ; 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph 
doth  wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of 
the  brave. 

Oh,  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall 
stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war’s 
desolation  ! 

Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the 
heaven-rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and 
preserved  us  a  nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is 
just; 

And  this  be  our  motto  :  “  In  God  is  our 
trust ;” 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph 
shall  wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of 
the  brave. 

Francis  Scott  Key. 

The  American  Flag. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain-height 
Unfurl’d  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there ; 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light  ; 

353 


354 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  call’d  her  eagle-bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud  ! 

Who  rear’st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 

To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud, 

And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven — 
Child  of  the  sun  !  to  thee  ’tis  given 
To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 

To  hover  in  the  sulphur-smoke, 

To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 

And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 

Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 

When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet-tone, 

And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on  ; 

Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 

Has  dimm’d  the  glistening  bayonet, 

Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 

And  as  his  springing  steps  advance 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight’s  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o’er  the  brave  ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 

And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside’s  reeling  rack, 

Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thv  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o’er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart’s  hope  and  home  ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given  ; 

Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 


For  ever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before 
us, 

With  freedom’s  soil  beneath  our  feet. 

And  freedom’s  banner  streaming  o’er  us  ? 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 

- K>« - 

America. 

My  country,  ’tis  of  thee, 

Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing  ; 

Land  where  my  fathers  died, 

Land  of  the  pilgrim’s  pride, 

From  every  mountain-side 
Let  freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee — 

Land  of  the  noble,  free — 

Thy  name  I  love  ; 

I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 

Thy  woods  and  templed  hills  ; 

My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 
Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 

And  ring  from  all  the  trees 
Sweet  freedom’s  song : 

Let  mortal  tongues  awake  ; 

Let  all  that  breathe  partake  ; 

Let  rocks  their  silence  break, — 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers’  God,  to  Thee, 

Author  of  liberty, 

To  Thee  we  sing  ; 

Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom’s  holy  light ; 

Protect  us  by  Thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 

Samuel  F.  Smith. 

- KX - 

Battle- Hymn  of  the  Republic. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the 
coming  of  the  Lord  : 

He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the 
grapes  of  wrath  are  stored  ; 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of 
His  terrible  swift  sword  : 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM. 


355 


I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a 
hundred  circling  camps  ; 

They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the 
evening  dews  and  damps  ; 

I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the 
dim  and  flaring  lamps  : 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnish’d 
rows  of  steel : 

“  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with 
you  my  grace  shall  deal  ; 

Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the 
serpent  with  his  heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on.” 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that 
shall  never  call  retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before 
His  judgment-seat : 

Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him  !  be 
jubilant,  my  feet ! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born 
across  the  sea, 

With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  trans¬ 
figures  you  and  me  : 

As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to 
make  men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 

Julia  Ward  Howe. 


Rule ,  Britannia. 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven’s  com¬ 
mand, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 

This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sang  this  strain  : 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  nations,  not  so  blest  as  thee, 

Must  in  their  turns  to  tyrants  fall  ; 
While  thou  shalt  flourish,  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all : 

Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke : 


|  As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak : 

Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne’er  shall  tame ; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

But  work  their  woe,  and  thy  renown. 

Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves  ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine : 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 

And  every  shore  it  circles,  thine: 

Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 
Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair ; 

Blest  isle !  with  matchless  beauty  crown’d, 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair : 

Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

James  Thomson. 

- - 

God  Save  the  King. 

God  save  our  gracious  king! 

Long  live  our  noble  king! 

God  save  the  king ! 

Send  him  victorious, 

Happy  and  glorious, 

Long  to  reign  over  us — 

God  save  the  king  ! 

O  Lord  our  God,  arise ! 

Scatter  his  enemies, 

And  make  them  fall, 

Confound  their  politics, 

Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks; 

On  him  our  hopes  we  fix, 

God  save  us  all ! 

Thy  choicest  gifts  in  store 
On  him  be  pleased  to  pour ; 

Long  may  he  reign. 

May  he  defend  our  laws, 

And  ever  give  us  cause, 

To  sing  with  heart  and  voice — 

God  save  the  king  ! 

Henry  Carey. 


356 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Men  of  England. 

Men  of  England!  who  inherit 
Rights  that  cost  your  sires  their 
blood ! 

Men  whose  undegenerate  spirit 

Has  been  proved  on  field  and  flood ! — 

By  the  foes  you’ve  fought  uncounted, 

By  the  glorious  deeds  you’ve  done, 
Trophies  captured — breaches  mounted — 
Navies  conquer’d — kingdoms  won! 

Yet,  remember,  England  gathers 
Hence  but  fruitless  wreaths  of  fame, 

If  the  freedom  of  your  fathers 
Glow  not  in  your  hearts  the  same. 

• 

What  are  monuments  of  bravery 
Where  no  public  virtues  bloom? 

What  avail,  in  lands  of  slavery, 

Trophied  temples,  arch  and  tomb? 

Pageants  ! — Let  the  world  revere  us 
For  our  people’s  rights  and  laws, 

And  the  breasts  of  civic  heroes 
Bared  in  Freedom’s  holy  cause. 

Yours  are  Hampden’s,  Russell’s  glory, 
Sidney’s  matchless  shade  is  yours, — 
Martyrs  in  heroic  story, 

Worth  a  hundred  Agincourts! 

W  e’re  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 
Crown’d  and  mitred  tyranny  ; — 

They  defied  the  field  and  scaffold 

For  their  birthrights — so  will  we! 

Thomas  Campbell. 

- *>• - 

Ye  Mariners  of  England. 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 
That  guard  our  native  seas  ! 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand 
years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe: 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  start  from  every  wave — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 
And  Ocean  was  their  grave  : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glowr, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep. 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

I 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o’er  the  mountain-waves, 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 
She  quells  the  floods  below — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 

Till  danger’s  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

Thomas  Campbell. 

- - 

Sonnet. 

On  a  Distant  View  of  England. 

Yes!  from  mine  eyes  the  tears  unbidden 
start, 

As  thee,  my  country,  and  the  long-lost 
sight 

Of  thy  own  cliffs,  that  lift  their  summits 

•/  ' 

white 

Above  the  wave,  once  more  my  beating 
heart 

With  eager  hope  and  filial  transport 
hails! 

Scenes  of  my  youth,  reviving  gales  ye 
bring, 

As  when  erewhile  the  tuneful  morn  of 
spring 

Jovous  awoke  amidst  vour  hawthorn  vales, 
»  »  * 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM. 


357 


And  fill’d  with  fragrance  every  village 
lane: 

Fled  are  those  hours,  and  all  the  joys 
they  gave ! 

Yet  still  I  gaze,  and  count  each  rising 
wave 

That  bears  me  nearer  to  mv  home  again : 

If  haply,  ’mid  those  woods  and  vales  so 
fair, 

Stranger  to  Peace,  I  yet  may  meet  her 
there. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 

♦<>♦ - 

The  Broadswords  of  Scotland. 

Now  there’s  peace  on  the  shore,  now 
there’s  calm  on  the  sea, 

Fill  a  glass  to  the  heroes  whose  swords 
kept  us  free, 

Fight  descendants  of  Wallace,  Montrose, 
and  Dundee. 

Oh,  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland  ! 

And  oh,  the  old  Scottish  broadswords ! 

Old  Sir  Ralph  Abercromby,  the  good  and 
the  brave — 

Let  him  flee  from  our  board,  let  him  sleep 
with  the  slave, 

Whose  libation  comes  slow  while  we  honor 
his  grave. 

Oh,  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland  ! 

And  oh,  the  old  Scottish  broadswords ! 

Though  he  died  not,  like  him,  amid 
victory’s  roar, 

Though  disaster  and  gloom  wove  his  shroud 
on  the  shore, 

Not  the  less  we  remember  the  spirit  of 
Moore. 

Oh,  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland ! 

And  oh,  the  old  Scottish  broadswords ! 

Yea,  a  place  with  the  fallen  the  living 
shall  claim ; 

We’ll  entwine  in  one  wreath  every  glori¬ 
ous  name, 

The  Gordon,  the  Ramsay,  the  Hope,  and 
the  Graham, 

All  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland ! 

And  oh,  the  old  Scottish  broadswords ! 


Count  the  rocks  of  the  Spey,  count  the 
groves  of  the  Forth, 

Count  the  stars  in  the  clear,  cloudless 
heaven  of  the  north  ; 

Then  go  blazon  their  numbers,  their  names, 
and  their  worth, 

All  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland ! 

And  oh,  the  old  Scottish  broadswords  ! 

The  highest  in  splendor,  the  humblest  in 
place, 

Stand  united  in  glory,  as  kindred  in  race, 

For  the  private  is  brother  in  blood  to  His 
Grace. 

Oh,  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland ! 

And  oh,  the  old  Scottish  broadswords! 

Then  sacred  to  each  and  to  all  let  it  be, 

Fill  a  glass  to  the  heroes  whose  swords 
kept  us  free, 

Right  descendants  of  Wallace,  Montrose, 
and  Dundee. 

Oh,  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland ! 

And  oh,  the  old  Scottish  broadswords ! 

John  Gibson  Lockhart. 

- - 

IT’S  IlAME,  AND  ITS  HAME . 

It’s  hame,  and  it’s  hame,  name  fain  wad  I 
be, 

An’  it’s  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain 
countree ! 

When  the  flower  is  i’  the  bud  and  the  leaf 
is  on  the  tree, 

The  lark  shall  sing  me  hame  in  my  ain 
countree ; 

It’s  hame,  and  it’s  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I 
be, 

An’  it’s  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain 
countree! 

The  green  leaf  o’  loyaltie’s  beginning  for  to 
fa’, 

The  bonnie  white  rose  it  is  withering 
an’  a’ ; 

But  I’ll  water ’t  wi’  the  blude  of  usurping 
tyrannie, 

An’  green  it  will  grow  in  my  ain  countree. 

It’s  hame,  and  it’s  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I 
be, 

An’  it’s  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain 
•countree! 


358 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


There’s  naught  now  frae  ruin  my  country 
can  save 

But  the  keys  o’  kind  Heaven  to  open  the 
grave, 

That  a’  the  noble  martyrs  who  died  for 
loyaltie 

May  rise  again  and  fight  for  their  ain 
countree. 

It’s  hame,  and  it’s  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I 
be, 

An’  it’s  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain 
countree ! 

The  great  now  are  gane,  a’  who  ventured 
to  save, 

The  new  grass  is  springing  on  the  tap  o’ 
their  grave  ; 

But  the  sun  thro’  the  mirk  blinks  blythe  in 
my  ee : 

“  I’ll  shine  on  ye  yet  in  your  ain  countree.” 

It’s  hame,  and  it’s  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I 
be, 

An’  it’s  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain 
countree ! 

Allan  Cunningham. 

- *o« - 

The  Sun  Rises  Bright  in  France. 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France, 

And  fair  sets  he ; 

But  he  has  tint  the  blythe  blink  he  had 
In  my  ain  countree. 

Oh,  it’s  nae  my  ain  ruin 
That  saddens  aye  my  ee, 

But  the  dear  Marie  I  left  ahin’, 

Wi’  sweet  bairnies  three. 

My  lanelv  hearth  burn’d  bonnie, 

An’  smiled  my  ain  Marie ; 

I’ve  left  a’  my  heart  behin’ 

In  my  ain  countree. 

The  bud  comes  back  to  summer, 

And  the  blossom  to  the  bee, 

But  I’ll  win  back — oh  never 
To  my  ain  countree. 

Oh,  I  am  leal  to  high  Heaven, 

Where  soon  I  hope  to  be, 

An’  there  I’ll  meet  you  a’  soon 

Frae  my  ain  countree ! 

Allan  Cunningham. 


My  Hearts  in  the  Highlands. 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is 
not  here ; 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the 
deer  ; 

Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the 
roe, 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I  go. 

Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the 
North, 

The  birthplace  of  valor,  the  country  of 
worth : 

Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 

The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  cover’d 
with  snow ; 

Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys 
below  ; 

Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging 
woods ; 

Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring 
floods. 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is 
not  here, 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the 
deer. 

Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the 
roe, 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I 
go. 

Robert  Burns. 

•o+  ■ 

Border  Ballad. 

March,  march  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 
Why  the  de’il  dinna  ye  march  forward  in 
order ? 

March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 
All  the  blue  bonnets  are  bound  for  the 
border. 

Many  a  banner  spread, 

Flutters  above  your  head, 

Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 

Mount  and  make  ready,  then, 
Sons  of  the  mountain-glen, 

Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish 
glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are 
grazing, 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the 
roe ; 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM. 


359 


Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is 
blazing, 

Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and 
the  bow. 

Trumpets  are  sounding, 
War-steeds  are  bounding, 

Stand  to  your  arms  and  march  in  good 
order, 

England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 

When  the  blue  bonnets  came  over  the 
border. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


Pibroch  of  Donuil  Diiu. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 

Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 
Summon  Clan-Conuil. 

Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons ! 

Come  in  your  war-array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  the  deep  glen,  and 
From  mountain  so  rocky, 

The  war-pipe  and  pennon 
Are  at  Inverlochy. 

Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 
True  heart  that  wears  one, 

Come  every  steel  blade,  and 
Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter; 

Leave  the  corpse  uninterr’d, 

The  bride  at  the  altar ; 

Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 
Leave  nets  and  barges  : 

Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 
Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 
Forests  are  rended ; 

Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 
Navies  are  stranded: 

Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 

Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom, 
Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come; 
See  how  they  gather ! 


Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 

Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 
Forward  each  man  set! 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset! 

Sir  Walter  Scott, 

- •<>♦— 

The  Exile  of  Erie. 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of 
Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and 
chill  ; 

For  his  country  he  sigh’d  when  at  twilight 
repairing 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 

But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye’s  sad  de¬ 
votion, 

For  it  rose  o’er  his  own  native  isle  of  the 
ocean, 

Where  once,  in  the  fervor  of  youth’s  warm 
emotion, 

He  sung  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go 
bragli. 

Sad  is  my  fate !  said  the  heart-broken 
stranger, 

The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can 
flee  ; 

But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and 
danger, 

A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 

Never  again,  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 

Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I  spend 
the  sweet  hours, 

Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild  woven 
flowers, 

And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go 
bragli. 

Erin,  my  country!  though  sad  and  for¬ 
saken, 

In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore, 

But,  alas !  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends '  who  can  meet 
me  no  more ! 

Oh,  cruel  Fate !  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 

In  a  mansion  of  peace,  where  no  perils 
can  chase  me? 

Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me? 

They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  de¬ 
plore  ! 


360 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Where  is  my  cabin-door,  fast  by  the  wild- 
wood  ? 

Sisters  and  sire,  did  ye  weep  for  its 
fall? 

Where  is  the  mother  that  look’d  on  my 
childhood, 

And  where  is  the  bosom-friend,  dearer 
than  all? 

Oh,  my  sad  heart,  long  abandon’d  by 
pleasure, 

Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure? 

Tears,  like  the  rain-drops,  may  fall  with¬ 
out  measure, 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  re¬ 
call. 

Yet,  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing, 

One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can 
draw ; 

Erin,  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  bless¬ 
ing; 

Land  of  my  forefathers  !  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Buried  and  cold,  when  mv  heart  stills  her 
motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields,  sweetest  isle  of  the 
ocean ! 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud 
with  devotion, 

Erin  mavournin  !  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 

- - 

Song  of  the  Greek  Poet. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, — 

Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 

Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet ; 

But  all  except  their  sun  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero’s  harp,  the  lover’s  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse ; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires’  “  Islands  of  the  Blest.” 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream’d  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 

For  standing  on  the  Persians’  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

V 


A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o’er  sea-born  Salamis ; 

And  ships  by  thousands  lay  below, 

And  men  in  nations, — all  were  his ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day, — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?  On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now, — 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  ! 

And  must  thv  lvre,  so  long  divine. 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

’Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot’s  shame, 

E’en  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush, — for  Greece  a  tear. 

f  * 

Must  we  but  weep  o’er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush? — our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast  1 
A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 

Of  the  three  hundred,  grant  but  three 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah  no !  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent’s  fall, 

And  answer,  “  Let  one  living  head, 

But  one,  arise, — we  come,  we  come!” 

’Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain, — in  vain  ;  strike  other  chords ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio’s  vine  ! 
Hark !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call, 

How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  vet, 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave, — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon’s  song  divine; 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates, — 

A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM. 


361 


The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 
Was  freedom’s  best  and  bravest  friend ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli’s  rock  and  Parga’s  shore 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line, 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 

And  there  perhaps  some  seed  is  sown 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks, — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells. 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 

But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 
Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade, — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 

My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 

To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium’s  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die. 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne’er  be  mine, — 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 

Lord  Byron. 

- - 

A  Court  Lady. 

Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes 
with  purple  were  dark, 

Her  cheeks’  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and 
restless  spark. 

Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name 
and  in  race ; 

Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the 
face. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth  more  true  as 
woman  and  wife, 

Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder 
in  manners  and  life. 


She  stood  in  the  earlv  morning,  and  said 
to  her  maidens,  “  Bring 

That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at 
the  court  of  the  king. 

“  Bring  me  the  clasps  of  diamond,  lucid, 
clear  of  the  mote, 

Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp 
me  the  small  at  the  throat. 

“  Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  dia¬ 
monds  to  fasten  the  sleeves, 

Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  pow¬ 
der  of  snow  from  the  eaves.” 

Gorgeous  she  entered  the  sunlight,  which 
gather’d  her  up  in  a  flame, 

While  straight  in  her  open  carriage  she 
to  the  hospital  came. 

In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing  from 
end  to  end, 

“  Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each 
is  the  place  of  a  friend.” 

Up  she  pass’d  through  the  wards,  and 
stood  at  a  young  man’s  bed  : 

Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid 
the  droop  of  his  head. 

“  Art  thou  a  Lombard,  my  brother?  Happy 
art  thou,”  she  cried, 

And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him  :  he  dream’d 
in  her  face  and  died. 

Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went  on 
still  to  a  second  : 

He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose  years  by 
dungeons  were  reckon’d. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in 
his  life  were  sorer. 

“Art  thou  a  Romagnole?”  Her  eyes 
drove  the  lightnings  before  her. 

“Austrian  and  priest  had  join’d  to  double 
and  tighten  the  cord 

Able  to  bind  thee,  O  strong  one, — free  by 
the  stroke  of  a  sword. 

“  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using 
the  life  overcast 

To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present  (too 
new)  in  glooms  of  the  past.” 


362 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Down  she  stepp’d  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a 
face  like  a  girl’s, 

Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying, — a  deep 
black  hole  in  the  curls. 


Holding  his  cold  rough  hands, — “  Well,  oh, 
well  have  ye  done 

In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not 
be  noble  alone.” 


“Art  thou  from  Tuscany,  brother?  and 
seest  thou,  dreaming  in  pain, 

Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching 
the  list  of  the  slain  ?” 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touch’d  his 
cheeks  with  her  hands : 

“  Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee, 
although  she  should  weep  as  she 
stands.” 

On  she  pass’d  to  a  Frenchman,  his  arm 
carried  off  by  a  ball : 

Kneeling,  .  .  .“  O  more  than  my  brother  ! 
how  shall  I  thank  thee  for  all? 

I 

“  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought 
for  his  land  and  line, 

But  thou  hast  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate 
of  a  wrong  not  thine. 

“  Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to 
be  dispossess’d : 

But  blessed  are  those  among  nations  who 
dare  to  be  strong  for  the  rest !” 

Ever  she  pass’d  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a 
couch  where  pined 

One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with 
a  hope  out  of  mind. 

Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice  she 
tried  at  the  name, 

But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that 
falter’d  and  came. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice? — she  turn’d  as  in 
passion  and  loss, 

And  stoop’d  to  his  forehead  and  kiss’d  it, 
as  if  she  were  kissing  the  cross. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart,  she  moved 
on  then  to  another, 

Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.  “  And 
dost  thou  suffer,  my  brother  ?” 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers: — “Out  of  the 
Piedmont  lion 

Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom  !  sweet¬ 
est  to  live  or  to  die  on.” 


Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.  She  rose  to 
her  feet  with  a  spring, — 

“  That  was  a  Piedmontese  !  and  this  is  the 
Court  of  the  King.” 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 
- *0+ - 

The  Harp  that  Once  through 
Tarns  Halls. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara’s  halls 
The  soul  of  music  shed, 

Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara’s  walls 
As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 

So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory’s  thrill  is  o’er, 

And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 
Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 
The  harp  of  Tara  swells  ; 

The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 
Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 

Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

Thomas  Moore. 

•<>• - 

The  Exile’s  Song. 

Oh,  why  left  I  my  hame  ? 

Why  did  I  cross  the  deep  ? 

Oh,  why  left  I  the  land 

Where  my  forefathers  sleep  ? 

I  sigh  for  Scotia’s  shore, 

And  I  gaze  across  the  sea, 

But  I  canna  get  a  blink 
O’  my  ain  countree  ! 

The  palm  tree  waveth  high, 

And  fair  the  myrtle  springs  ; 

And  to  the  Indian  maid 
The  bulbul  sweetly  sings  ; 

But  I  dinna  see  the  broom 
Wi’  its  tassels  on  the  lea, 

Nor  hear  the  lintie’s  sang 
O’  my  ain  countree  ! 

V 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM. 


363 


Oh,  here  no  Sabbath  bell 
Awakes  the  Sabbath  morn, 

Nor  song  of  reapers  heard 
Amang  the  yellow  corn  ; 

For  the  tyrant’s  voice  is  here, 

And  the  wail  of  slaverie  ; 

But  the  sun  of  Freedom  shines 
In  my  ain  countree  ! 

There’s  a  hope  for  every  woe, 

And  a  balm  for  every  pain, 

But  the  first  joys  o’  our  heart 
Come  never  back  again. 

There’s  a  track  upon  the  deep, 

And  a  path  across  the  sea ; 

But  the  weary  ne’er  return 
To  their  ain  countree  ! 

Robert  Gilfillan. 

1  ■■  >o> 

Ho  w  Sleep  the  Bra  ve. 

How  sleep  the  Brave  who  sink  to  rest  . 
By  all  their  Country’s  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow’d  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy’s  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 

By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung : 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 

To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay, 
And  Freedom  shall  a  while  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there ! 

William  Collins. 

- 

An  Ode. 

In  Imitation  of  Alcaeus. 

What  constitutes  a  state? 

Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labor’d 
mound, 

Thick  wrall  or  moated  gate; 

Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets 
crown’d  ; 

Not  bays  and  broad-arm’d  ports, 

Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies 
ride ; 

Not  starr’d  and  spangled  courts, 

Where  low-brow’d  baseness  wafts  perfume 
to  pride. 


No:  men,  high-minded  men, 

With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  en¬ 
dued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 

As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles 
rude , 

Men  who  their  duties  know, 

But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare 
maintain, 

Prevent  the  long-aim’d  blow, 

And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the 
chain  : 

These  constitute  a  state  ; 

And  sovereign  Law,  that  state’s  collected 
will, 

O’er  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill. 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown, 

The  fiend  Dissension  like  a  vapor  sinks, 
And  e’en  the  all-dazzling  Crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding 
shrinks. 

Such  was  this  heaven-loved  isle, 

Than  Lesbos  fairer  and  the  Cretan  shore ! 

No  more  shall  Freedom  smile? 

Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no 
more  ? 

Since  all  must  life  resign, 

Those  sweet  rewards  which  decorate  the 
brave 

’Tis  folly  to  decline, 

And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 

Sir  William  Jones. 

—  ■  ~  •O*- - 

As  by  the  Shore  at  break  op 

DAY. 

As  by  the  shore  at  break  of  day, 

A  vanquish’d  chief  expiring  lay, 

Upon  the  sands,  with  broken  sword, 

He  traced  his  farewell  to  the  free  ; 
And  there  the  last  unfinish’d  word 
Pie  dying  wrote,*  was  “  Liberty  !” 

At  night  a  sea-bird  shriek’d  the  knell 
Of  him  who  thus  for  freedom  fell ; 

The  words  he  wrote,  ere  evening  came, 
Were  cover’d  by  the  sounding  sea; — 
So  pass  away  the  cause  and  name 
Of  him  who  dies  for  liberty  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


364 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


A  Forced  Recruit  at  Solferino. 

In  the  ranks  of  the  Austrian  you  found 
him  ; 

He  died  with  his  face  to  you  all  : 

Yet  bury  him  here,  where  around  him 
You  honor  your  bravest  that  fall. 

Venetian,  fair-featured  and  slender, 

He  lies  shot  to  death  in  his  youth, 

With  a  smile  on  his  lips  over-tender 
For  any  mere  soldier’s  dead  mouth. 

No  stranger,  and  yet  not  a  traitor ! 

Though  alien  the  cloth  on  his  breast, 
Underneath  it  how  seldom  a  greater 
Young  heart  has  a  shot  sent  to  rest ! 

By  your  enemy  tortured  and  goaded 

To  march  with  them,  stand  in  their  file, 
His  musket  (see  !)  never  was  loaded — 

He  facing  your  guns  with  that  smile. 

As  orphans  yearn  on  their  mothers, 

He  yearned  to  your  patriot  bands, — 

“  Let  me  die  for  one  Italy,  brothers, 

If  not  in  your  ranks,  by  your  hands  ! 

“  Aim  straightly,  fire  steadily ;  spare  me 
A  ball  in  the  body,  which  may 
Deliver  my  heart  here,  and  tear  me 
This  badge  of  the  Austrian  away.” 

So  thought  he,  so  died  he  this  morning. 

What  then  ?  many  others  have  died. 

Ay — but  easy  for  men  to  die  scorning 
The  death-stroke,  who  fought  side  by  side ; 

One  tricolor  floating  above  them  ; 

Struck  down  mid  triumphant  acclaims 
Of  an  Italy  rescued  to  love  them, 

And  brazen  the  brass  with  their  names. 

But  he — without  witness  or  honor, 

Mixed,  shared  in  his  country’s  regard, 
With  the  tyrants  who  march  in  upon  her — 
Died  faithful  and  passive  :  ’twas  hard. 

’Twas  sublime.  In  a  cruel  restriction 
Cut  off  from  the  guerdon  of  sons, 

With  most  filial  obedience,  conviction, 

His  soul  kissed  the  lips  of  her  guns. 


That  moves  you  ?  Nay,  grudge  not  to  show 
it, 

While  digging  a  grave  for  him  here. 

The  others  who  died,  says  our  poet, 

Have  glory  :  let  him  have  a  tear. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 
- 

Boat- Song. 

Hail  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  ad¬ 
vances  ! 

Honor’d  and  bless’d  be  the  ever-green 
Pine ! 

Long  may  the  tree,  in  his  banner  that 
glances, 

Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our 
line ! 

Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 

Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 

Gayly  to  bourgeon,  and  broadly  to  grow, 
While  every  Highland  glen 
Send  our  shout  back  again, — 

“  Roderigh  Vick  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !” 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the 
fountain, 

Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade ; 

When  the  whirlwind  has  stripp’d  every 
leaf  on  the  mountain, 

The  more  shall  Clan-Alpine  exult  in  her 
shade. 

Moor’d  in  the  rifted  rock, 

Proof  to  the  tempest’s  shock, 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow ; 

Menteitli  and  Breadalbane,  then, 
Echo  his  praise  again, — 

“  Roderigh  Vicli  Alpine  dhu,  ho !  ieroe !” 

Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrill’d  in  Glen 
Fruin, 

And  Bannachar’s  groans  to  our  slogan 
replied ; 

Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smoking 
in  ruin, 

And  the  best  of  Loch  Lomond  lie  dead  on 
her  side. 

Widow  and  Saxon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  raid, 

Think  of  Clan-Alpine  with  fear  and  with 
woe ; 

Lennox  and  Leven-Glen 
Shake  when  they  hear  again, — 
“Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!” 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM. 


365 


Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the 
Highlands ! 

Stretch  to  your  oars,  for  the  ever-green 
pine ! 

Oh !  that  the  rosebud  that  graces  yon 
islands, 

Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around  him 
to  twine ! 

Oh  that  some  seedling  gem, 
Worthy  such  noble  stem, 

Honor’d  and  bless’d  in  their  shadow  might 
grow ! 

Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 
Ring  from  his  deepmost  glen, — 

“Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!” 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

- KX - 

It  is  Great  for  our  Country  to 

Die. 

Oh  !  it  is  great  for  our  country  to  die 
where  ranks  are  contending  : 

Bright  is  the  wreath  of  our  fame ;  glory 
awaits  us  for  aye — 

Glory,  that  never  is  dim,  shining  on  with 
light  never  ending — 

Glory  that  never  shall  fade — never,  oh  ! 
never  away. 

Oh!  it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to  die! 
How  softly  reposes 

Warrior  youth  on  his  bier,  wet  by  the 
tears  of  his  love, 

Wet  by  a  mother’s  warm  tears !  they  crown 
him  with  garlands  of  roses, 

Weep,  and  then  joyously  turn,  bright 
where  he  triumphs  above. 

Not  to  the  shades  shall  the  vouth  descend 
who  for  country  hath  perished  ; 

Hebe  awaits  him  in  heaven,  welcomes 
him  there  with  her  smile ; 

There,  at  the  banquet  divine,  the  patriot 
spirit  is  cherished ; 

Gods  love  the  young  who  ascend  pure 
from  the  funeral  pile. 

Not  to  Elysian  fields,  by  the  still,  oblivious 
river ; 

Not  to  the  isles  of  the  blest,  over  the 
blue-rolling  sea ; 


But  on  Olympian  heights  shall  dwell  the 
devoted  for  ever  ; 

There  shall  assemble  the  good,  there  the 
wise,  valiant,  and  free. 

Oh !  then,  how  great  for  our  country  to  die. 
in  the  front  rank  to  perish, 

Firm  with  our  breast  to  the  foe,  victory’s 
shout  in  our  ear f 

Long  they  our  statues  shall  crown,  in  songs 
our  memory  cherish ; 

We  shall  look  forth  from  our  heaven, 
pleased  the  sweet  music  to  hear. 

James  Gates  Percival. 
- - 

The  Heart  of  the  War. 

(1864.) 

Peace  in  the  clover-scented  air, 

And  stars  within  the  dome; 

And  underneath,  in  dim  repose, 

A  plain,  New  England  home. 

Within,  a  murmur  of  low  tones 
And  sighs  from  hearts  oppressed, 

Merging  in  prayer,  at  last,  that  brings 
The  balm  of  silent  rest. 


I’ve  closed  a  hard  day’s  work,  Marty, — 
The  evening  chores  are  done; 

And  you  are  weary  with  the  house, 

And  with  the  little  one. 

But  he  is  sleeping  sweetly  now, 

With  all  our  pretty  brood ; 

So  come  and  sit  upon  my  knee, 

And  it  will  do  me  good. 

Oh,  Marty !  I  must  tell  you  all 
The  trouble  in  my  heart, 

And  you  must  do  the  best  you  can 
To  take  and  bear  your  part. 

You’ve  seen  the  shadow  on  my  face; 
You’ve  felt  it  day  and  night ; 

For  it  has  filled  our  little  home, 

And  banished  all  its  light. 

I  did  not  mean  it  should  be  so, 

And  yet  I  might  have  known 

That  hearts  which  live  as  close  as  ours 
Can  never  keep  their  own. 

But  we  are  fallen  on  evil  times, 

And,  do  whate’er  I  may, 

My  heart  grows  sad  about  the  war, 

And  sadder  every  day. 


366 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  think  about  it  when  I  work, 

And  when  I  try  to  rest, 

And  never  more  than  when  vour  head 
Is  pillowed  on  my  breast; 

For  then  I  see  the  camp-fires  blaze, 

And  sleeping  men  around, 

Who  turn  their  faces  toward  their  homes, 
And  dream  upon  the  ground. 

I  think  about  the  dear,  brave  boys, 

My  mates  in  other  years, 

Who  pine  for  home  and  those  they  love, 
Till  I  am  choked  with  tears. 

With  shouts  and  cheers  they  marched 
away 

On  glory’s  shining  track, 

But,  ah  !  how  long,  how  long  they  stay ! 
How  few  of  them  come  back ! 

One  sleeps  beside  the  Tennessee, 

And  one  beside  the  James, 

And  one  fought  on  a  gallant  ship 
And  perished  in  its  flames. 

And  some,  struck  down  by  fell  disease, 
Are  breathing  out  their  life ; 

And  others,  maimed  by  cruel  wounds, 
Have  left  the  deadly  strife. 

Ah,  Marty  !  Marty,  only  think 

Of  all  the  bovs  have  done 
•/ 

And  suffered  in  this  weary  war! 

Brave  heroes,  every  one  ! 

Oh,  often,  often  in  the  night 
I  hear  their  voices  call : 

“  Come  on  and  help  us  !  Is  it  right 
That  we  should  bear  it  all  f” 

And  when  I  kneel  and  try  to  pray, 

My  thoughts  are  never  free, 

But  cling  to  those  who  toil  and  fight 
And  die  for  you  and  me. 

And  when  I  pray  for  victory, 

It  seems  almost  a  sin 
To  fold  my  hands  and  ask  for  what 
I  will  not  help  to  win. 

Oh,  do  not  cling  to  me  and  cry, 

For  it  will  break  my  heart ; 

I’m  sure  you’d  rather  have  me  die 
Than  not  to  bear  my  part. 

You  think  that  some  should  stay  at  home 
To  care  for  those  away  ; 

But  still  I’m  helpless  to  decide 
If  I  should  go  or  stay. 


For,  Marty,  all  the  soldiers  love, 

And  all  are  loved  again ; 

And  I  am  loved,  and  love,  perhaps, 

No  more  than  other  men. 

I  cannot  tell — I  do  not  know — 

Which  way  my  duty  lies, 

Or  where  the  Lord  would  have  me  build 
My  fire  of  sacrifice. 

I  feel — I  know — I  am  not  mean  ; 

And,  though  I  seem  to  boast, 

I’m  sure  that  I  would  give  my  life 
To  those  who  need  it  most. 

Perhaps  the  Spirit  will  reveal 
That  which  is  fair  and  right ; 

So,  Marty,  let  us  humbly  kneel 
And  pray  to  Heaven  for  light. 

Peace  in  the  clover-scented  air, 

And  stars  within  the  dome ; 

And  underneath,  in  dim  repose, 

A  plain,  New  England  home. 

Within,  a  widow  in  her  weeds, 

From  whom  all  joy  is  flown, 

Who  kneels  among  her  sleeping  babes, 
And  weeps  and  prays  alone. 

J.  G.  Holland. 

■  »o« - 

Cavalry  Song. 

Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 

Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle  ; 
The  foeman’s  fires  are  twinkling  there  ; 

He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle ! 
Halt  ! 

Each  carbine  sends  its  whizzing  ball : 

Now,  cling!  clang!  forward  all, 

Into  the  fight ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome : 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 
One  look  to  Heaven  !  No  thoughts  of  home : 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 
Charge ! 

Cling !  clang !  forward  all ! 

Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall ! 

Cut  left  and  right ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack  ! 

They  fall !  they  spread  in  broken  surges ! 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 
Wheel  ! 

The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 

Cling  !  clang  !  backward  all ! 

Home,  and  good-night ! 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


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Legendary  and  Ballad  Poetry. 


♦ 


Sib  Patrick  Spens. 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine : 

“  Oh  where  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper 
To  sail  this  ship  of  mine  ?” 

Oh  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight, 

Sat  at  the  king’s  right  knee : 

“  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 
That  ever  sail’d  the  sea.” 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  seal’d  it  with  his  hand, 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

“  To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 

To  Noroway  o’er  the  faem  ; 

The  king’s  daughter  of  Noroway, 

’Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame  !” 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

Sae  loud,  loud  laughed  he ; 

The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

The  tear  blinded  his  e’e. 

“  Oh  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

And  tauld  the  king  o’  me, 

To  send  us  out  at  this  time  of  the  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea? 

“  Be’t  wind  or  weet,  be’t  hail  or  sleet, 

Our  ship  maun  sail  the  faem  ; 

The  king’s  daughter  of  Noroway, 

’Tis  we  must  fetch  her  hame.” 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Monenday  morn 
Wi’  a’  the  speed  they  may; 

They  hae  landed  in  Noroway 
Upon  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week 
In  Noroway,  but  twae, 


When  that  the  lords  o’  Noroway 
Began  aloud  to  say : 

“  Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a’  our  king’s  goud 
And  a’  our  queenis  fee.” 

“  Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud  ! 

Fu’  loud  I  hear  ye  lie ! 

“For  I  hae  brought  as  much  white  monie 
As  gane  my  men  and  me, — 

And  I  hae  brought  a  half-fou  o’  gude  red 
goud 

Out  owre  the  sea  wi’  me. 

“  Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merry  men 
a’! 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn.” 

“  Now,  ever  alake  !  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm  ! 

“  I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen, 

Wi’  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm ; 

And  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 

I  fear  we’ll  come  to  harm.” 

They  hadna  sail’d  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league,  but  barely  three, 

When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind 
blew  loud, 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmasts  lap, 

It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm  ; 

And  the  waves  cam  o’er  the  broken  ship 
Till  a’  her  sides  were  torn. 

“  Oh  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor 
To  take  my  helm  in  hand, 

Till  I  get  up  to  the  tall  topmast 
To  see  if  I  can  spy  land?” 

“  Oh  here  am  1,  a  sailor  gude, 

To  take  the  helm  in  hand, 


307 


368 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  topmast, — 

But  I  fear  you’ll  ne’er  spy  land.” 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step,  but  barely  ane, 

When  a  boult  flew  out  of  our  goodly  ship, 
And  the  salt  sea  it  came  in. 

“  Gae  fetch  a  web  o’  the  silken  claith, 
Another  o’  the  twine, 

And  wap  them  into  our  ship’s  side, 

And  let  nae  the  sea  come  in.” 

They  fetch’d  a  web  o’  the  silken  claith, 
Another  o’  the  twine, 

And  they  wapp’d  them  round  that  gude 
ship’s  side, 

— But  still  the  sea  came  in. 

Oh  laitli,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 
To  weet  their  cork-heel’d  shoon  ! 

But  lang  or  a’  the  play  was  play’d, 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  monv  was  the  feather-bed 
That  float’d  on  the  faem ; 

And  mony  was  the  gude  lord’s  son 
That  never  mair  cam  hame. 

The  ladyes  wrang  their  fingers  white, — 
The  maidens  tore  their  hair ; 

A’  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loyes, — 

For  them  they’ll  see  nae  mair. 

Oh  lang,  lang  may  the  ladyes  sit, 

Wi’  their  fans  into  their  hand, 

Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Come  sailing  to  the  strand  ! 

And  lang,  lang  may  the  maidens  sit, 

Wi’  their  goud  kaims  in  their  hair, 

A’  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves, — 

For  them  they’ll  see  nae  mair. 

Half  owre,  half  owre  to  Aberdour 
’Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep, 

And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Wi’  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 

Author  Unknown. 

- K>* - 

The  Heir  of  Linne. 

Part  First. 

Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen, 

To  sing  a  song  I  will  beginne : 

[t  is  of  a  lord  of  faire  Scotland, 

Which  was  the  unthrifty  lieire  of  Linne. 


His  father  was  a  right  good  lord, 

His  mother  a  lady  of  high  degree ; 

But  they,  alas !  were  dead,  him  froe, 

And  he  lov’d  keeping  companie. 

To  spend  the  daye  with  merry  cheare, 

To  drink  and  revell  every  night, 

To  card  and  dice  from  eve  to  morne, 

It  was,  I  ween,  his  hearts  delighte. 

To  ride,  to  runne,  to  rant,  to  roare, 

To  alwaye  spend  and  never  spare, 

I  wott,  an’  it  were  the  king  himselfe, 

Of  gold  and  fee  he  mote  be  bare. 

Soe  fares  the  unthrifty  Lord  of  Linne 
Till  all  his  gold  is  gone  and  spent; 

And  he  maun  sell  his  landes  so  broad, 

His  house,  and  landes,  and  all  his  rent. 

His  father  had  a  keen  stewarde, 

And  John  o’  the  Scales  was  called  hee: 

But  John  is  become  a  gentel-man, 

And  John  has  gott  both  gold  and  fee. 

Saves,  Welcome,  welcome,  Lord  of  Linne, 
Let  naught  disturb  thy  merry  cheere ; 

Iff  thou  wilt  sell  thy  landes  soe  broad, 
Good  store  of  gold  lie  give  thee  heere. 

My  gold  is  gone,  my  money  is  spent  ; 

My  lande  no  we  take  it  unto  thee : 

Give  me  the  golde,  good  John  o’  the  Scales, 
And  thine  for  aye  my  lande  shall  bee. 

Then  John  he  did  him  to  record  draw, 
And  John  he  cast  him  a  gods-pennie ; 

But  for  every  pounde  that  John  agreed, 
The  lande,  I  wis,  was  well  worth  three. 

He  told  him  the  gold  upon  the  borde. 

He  was  right  glad  his  land  to  winne ; 

The  gold  is  thine,  the  land  is  mine, 

And  now  lie  be  the  Lord  of  Linne. 

Thus  he  hath  sold  his  land  soe  broad, 

Both  hill  and  holt,  and  moore  and  fenne 

All  but  a  poore  and  lonesome  lodge, 

That  stood  far  off  in  a  lonely  glenne. 

For  soe  he  to  his  father  hight. 

My  sonne,  when  I  am  gonne,  sayd  hee, 

Then  thou  wilt  spend  thy  lande  so  broad, 
And  thou  wilt  spend  thy  gold  so  free  ; 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


369 


But  sweare  me  nowe  upon  the  roode, 

That  lonesome  lodge  thou’lt  never  spend; 
For  when  all  the  world  doth  frown  on 
thee, 

Thou  there  shalt  find  a  faithful  friend. 

The  heire  of  Linne  is  full  of  golde: 

And  come  with  me,  my  friends,  sayd 
hee, 

Let’s  drinke,  and  rant,  and  merry  make, 
And  he  that  spares,  ne’er  mote  he  thee. 

They  ranted,  drank,  and  merry  made, 

Till  all  his  gold  it  waxed  thinne  ; 

And  then  his  friendes  they  slunk  away ; 
They  left  the  unthrifty  heire  of  Linne. 

He  had  never  a  penny  left  in  his  purse, 
Never  a  penny  left  but  three, 

And  one  was  brass,  another  was  lead, 

And  another  it  was  white  money. 

Nowe  well-aday,  sayd  the  heire  of  Linne, 
Nowe  well-aday e,  and  woe  is  mee, 

For  when  I  was  the  Lord  of  Linne, 

I  never  wanted  gold  nor  fee. 

But  many  a  trustye  friend  have  I, 

And  why  shold  I  feel  dole  or  care? 
lie  borrow  of  them  all  by  turnes, 

Soe  need  I  not  be  never  bare. 

But  one,  I  wis,  was  not  at  home ; 

Another  had  payd  his  gold  away  ; 
Another  call’d  him  thriftless  loone, 

And  bade  him  sharpely  wend  his  way. 

Now  well-aday,  sayd  the  heire  of  Linne, 
Now  well-aday,  and  woe  is  me; 

For  when  I  had  my  landes  so  broad, 

On  me  they  liv’d  right  merrilee. 

To  beg  my  bread  from  door  to  door, 

I  wis,  it  were  a  brenning  shame: 

To  rob  and  steal  it  were  a  sinne : 

To  worke  my  limbs  I  cannot  frame. 

Now  lie  away  to  lonesome  lodge, 

For  there  my  father  bade  me  wend: 
When  all  the  world  should  frown  on  mee 
I  there  shold  find  a  trusty  friend. 

Part  Second. 

Away  then  liyed  the  heire  of  Linne 
O’er  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and  fenne, 
24 


j  Untill  he  came  to  lonesome  lodge, 

That  stood  so  lowe  in  a  lonely  glenne. 

He  looked  up,  he  looked  downe, 

In  hope  some  comfort  for  to  winne : 

But  bare  and  lothly  were  the  walles. 
Here’s  sorry  cheare,  quo’  the  heire  of 
Linne. 

i 

The  little  windowe  dim  and  darke 
Was  hung  with  ivy,  brere,  and  vewe; 

No  shimmering  sunn  here  ever  shone, 

No  halesome  breeze  here  ever  blew. 

No  chair,  ne  table  he  mote  spye, 

No  cheerful  hearth,  ne  welcome  bed, 

Naught  save  a  rope  with  renning  noose, 
That  dangling  hung  up  o’er  his  head. 

And  over  it  in  broad  letters, 

These  words  were  written  so  plain  to 
see  : 

“  Ah  !  gracelesse  wretch,  hast  spent  thine 
all 

And  brought  thyself  to  penurie  ? 

“All  this  my  boding  mind  misgave, 

I  therefore  left  this  trusty  friend  : 

Let  it  now  sheeld  thy  foule  disgrace, 

And  all  thy  shame  and  sorrows  end.” 

Sorely  shent  wi’  this  rebuke, 

Sorely  shent  was  the  heire  of  Linne ; 

His  heart,  I  wis,  was  near  to  brast 

With  guilt  and  sorrowe,  shame  and 
sinne. 

Never  a  word  spake  the  heire  of  Linne, 
Never  a  word  he  spake  but  three  : 

“  This  is  a  trusty  friend  indeed, 

And  is  right  welcome  unto  mee.” 

Then  round  his  necke  the  corde  he  drewe. 
And  sprang  aloft  with  his  bodle  : 

When  lo  !  the  ceiling  burst  in  twaine, 

And  to  the  ground  come  tumbling  hee. 

Astonved  lay  the  heire  of  Linne, 

Ne  knewe  if  he  were  live  or  dead  : 

At  length  he  look’d,  and  sawe  a  bille, 

And  in  it  a  key  of  gold  so  redd. 

He  took  the  bill,  and  lookt  it  on, 

Strait  good  comfort  found  he  there  : 

Itt  told  him  of  a  hole  in  the  wall, 

In  which  there  stood  three  chests  in-fere. 


370 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Two  were  full  of  the  beaten  golde, 

The  third  was  full  of  white  monky ; 

Aud  over  them  in  broad  letters 

These  words  were  written  so  plaine  to 
see : 

“  Once  more,  my  sonne,  I  sette  thee  clere  ; 

Amend  thy  life  and  follies  past ; 

For  but  thou  amend  thee  of  thy  life, 

That  rope  must  be  thy  end  at  last.” 

And  let  it  bee,  sayd  the  heire  of  Linne  ; 

And  let  it  bee,  but  if  I  amend  : 

For  here  I  will  make  mine  avow, 

This  reade  shall  guide  me  to  the  end. 

Away  then  went  with  a  merry  cheare, 

Away  then  went  the  heire  of  Linne  ; 

I  wis,  he  neither  ceas’d  ne  blanne, 

Till  John  o’  the  Scales  house  he  did 
winne. 

And  when  he  came  to  John  o’  the  Scales, 
Upp  at  the  speere  then  looked  hee  ; 

There  sate  three  lords  upon  a  rowe, 

W  ere  drinking  of  the  wine  so  free. 

And  John  liimselfe  sate  at  the  bord-liead, 
Because  now  Lord  of  Linne  was  hee. 

I  pray  thee,  he  said,  good  John  o’  the  | 
Scales, 

One  forty  pence  for  to  lend  mee. 

Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loone  ; 

Away,  away,  this  may  not  bee  : 

For  Christs  curse  on  my  head,  he  sayd, 

If  ever  I  trust  tliee  one  pennie. 

Then  bespake  the  heir  of  Linne, 

To  John  o’  the  Scales  wife  then  spake 
hee  : 

Madame,  some  almes  on  me  bestowe, 

I  pray  for  sweet  saint  Charitie. 

Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loone, 

I  sweare  thou  gettest  no  almes  of  mee  ; 
For  if  we  should  hang  any  losel  heere, 

The  first  we  wold  begin  with  thee. 

Then  bespake  a  good  fellowe, 

Which  sat  at  John  o’  the  Scales  his 
bord  ; 

Sayd,  Turn  againe,  thou  heire  of  Linne  ; 
Some  time  thou  wast  a  well  good  lord  :  i 


Some  time  a  good  fellow  thou  hast  been, 
And  sparedst  not  thv  gold  and  fee  ; 
Therefore  lie  lend  thee  forty  pence, 

And  other  forty  if  need  bee. 

And  ever  I  pray  thee,  John  o’  the  Scales, 
To  let  him  sit  in  thy  companie  : 

For  well  I  wot  thou  hadst  his  land, 

And  a  good  bargain  it  was  to  thee. 

Up  then  spake  him  John  o’  the  Scales, 

All  wood  he  answer’d  him  againe  : 

Now  Christs  curse  on  my  head,  he  sayd, 
But  I  did  lose  by  that  bargaine. 

And  here  I  proffer  thee,  heire  of  Linne, 
Before  these  lords  so  faire  and  free, 

Thou  slialt  have  it  backe  again  better  cheape, 
By  a  hundred  markes,  than  I  had  it  of 
thee. 

I  drawe  you  to  record,  lords,  he  said. 

With  that  he  cast  him  a  gods-pennie  : 
Now  by  my  fay,  sayd  the  heire  of  Linne, 
And  here,  good  John,  is  thy  money. 

And  he  pull’d  forth  three  bagges  of  gold, 
And  layd  them  down  upon  the  bord  : 

All  woe  begone  was  John  o’  the  Scales, 
Soe  shent  he  cold  say  never  a  word. 

He  told  him  forth  the  good  red  gold, 

He  told  it  forth  mickle  dinne. 

The  gold  is  thine,  the  land  is  mine, 

And  now  Ime  againe  the  Lord  of  Linne. 

Saves,  Have  thou  here,  thou  good  fellowe, 
Forty  pence  thou  didst  lend  mee  : 

Now  I  am  againe  the  Lord  of  Linne, 

And  forty  pounds  I  will  give  thee. 

He  make  thee  keeper  of  my  forrest, 

Both  of  the  wild  deere  and  the  tame ; 
For  but  I  reward  thy  bounteous  heart, 

I  wis,  good  fellowre,  I  were  to  blame. 

Now  welladay  !  sayth  Joan  o’  the  Scales  : 

Now  welladay  !  and  woe  is  my  life  ! 
Yesterday  I  was  Lady  of  Linne, 

Now  Ime  but  John  o’  the  Scales  his  wife. 

Now  fare  thee  well,  sayd  the  heire  of  Linne ; 

F arewell  now,  J ohn  o’  the  Scales,  said  hee : 
Christs  curse  light  on  me,  if  ever  again 

I  bring  my  lands  in  jeopardy. 

Author  Unknown. 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


371 


Skipper  Iresons  Ride. 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 

On  Apuleius’s  Golden  Ass, 

Or  one-eyed  Calendar’s  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 

Islam’s  prophet  on  A1  Bor&k, — 

The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson’s,  out  from  Marblehead  ! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarr’d  and  feather’d  and  carried  in  a 
a  cart 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 

Wings  a-droop  like  a  rain’d-on  fowl, 
Feather’d  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 

Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 

Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Push’d  and  pull’d  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain  : 

“  Here’s  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  liorrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d  an’  futherr’d  an’  corr’d  in  a 
corrt 

By  the  women  o’  Morble’ead!” 

W rinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 
Wild-eyed,  free-limb’d,  such  as  chase 
Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horn’s 
twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang : 

“  Here’s  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d  an’  futherr’d  an’  corr’d  in  a 
corrt 

By  the  women  o’  Morble’ead  !” 

Small  pity  for  him  ! — He  sail’d  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay, — 
Sail’d  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 

With  his  own  town’s-people  on  her  deck! 

“  Lay  by !  lay  by  !”  they  call’d  to  him. 
Back  he  answer’d,  “  Sink  or  swim  ! 

Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again!” 

And  off  he  sail’d  through  the  fog  and 
rain ! 


Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarr’d  and  feather’d  and  carried  in  a 
cart 

Bv  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  for  evermore. 

Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 

Look’d  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea, — 

Look’d  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be ! 
What  did  the  winds  and  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sail’d  away? — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarr’d  and  feather’d  and  carried  in  a 
cart 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 

Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn’s  bray. 

Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 

Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 

Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And  crack’d  with  curses  the  hoarse  re¬ 
frain  : 

“  Here’s  Flud  Oirson,  for  his  horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d  an’  futherr’d  an’  corr’d  in  a 
corrt 

By  the  women  o’  Morble’ead !” 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  show’d. 

Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 

Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 

Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seem’d  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting  far  and  near : 

“  Here’s  Flud  Oirson,  for  his  horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d  an’  futherr’d  an’  corr’d  in  a 
corrt 

By  the  women  o’  Morble’ead  !” 

“  Hear  me,  neighbors !”  at  last  he  cried, — 
“  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride? 

What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck! 


372 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Hate  me  and  curse  me, — I  only  dread 

The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the 
dead !” 

Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard 
heart, 

Tarr’d  and  feather’d  and  carried  in  a 
cart 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 

Said,  “God  has  touch’d  him  ! — why  should 
we?” 

Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 

“Cut  the  rogue’s  tether  and  let  him  run !” 

So  Avitli  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 

Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 

And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 

And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and 
sin. 

Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  liis  hard  heart, 

Tarr’d  and  feather’d  and  carried  in  a 
cart 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

- - 

How  they  Brought  the  Good 
Hews  from  Ghent  to  Aix. 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and 
he ; 

I  gallop’d,  Dirck  gallop’d,  we  gallop’d  all 
three ; 

“  Good  speed  !”  cried  the  watch,  as  the 
gate-bolts  undrew  ; 

“  Speed  !”  echo’d  the  wall  to  us  galloping 
through  ; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to 
rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  gallop’d 
abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the 
great  pace 

Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never 
changing  our  place ; 

I  turn’d  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths 
tight, 

Then  shorten’d  each  stirrup,  and  set  the 
pique  right, 

Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chain’d  slacker 
the  bit, 

Nor  gallop’d  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 


’Twas  moonset  at  starting ;  but  while  we 
drew  near 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight 
dawn’d  clear ; 

At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to 
see  ; 

At  Diiffeld,  ’twas  morning  as  plain  as 
could  be ; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard 
the  half-chime, 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  “  Yet  there  is 
time !” 

At  Aerschot,  up  leap’d  of  a  sudden  the 
sun, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black 
every  one, 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping 
past, 

And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at 
last, 

With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its 
spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp 
ear  bent  back 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  prick’d  out  on 
his  track  ; 

And  one  eye’s  black  intelligence, — ever 
that  glance 

O’er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master, 
askance  ! 

And  the  thick  heavy  spume  flakes  which 
aye  and  anon 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  galloping 
on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groan’d ;  and  cried 
Joris,  “  Stay  spur  ! 

Your  Roos  gallop’d  bravely,  the  fault’s  not 
in  her ; 

We’ll  remember  at  Aix — ”  for  one  heard 
the  quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretch’d  neck,  and 
staggering  knees, 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the 
flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shudder'd 
and  sank. 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


373 


So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in 
the  sky  ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laugh’d  a  pitiless 
laugh, 

’Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright 
stubble  like  chaff ; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang 
white, 

And  “  Gallop,”  gasp’d  Joris,  “  for  Aix  is 
in  sight ! 

“  How  they’ll  greet  us !” — and  all  in  a 
moment  his  roan 

Roll’d  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a 
stone  ; 

And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the 
whole  weight 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix 
from  her  fate, 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to 
the  brim, 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets’ 

rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff  coat,  each  hol¬ 
ster  let  fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack -boots,  let  go  belt 
and  all, 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  lean’d,  patted  his 
ear, 

Call’d  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse 
without  peer ; 

Clapp’d  my  hands,  laugh’d  and  sang,  any 
noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  gallop’d 
and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking 
round 

As  I  sate  with  his  head  ’twixt  my  knees  on 
the  ground, 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland 
of  mine, 

As  I  pour’d  down  his  throat  our  last  meas¬ 
ure  of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common 
consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought 
good  news  from  Ghent. 

Robert  Browning. 


The  Lamentation  for  Celin. 

At  the  gate  of  old  Granada,  when  all  its 
bolts  are  barr’d, 

At  twilight,  at  the  Vega-gate,  there  is  a 
trampling  heard ; 

There  is  a  trampling  heard,  as  of  horses 
treading  slow, 

And  a  weeping  voice  of  women,  and  a 
heavy  sound  of  woe. 

What  tower  is  fallen?  what  star  is  set? 
what  chief  come  these  bewailing? 

“  A  tower  is  fallen  !  a  star  is  set ! — Alas ! 
alas  for  Celin !” 

Three  times  they  knock,  three  times  they 
cry, — and  wide  the  doors  they  throw ; 

Dejectedly  they  enter,  and  mournfully  they 

go; 

In  gloomy  lines  they  mustering  stand 
beneath  the  hollow  porch, 

Each  horseman  grasping  in  his  hand  a 
black  and  flaming  torch  ; 

Wet  is  each  eye  as  they  go  by,  and  all 
around  is  wailing, — 

For  all  have  heard  the  misery, — “Alas! 
alas  for  Celin !” 

Him  yesterday  a  Moor  did  slay,  of  Bencer- 
raje’s  blood, — 

’Twas  at  the  solemn  jousting, — around  the 
nobles  stood  ; 

The  nobles  of  the  land  were  by,  and  ladies 
bright  and  fair 

Look’d  from  their  latticed  windows,  the 
haughty  sight  to  share : 

But  now  the  nobles  all  lament, — the  ladies 
are  bewailing, — 

For  he  was  Granada’s  darling  knight, — 
“  Alas !  alas  for  Celin !” 

Before  him  ride  his  vassals,  in  order  two 
by  two, 

With  ashes  on  their  turbans  spread,  most 
pitiful  to  view ; 

Behind  him  his  four  sisters,  each  wrapp’d 
in  sable  veil, 

Between  the  tambour’s  dismal  strokes  take 
up  their  doleful  tale ; 

When  stops  the  muffled  drum,  ye  hear 
their  brotherless  bewailing, 

And  all  the  people,  far  and  near,  cry, — 
“  Alas !  alas  for  Celin !” 


374 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Oh,  lovely  lies  he  on  the  bier,  above  the 
purple  pall, 

The  flower  of  all  Granada’s  youth,  the 
loveliest  of  them  all  ; 

His  dark,  dark  eyes  are  closed,  his  rosy  lip 
is  pale, 

The  crust  of  blood  lies  black  and  dim  upon 
his  burnish’d  mail ; 

And  evermore  the  hoarse  tambour  breaks 
in  upon  their  wailing, — 

Its  sound  is  like  no  earthly  sound, — “Alas! 
alas  for  Celin !” 

The  Moorish  maid  at  the  lattice  stands, — 
the  Moor  stands  at  his  door ; 

One  maid  is  wringing  of  her  hands,  and 
one  is  weeping  sore  ; 

Down  to  the  dust  men  bow  their  heads, 
and  ashes  black  they  strew 

Upon  their  broider’d  garments,  of  crim¬ 
son,  green,  and  blue ; 

Before  each  gate  the  bier  stands  still, — 
then  bursts  the  loud  bewailing, 

From  door  and  lattice,  high  and  low, — 
“  Alas !  alas  for  Celin  !” 

An  old,  old  woman  cometh  forth  when  she 
hears  the  people  cry, — 

Her  hair  is  white  as  silver,  like  horn  her 
glazed  eye  ; 

rT was  she  that  nursed  him  at  her  breast, — 
that  nursed  him  long  ago  : 

She  knows  not  whom  thev  all  lament,  but 
soon  she  well  shall  know ! 

With  one  deep  shriek,  she  through  doth 
break,  when  her  ears  receive  their 
wailing, — 

“  Let  me  kiss  my  Celin,  ere  I  die ! — Alas! 
alas  for  Celin  !” 

(From  the  Spanish.) 

John  Gibson  Lockhart. 


The  Wandering  Jew. 

When  as  in  faire  Jerusalem 
Our  Saviour  Christ  did  live, 

And  for  the  sins  of  all  the  worlde 
His  own  deare  life  did  give  ; 

The  wicked  Jewes  with  scoffes  and  scornes 
Did  dailye  him  molest, 

That  never  till  he  left  his  life, 

Our  Saviour  could  not  rest. 


When  they  had  crown’d  his  head  with 
thornes, 

And  scourged  him  to  disgrace, 

In  scornfull  sort  thev  led  him  forthe 
Unto  his  dying  place, 

Where  thousand  thousands  in  the  streete 
Beheld  him  passe  along, 

Yet  not  one  gentle  heart  was  there, 

That  pity’d  this  his  wrong. 

Both  old  and  young  revilfed  him, 

As  in  the  streete  he  wTente, 

And  naught  he  found  but  churlish  tauntes, 
By  every  ones  consente  : 

His  owne  deare  crosse  he  bore  himselfe, 

A  burthen  far  too  great, 

Which  made  him  in  the  streete  to  fainte, 
With  blood  and  water  sweat. 

Being  weary  thus,  he  sought  for  rest, 

To  ease  his  burthen’d  soule, 

Upon  a  stone  ;  the  which  a  wretch 
Did  churlishly  controule  ; 

And  sayd,  Awaye,  thou  King  of  Jewes, 
Thou  shalt  not  rest  thee  here  ; 

Pass  on  ;  thy  execution-place 
Thou  seest  nowe  draweth  neare. 

And  thereupon  he  thrust  him  thence ; 

At  which  our  Saviour  savd, 

I  sure  will  rest,  but  thou  shalt  walke, 

And  have  no  journey  stay’d. 

With  that  this  cursed  shoemaker, 

For  offering  Christ  this  wrong, 

Left  wife  and  children,  house  and  all, 

And  went  from  thence  along. 

Where  after  he  had  seene  the  bloude 
Of  Jesus  Christ  thus  shed, 

And  to  the  crosse  his  bodye  nail’d, 

Awaye  with  speed  he  fled, 

Without  returning  backe  againe 
Unto  his  dwelling-place, 

And  wrandred  up  and  downe  the  wrorlde, 

A  runnagate  most  base. 

No  resting  could  he  flnde  at  all, 

No  ease,  nor  hearts  content ; 

No  house,  nor  home,  nor  biding-place  : 

But  wandring  forth  he  went 
From  towne  to  towne  in  foreigne  landes, 
With  grieved  conscience  still, 

Repenting  for  the  heinous  guilt 
Of  his  fore-passed  ill. 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


375 


Thus  after  some  fewe  ages  past 
In  wandring  up  and  downe  ; 

He  much  again  desired  to  see 
Jerusalems  renowne, 

But  finding  it  all  quite  destroyd, 

He  wandred  thence  with  woe, 

Our  Saviours  wordes,  which  he  had  spoke, 
To  verifie  and  showe. 

“I'll  rest,  sayd  hee,  but  thou  shalt  walke.” 

So  doth  this  wandring  Jew 
From  place  to  place,  but  cannot  rest 
For  seeing  countries  newe  ; 

Declaring  still  the  power  of  Him, 

Whereas  he  comes  or  goes, 

And  of  all  things  done  in  the  east, 

Since  Christ  his  death  he  showes. 

The  world  he  hath  still  compast  round 
And  seene  those  nations  strange, 

That  hearing  of  the  name  of  Christ, 

Their  idol  gods  doe  change  : 

To  whom  he  hath  told  wondrous  thinges 
Of  time  forepast,  and  gone, 

And  to  the  princes  of  the  worlde 
Declares  his  cause  of  moane : 

Desiring  still  to  be  dissolved, 

And  veild  his  mortal  breath  ; 

But  if  the  Lord  hath  thus  decreed, 

He  shall  not  yet  see  death. 

For  neither  lookes  he  old  nor  young, 

But  as  he  did  those  times, 

When  Christ  did  suffer  on  the  crosse 
For  mortall  sinners  crimes. 

He  hath  past  through  many  a  foreigne 
place, 

Arabia,  Egypt,  Africa, 

Grecia,  Syria,  and  great  Thrace, 

And  throughout  all  Hungaria, 

Where  Paul  and  Peter  preached  Christ, 
Those  blest  apostles  deare  ; 

There  he  hath  told  our  Saviours  wordes, 
In  countries  far  and  neare. 

And  lately  in  Bohemia, 

With  many  a  German  towne  ; 

And  now  in  Flanders,  as  ’tis  thought, 

He  wandreth  up  and  downe  : 

Where  learned  men  with  him  conferre 
Of  those  his  lingering  dayes, 

And  wonder  much  to  heare  him  tell 
His  journeyes,  and  his  wayes. 


If  people  give  this  Jew  an  almes, 

The  most  that  he  will  take 
Is  not  above  a  groat  a  time : 

Which  he,  for  Jesus’  sake, 

Will  kindlye  give  unto  the  poore, 

And  thereof  make  no  spare, 

Affirming  still  that  Jesus  Christ 
Of  him  hath  dailve  care. 

He  ne’er  was  seene  to  laugh  nor  smile, 

But  weepe  and  make  great  moane  ; 
Lamenting  still  his  miseries, 

And  dayes  forepast  and  gone  : 

If  he  heare  any  one  blaspheme, 

Or  take  God’s  name  in  vaine, 

He  telles  them  that  they  crucifie 
Their  Saviour  Christe  againe. 

If  you  had  seene  his  death,  saith  he, 

As  these  mine  eyes  have  done, 

Ten  thousand  thousand  times  would  yee 
His  torments  think  upon  : 

And  suffer  for  his  sake  all  paine 
Of  torments,  and  all  woes. 

These  are  his  wordes  and  eke  his  life 

Whereas  he  comes  or  goes. 

Author  Unknown. 

- - 

The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram. 

’Twas  in  the  prime  of  summer-time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 

And  four-and-twenty  happy  boys 
Came  bounding  out  of  school : 

There  were  some  that  ran  and  some  that 
leapt, 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds, 
And  souls  untoucli’d  by  sin; 

To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 
They  drave  the  wickets  in  : 

Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 
Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about, 
And  shouted  as  they  ran, — 

Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth 
As  only  boyhood  can  ; 

But  the  Usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A  melancholy  man! 


376 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 

To  catch  Heaven’s  blessed  breeze  ; 

For  a  burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease : 

Bo  he  lean’d  his  head  on  his  hands,  and 
read 

The  book  between  his  knees. 

Leaf  after  leaf  he  turn’d  it  o’er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside, 

For  the  peace  of  his  soul  he  read  that 
book 

In  the  golden  eventide : 

Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome, 

With  a  fast  and  fervent  grasp 
He  strain’d  the  dusky  covers  close, 

And  fixed  the  brazen  hasp : 

“  O  God !  could  I  so  close  my  mind, 

And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp !” 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright, 

Some  moody  turns  he  took, — 

Now  up  the  mead,  then  down  the  mead, 
And  past  a  shady  nook, — 

And,  lo !  he  saw  a  little  boy 
That  pored  upon  a  book. 

“  My  gentle  lad,  what  is’t  you  read — 
Romance  or  fairy  fable? 

Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable?” 

The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance, — 
“  It  is  ‘  The  Death  of  Abel.’  ” 

The  Usher  took  six  hasty  strides, 

As  smit  with  sudden  pain, — 

Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place, 

Then  slowly  back  again, 

And  down  he  sat  beside  the  lad, 

And  talk’d  with  him  of  Cain ; 

And,  long  since  then,  of  bloody  men, 
Whose  deeds  tradition  saves, 

Of  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 

And  hid  in  sudden  graves, 

Of  horrid  stabs,  in  groves  forlorn, 

And  murders  done  in  caves; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injured  men 
Shriek  upward  from  the  sod, — 


I  Ay,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 
To  show  the  burial  clod, 

And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 
Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God ! 

He  told  how  murderers  walk  the  earth, 
Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain, 

With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 
And  flames  about  their  brain  : 

For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 
Its  everlasting  stain. 

“  And  well,”  quoth  he,  “  I  know  for  truth, 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme  ; 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable  woe, 

Who  spill  life’s  sacred  stream  ! 

For  why?  Methought,  last  night  I  wrought 
A  murder  in  a  dream. 

“  One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong, 

A  feeble  man  and  old ; 

I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field, 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold : 

Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I  will  have  his  gold ! 

“  Two  sudden  blows  with  ragged  stick, 
And  one  with  a  heavy  stone, 

One  hurried  gash  with  a  hasty  knife, — 
And  then  the  deed  was  done : 

There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  foot 
But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone  ! 

“  Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone, 

That  could  not  do  me  ill, 

And  yet  I  fear’d  him  all  the  more, 

For  lying  there  so  still ; 

There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look 
That  murder  could  not  kill ! 

j  “  And  lo !  the  universal  air 

Seem’d  lit  with  ghastly  flame  ; 

Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  blame: 

I  took  the  dead  man  bv  his  hand, 

And  call’d  upon  his  name  ! 

“  0  God  !  it  made  me  quake  to  see 
Such  sense  within  the  slain  ; 

But  when  I  touch’d  the  lifeless  clay, 

The  blood  gush’d  out  amain  ! 

For  every  clot,  a  burning  spot 
Was  scorching  in  my  brain  ! 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


377 


“  My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 

My  heart  as  solid  ice  ; 

My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew, 

Was  at  the  Devil’s  price: 

A  dozen  times  I  groan’d  ;  the  dead 
Had  never  groan’d  but  twice  ! 

“  And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky, 
From  the  heavens’  topmost  height, 

I  heard  a  voice — the  awful  voice 
Of  the  blood-avenging  Sprite  : — 

‘  Thou  guilty  man  !  take  up  thy  dead 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight !’ 

“  I  took  the  dreary  body  up, 

And  cast  it  in  a  stream, — 

A  sluggish  water,  black  as  ink, 

The  depth  was  so  extreme  : — 

My  gentle  Boy,  remember  this 
Is  nothing  but  a  dream  ! 

“  Down  went  the  corse  with  a  hollow 
plunge, 

And  vanish’d  in  the  pool ; 

Anon  I  cleansed  my  bloody  hands, 

And  wash’d  my  forehead  cool, 

And  sat  among  the  urchins  young, 

That  evening  in  the  school. 

“  Oh,  Heaven !  to  think  of  their  white 
souls, 

And  mine  so  black  and  grim  ! 

I  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer, 

Nor  join  in  Evening  Hymn : 

Like  a  Devil  of  the  Pit  I  seem’d, 

’Mid  holy  Cherubim ! 

“  And  peace  went  with  them,  one  and  all, 
And  each  calm  pillow  spread  ; 

But  Guilt  was  my  grim  Chamberlain 
That  lighted  me  to  bed  ; 

And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round, 
With  fingers  bloody  red! 

“  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep; 

My  fever’d  eyes  I  dared  not  close, 

But  stared  aghast  at  Sleep : 

For  Sin  had  render’d  unto  her 
The  keys  of  Hell  to  keep  ! 

“  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

With  one  besetting,  horrid  hint, 

That  rack’d  me  all  the  time  ; 


A  mighty  yearning,  like  the  first 
Fierce  impulse  unto  crime  ! 

“  One  stern,  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 
All  other  thoughts  its  slave  ; 

Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 
Did  that  temptation  crave, — 

Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 
The  dead  man  in  his  grave  ! 

“  Heavily  I  rose  up,  as  soon 
As  light  was  in  the  sky, 

And  sought  the  black  accursed  pool 
With  a  wild  misgiving  eye ; 

And  I  saw  the  Dead  in  the  river  bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry. 

“  Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 
The  dewdrop  from  its  wing  ; 

But  I  never  mark’d  its  morning  flight, 

I  never  heard  it  sing  : 

For  I  was  stooping  once  again 
Under  the  horrid  thing. 

“  With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in 
chase, 

I  took  him  up  and  ran  ; — 

There  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 
Before  the  day  began  : 

In  a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 
I  hid  the  murder’d  man  ! 

“And  all  that  day  I  read  in  school, 

But  my  thought  was  other  where  ; 

As  soon  as  the  midday  task  was  done, 

In  secret  I  was  there  : 

And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

“  Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep, 

For  I  knew  my  secret  then  was  one 
That  earth  refused  to  keep  : 

Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 
Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep. 

“  So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  Sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones ! 

Ay,  though  he’s  buried  in  a  cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones, 

And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh,— 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones  ! 

“  0  God  !  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 
Besets  me  now  awake  ! 


378 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Again — again,  with  dizzy  brain, 

The  human  life  I  take ; 

And  my  right  red  hand  grows  raging  hot,. 
Like  Cranmer’s  at  the  stake. 

“  And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay, 
Will  wave  or  mould  allow; 

The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul, — 

It  stands  before  me  now  !” 

The  fearful  hoy  look’d  up  and  saw 
Huge  drops  upon  his  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 
The  urchin  eyelids  kiss’d, 

Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 
Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist ; 

And  Eugene  Aram  walk’d  between, 

With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 

Thomas  Hood. 

- - 

The  Inch  cape  Rock. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea, 

The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be ; 

Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their 
shock 

The  waves  flow’d  over  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 

They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape 
Rock  •, 

On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  surges’ 
swell, 

The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell, 

And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  rock, 
And  bless’d  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day; 

The  sea-birds  scream’d  as  they  wheel’d 
round, 

And  there  was  joyaunce  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green ; 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walk’d  his  deck, 

And  he  fix’d  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 


He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring, 

It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing, 

His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 

But  the  Rover’s  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float; 

Quoth  he,  “  My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 

And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 

And  I’ll  plague  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok.” 

The  boat  is  lower’d,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go ; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 

And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sank  the  bell  with  a  gurgling  sound, 
The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around  ; 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  “  The  next  who  comes  to 
the  rock 

Won’t  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok.” 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sail’d  away, 

He  scour’d  the  seas  for  many  a  day, 

And  now,  grown  rich  with  plunder’d  store, 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland’s  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o’erspreads  the  sky, 

They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high ; 

The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day, 

At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand ; 

So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  “  It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon.” 

“  Canst  hear,”  said  one,  “  the  breakers 
roar? 

For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore.” 
“  Now,  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 

But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape 
Bell.” 

They  hear  no  sound,  the  swell  is  strong, 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift 
along, 

Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering 
shock, — 

“  0  Death  !  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock.” 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair, 

He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair; 

The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 

The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


379 


But,  even  in  his  dying  fear, 

One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear, 
A  sound  as  if,  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 

The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 

Robert  Southey, 

- »<>• - 

Cumnor  Hall. 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall, 

The  moon,  sweet  regent  of  the  sky, 
Silver’d  the  walls  of  Cumnor  Hall 
And  many  an  oak  that  grew  thereby. 

Now  naught  was  heard  beneath  the  skies, 
The  sounds  of  busy  life  were  still, 

Save  an  unhappy  lady’s  sighs, 

That  issued  from  that  lonely  pile. 

“  Leicester,”  she  cried,  “  is  this  thy  love 
That  thou  so  oft  has  sworn  to  me, 

To  leave  me  in  this  lonely  grove, 

Immured  in  shameful  privity? 

“No  more  thou  com’st  with  lover’s  speed, 
Thv  once-belovkd  bride  to  see, 

But  be  she  alive,  or  be  she  dead, 

I  fear,  stern  Earl,  ’s  the  same  to  thee. 

“  Not  so  the  usage  I  received 
When  happy  in  my  father’s  hall ; 

No  faithless  husband  then  me  grieved, 

No  chilling  fears  did  me  appall. 

“  I  rose  up  with  the  cheerful  morn, 

No  lark  more  blithe,  no  flower  more  gay, 
And  like  the  bird  that  haunts  the  thorn, 
So  merrily  sung  the  livelong  day. 

“  If  that  my  beauty  is  but  small, 

Among  court  ladies  all  despised, 

Why  didst  thou  rend  it  from  that  hall, 
Where,  scornful  Earl,  it  well  was  prized? 

“  And  when  you  first  to  me  made  suit, 
How  fair  I  was  you  oft  would  say ! 

And,  proud  of  conquest,  pluck’d  the  fruit, 
Then  left  the  blossom  to  decay. 

“Yes!  now  neglected  and  despised, 

The  rose  is  pale,  the  lily’s  dead, 

But  he  that  once  their  charms  so  prized 
Is  sure  the  cause  those  charms  are  fled. 


“For  know,  when  sickening  grief  doth 
prey, 

And  tender  love’s  repaid  with  scorn, 

The  sweetest  beauty  will  decay, — 

What  floweret  can  endure  the  storm  ? 

“  At  court,  I’m  told,  is  beauty’s  throne, 
Where  every  lady’s  passing  rare, 

That  Eastern  flowers,  that  shame  the  sun, 
Are  not  so  glowing,  not  so  fair. 

“  Then,  Earl,  why  didst  thou  leave  the  beds 
Where  roses  and  where  lilies  vie, 

To  seek  a  primrose,  whose  pale  shades 
Must  sicken  when  those  gauds  are  by  ? 

“  ’Mong  rural  beauties  I  was  one, 

Among  the  fields  wild  flowers  are  fair ; 
Some  country  swain  might  me  have  won, 
And  thought  my  beauty  passing  rare, 

“  But,  Leicester  (or  I  much  am  wrong), 

Or  ’tis  not  beauty  lures  thy  vows  ; 
Rather  ambition’s  gilded  crown 
Makes  thee  forget  thy  humble  spouse. 

“Then,  Leicester,  why,  again  I  plead 
(The  injured  surely  may  repine), 

Why  didst  thou  wed  a  country  maid, 
When  some  fair  princess  might  be  thine? 

“  Why  didst  thou  praise  my  humble 
charms, 

And,  oh!  then  leave  them  to  decay? 
Why  didst  thou  win  me  to  thy  arms, 

Then  leave  to  mourn  the  livelong  day? 

“  The  village  maidens  of  the  plain 
Salute  me  lowly  as  they  go ; 

Envious  they  mark  my  silken  train, 

Nor  think  a  countess  can  have  woe. 

“The  simple  nymphs!  they  little  know 
How  far  more  happy’s  their  estate ; 

To  smile  for  joy,  than  sigh  for  woe — 

To  be  content,  than  to  be  great. 

“  How  far  less  blest  am  I  than  them  ? 

Daily  to  pine  and  waste  with  care ! 

Like  the  poor  plant,  that,  from  its  stem 
Divided,  feels  the  chilling  air. 

“  Nor,  cruel  Earl !  can  I  enjoy 
The  humble  charms  of  solitude  ; 

Your  minions  proud  my  peace  destroy, 

By  sullen  frowns  or  pratings  rude. 


380 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Last  night,  as  sad  I  chanced  to  stray, 
The  village  death-bell  smote  my  ear ; 

They  wink’d  aside,  and  seem’d  to  say, 
‘Countess,  prepare,  thy  end  is  near!’ 

“And  now,  while  happy  peasants  sleep, 
Here  I  sit  lonely  and  forlorn ; 

No  one  to  soothe  me  as  I  weep, 

Save  Philomel  on  yonder  thorn. 

“  My  spirits  flag — my  hopes  decay — 

Still  that  dread  death-bell  smites  my 
ear ; 

And  many  a  boding  seems  to  say, 

‘  Countess,  prepare,  thy  end  is  near !’  ” 

Thus  sore  and  sad  that  lady  grieved, 

In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear ; 

And  many  a  heartfelt  sigh  she  heaved, 
And  let  fall  many  a  bitter  tear. 

And  ere  the  dawn,  of  day  appear’d, 

In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear, 

Full  many  a  piercing  scream  was  heard, 
And  many  a  cry  of  mortal  fear. 

The  death-bell  thrice  was  heard  to  ring, 
An  aerial  voice  was  heard  to  call, 

And  thrice  the  raven  flapp’d  its  wing 
Around  the  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

The  mastiff  howl'd  at  village  door, 

The  oaks  were  shatter’d  on  the  green ; 

Woe  was  the  hour — for  never  more 
That  hapless  Countess  e’er  was  seen. 

And  in  that  manor  now  no  more 
Is  cheerful  feast  and  sprightly  ball ; 

For  ever  since  that  dreary  hour 
Have  spirits  haunted  Cumnor  Hall. 

The  village  maids,  with  fearful  glance, 
Avoid  the  ancient  moss-grown  wall ; 

Nor  ever  lead  the  merry  dance, 

Among  the  groves  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

Full  many  a  traveller  oft  hath  sigh’d, 

And  pensive  wept  the  Countess’  fall, 

As  wandering  onward  they’ve  espied 
The  haunted  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

William  Julius  Mickle. 


Edward ,  Edward. 

Quhy  dois  zour  brand  sae  drop  wi’  bluid, 

Edward,  Edward? 

Quhy  dois  zour  brand  sae  drop  wi’  bluid  ? 

And  quhy  sae  sad  gang  zee,  0? 

0,  I  hae  kill’d  my  hauke  sae  guid, 

Mither,  mither: 

O,  I  hae  kill’d  my  hauke  sae  guid  : 

And  I  had  nae  mair  bot  hee,  O. 

Zour  haukis  bluid  was  nevir  sae  reid, 

Edward,  Edward. 

Zour  haukis  bluid  was  nevir  sae  reid, 

My  deir  son  I  tell  thee,  0. 

0,  I  hae  kill’d  my  reid-roan  steid, 

Mither,  mither: 

O,  I  hae  kill’d  my  reid-roan  steid, 

That  erst  was  sae  fair  and  free,  0. 

Zour  steid  wTas  auld,  and  ze  hae  gat 
mair, 

Edward,  Edward : 

Zour  steid  was  auld,  and  ze  hae  gat  mair, 
Sum  other  dule  ze  drie,  O. 

O,  I  hae  kill’d  my  fadir  deir, 

Mither,  mither : 

O,  I  hae  kill’d  my  fadir  deir, 

Alas !  and  wae  is  mee,  0  ! 

And  quhatten  penance  wul  ze  drie  for 
that, 

Edward,  Edward? 

And  quhatten  penance  will  ze  drie  for  that  ? 

My  deir  son,  now  tell  me,  0. 

He  set  my  feit  in  zonder  boat, 

Mither,  mither: 
lie  set  my  feit  in  zonder  boat, 

And  lie  fare  ovir  the  sea,  0. 

And  quhat  wul  ze  doe  wi’  zour  towirs  and 
zour  ha’, 

Edward,  Edward  ? 

7 

And  quhat  wul  ze  doe  wi’  zour  towirs  and 
zour  ha’, 

That  ware  sae  fair  to  see,  0  ? 
lie  let  thame  stand  til  they  doun  fa’, 

Mither,  mither: 

He  let  thame  stand  til  they  doun  fa’, 

For  here  nevir  mair  maun  I  bee,  0- 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


381 


And  quhat  wul  ze  leive  to  zour  bairns  and 
zour  wife, 

Edward,  Edward? 

And  quhat  wul  ze  leive  to  zour  bairns  and 
zour  wife, 

Quhan  ze  gang  ovir  the  sea,  O  ? 

The  warldis  room,  let  thame  beg  throw 
life, 

Mither,  mither: 

The  warldis  room,  let  thame  beg  throw 
life, 

For  thame  nevir  mair  wul  I  see,  0. 

And  quhat  wul  ze  leive  to  zour  ain  mither 
deir, 

Edward,  Edward? 

And  quhat  wul  ze  leive  to  zour  ain  mither 
deir? 

My  deir  son,  now  tell  me,  0. 

The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ze  beir, 

Mither,  mither : 

The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ze  beir, 

Sic  counseils  ze  gave  to  me,  O. 

Author  Unknown. 

- •<>« - 

Lord  Ullin'S  Daughter. 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  “  Boatman,  do  not  tarry ! 

And  I’ll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o’er  the  ferry/’ 

“  Now,  who  be  ye  would  cross  Loch  Gvle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water?” 

“  Oh  !  I’m  the  chief  of  LTlva’s  isle, 

And  this — Lord  Ullin’s  daughter. 

“  And  fast  before  her  father’s  men, 

Three  days  we’ve  fled  together, 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 

My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

“  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride ; 
Should  they  our  steps  discover, 

Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 
When  they  have  slain  her  lover  ?” 

Out  spake  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 

“  I’ll  go,  my  chief — I’m  ready: 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 

But  for  your  winsome  lady  : 

“  And,  by  my  word  !.  the  bonny  bird 
In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ; 


So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I’ll  row  you  o’er  the  ferry.” 

By  this,  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 

The  water- wraith  was  shrieking ; 

And,  in  the  scowl  of  heaven,  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still,  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 

Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

“  Oh  haste  thee,  haste !”  the  lady  cries, 

“  Though  tempests  round  us  gather, 

I’ll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 

But  not  an  angrv  father.” 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her — 

When,  oh,  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gather’d  o’er  her. 

And  still  they  row’d,  amidst  the  roar 
Of  waters  fast  prevailing: 

Lord  Ullin  reach’d  that  fatal  shore, 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For,  sore  dismay’d,  through  storm  and 
shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover  ; 

One  lovely  arm  she  stretch’d  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

“  Come  back!  come  back!”  he  cried  in 
grief, 

“  Across  this  stormy  water  : 

And  I’ll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter  !  0  my  daughter  !” 

’Twas  vain :  the  loud  waves  lash’d  the 
shore, 

Return,  or  aid  preventing  : 

The  waters  wild  went  o’er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

Thomas  Campbell. 

- Kx - 

Tile  Dowie  Dens  of  Yarrow. 

Late  at  e’en,  drinking  the  wine, 

And  ere  they  paid  the  lawing, 

Thev  set  a  combat  them  between, 

To  fight  it  in  the  dawing. 


382 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Oh  stay  at  hame,  my  noble  lord ! 

Oh  stay  at  hame,  my  marrow ! 

My  cruel  brother  will  you  betray 
On  the  dowie  lioums  of  Yarrow.” 

“  Oh  fare  ye  weel,  my  ladye  gaye ! 

Oh  fare  ye  weel,  my  Sarah ! 

For  I  maun  gae,  though  I  ne’er  return 
Frae  the  dowie  banks  o’  Yarrow.” 

She  kiss’d  his  cheek,  she  kaim’d  his  hair, 
As  oft  she  had  done  before,  oh ; 

She  belted  him  with  his  noble  brand, 

And  he’s  away  to  Yarrow. 

As  he  gaed  up  the  Tennies  bank, 

I  wot  he  gaed  wi’  sorrow, 

Till,  down  in  a  den,  he  spied  nine  arm’d 
men, 

On  the  dowie  houms  of  Yarrow. 

“  Oh  come  ye  here  to  part  your  land, 

The  bonnie  forest  thorough  ? 

Or  come  ye  here  to  wield  your  brand, — 

On  the  dowie  houms  of  Yarrow?” — 

“  I  come  not  here  to  part  my  land, 

And  neither  to  beg  nor  borrow ; 

I  come  to  wield  my  noble  brand, 

On  the  bonnie  banks  of  Yarrow. 

“If  I  see  all,  ye’re  nine  to  ane; 

And  that’s  an  unequal  marrow: 

Yet  will  I  fight,  while  lasts  my  brand, 

On  the  bonnie  banks  of  Yarrow.” 

Four  has  he  hurt,  and  five  has  slain, 

On  the  bonnie  braes  of  Yarrow, 

Till  that  stubborn  knight  came  him  be¬ 
hind, 

And  ran  his  body  thorough. 

“  Gae  hame,  gae  hame,  good  brother  John, 
And  tell  your  sister  Sarah, 

To  come  and  lift  her  leafu’  lord  ; 

He’s  sleepin’  sound  on  Yarrow.” — 

“Yestreen  I  dream’d  a  dolefu’  dream: 

I  fear  there  will  be  sorrow ! 

I  dream’d  I  pu’d  the  heather  green, 

Wi’  mv  true  love,  on  Yarrow. 

“  0  gentle  wind,  that  bloweth  south, 

From  where  my  love  repaireth, 

Convey  a  kiss  from  his  dear  mouth, 

And  tell  me  how  he  fareth ! 


1  “  But  in  the  glen  strive  armed  men  ; 
They’ve  wrought  me  dole  and  sorrow; 
They’ve  slain — the  comeliest  knight  they’ve 
slain — 

He  bleeding  lies  on  Yarrow.” 

As  sh‘e  sped  down  yon  high,  high  hill, 

She  gaed  wi’  dole  and  sorrow, 

And  in  the  den  spied  ten  slain  men, 

On  the  dowie  banks  of  Yarrow. 

She  kiss’d  his  cheeks,  she  kaim’d  his  hair, 
She  search’d  his  wounds  all  thorough ; 
She  kiss’d  them,  till  her  lips  grew  red, 

On  the  dowie  houms  of  Yarrow. 

“Now  haud  your  tongue,  my  daughter 
dear ! 

For  a’  this  breeds  but  sorrow; 

I’ll  wed  ye  to  a  better  lord 

Than  him  ye  lost  on  Yarrow.” — 

“  Oh  haud  your  tongue,  my  father  dear ! 

Ye  ’mind  me  but  of  sorrow; 

A  fairer  rose  did  never  bloom 

Than  now  lies  cropp’d  on  Yarrow.” 

Author  Unknown. 

- •<>« - 

The  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride, 
Busk  ve,  busk  ve,  mv  winsome  marrow, 

V  /  %J  /  %J  * 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride, 
And  think  nae  mair  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow. 

Where  gat  ye  that  bonny  bonny  bride  ? 

Where  gat  ye  that  winsome  marrow  ? 

I  gat  her  where  I  dare  na  weil  be  seen, 
Pu’ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  bonny  bonny 
bride, 

Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  winsome  mar¬ 
row  ; 

Nor  let  thy  heart  lament  to  leive, 

Pu’ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Why  does  she  weep,  thy  bonny  bonny 
bride  ? 

Why  does  she  weep,  thy  winsome  mar¬ 
row  ? 

And  why  dare  ye  nae»  mair  weil  be  seen 
Pu’ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow  ? 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


O  or* 

ooo 


Lang  maun  she  weep,  lang  maun  she, 
maun  she  weep, 

Lang  maun  she  weep  with  dule  and  sor¬ 
row  ; 

And  lang  maun  I  nae  mair  weil  be  seen 
Pu’ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

For  she  has  tint  her  luver,  luver  dear, 

Her  luver  dear,  the  cause  of  sorrow ; 

And  I  hae  slain  the  comeliest  swain, 

That  eir  pu’d  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yar¬ 
row. 

Why  rins  thy  stream,  O  Yarrow,  Yarrow, 
reid  ? 

Why  on  thy  braes  heard  the  voice  of 
sorrow  ? 

And  why  yon  melancholious  weids 
Hung  on  the  bonny  birks  of  Yarrow? 

What’s  yonder  floats  on  the  rueful  rueful 
flude  ? 

What’s  yonder  floats  ?  Oh  dule  and  sor¬ 
row  ! 

Oh  ’tis  he  the  comely  swain  I  slew 
Upon  the  duleful  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Wash,  oh  wash  his  wounds,  his  wounds  in 
tears, 

His  wounds  in  tears  with  dule  and  sor¬ 
row  ; 

And  wrap  his  limbs  in  mourning  weids, 
And  lay  him  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Then  build,  then  build,  ye  sisters,  sisters 
sad, 

Ye  sisters  sad,  his  tomb  with  sorrow  ; 

And  weep  around  in  waeful  wise 

His  hapless  fate  on  the  Braes  of  Yar¬ 
row. 

Curse  ye,  curse  ye,  his  useless,  useless  1 
shield, 

My  arm  that  wrought  the  deed  of  sor¬ 
row  ; 

The  fatal  spear  that  pierced  his  breast, 

His  comely  breast,  on  the  Braes  of  Yar¬ 
row. 

Did  I  not  warn  thee,  not  to,  not  to  luve  ? 
And  warn  from  fight  ?  but  to  my  sor¬ 
row 

Too  rashly  bauld  a  stronger  arm 
Thou  mett’st,  and  fell’st  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow. 


Sweet  smells  the  birk,  green  grows,  green 
grows  the  grass, 

Yellow  on  Yarrow’s  bank  the  gowan, 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

Sweet  the  wave  of  Yarrow  flowan. 

Flows  Yarrow  sweet?  as  sweet,  as  sweet 
flows  Tweed, 

As  green  its  grass,  its  gowan  as  yellow, 
As  sweet  smells  on  its  braes  the  birk, 

The  apple  frae  its  rocks  as  mellow. 

Fair  was  thy  luve,  fair  fair  indeed  thy 
luve, 

In  flow’rv  bands  thou  didst  him  fetter  ; 
Tho’  he  was  fair,  and  weil  beluv’d  again 
Than  me  he  never  luv’d  thee  better. 

Busk  ye,  then  busk,  my  bonny  bonny 
bride, 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow, 
Busk  ye,  and  luve  me  on  the  banks  of 
Tweed, 

And  think  nae  mair  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow. 

How  can  I  busk  a  bonny  bonny  bride  ? 

How  can  I  busk  a  winsome  marrow  ? 
How  luve  him  upon  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
That  slew  my  luve  on  the  Braes  of  Yar¬ 
row  ? 

O  Yarrow  fields,  may  never  never  rain 
Nor  dew  thy  tender  blossoms  cover, 

For  there  was  basely  slain  my  luve, 

My  luve,  as  he  had  not  been  a  lover. 

The  boy  put  on  his  robes,  his  robes  of 
green, 

His  purple  vest,  ’twas  my  awn  sewing : 
Ah,  wretched  me  !  I  little,  little  kenn’d 
He  was  in  these  to  meet  his  ruin. 

The  boy  took  out  his  milk-white,  milk- 
white  steed, 

Unheedful  of  my  dule  and  sorrow  : 

But  ere  the  toofall  of  the  night 

He  lay  a  corps  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Much  I  rejoy ced  that  waeful  waeful  day  ; 

I  sang,  my  voice  the  woods  returning : 
But  lang  e’er  night  the  spear  was  flown. 
That  slew  my  luve,  and  left  me  mourn¬ 
ing- 


384 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


What  can  my  barbarous  barbarous  father 
do, 

But  with  his  cruel  rage  pursue  me  ? 

My  luver’s  blood  is  on  thy  spear, 

How  canst  thou,  barbarous  man,  then 
wooe  me  ? 

My  happy  sisters  may  be,  may  be  proud 
With  cruel  and  ungentle  scoffin’, 

May  bid  me  seek  on  Yarrow’s  Braes 
My  luver  nailed  in  his  coffin. 

My  brother  Douglas  may  upbraid,  upbraid, 
And  strive  with  threat’ning  words  to 
muve  me : 

My  luver’s  blood  is  on  thy  spear, 

How  canst  thou  ever  bid  me  luve  thee  ? 

Yes,  yes,  prepare  the  bed,  the  bed  of  luve, 
With  bridal  sheets  my  body  cover, 

Unbar,  ye  bridal  maids,  the  door, 

Let  in  the  expected  husband-lover. 

But  who  the  expected  husband  husband 

is  ? 

His  hands,  methinks,  are  bathed  in 
slaughter  : 

Ah  me  !  what  ghastly  spectre’s  yon 

Comes  in  his  pale  shroud,  bleeding  after. 

Pale  as  he  is,  here  lay  him,  lay  him  down, 
Oh  lay  his  cold  head  on  my  pillow  ; 

Take  aff,  take  aff  these  bridal  weids, 

And  crown  my  careful  head  with  wil-  ' 
low. 

Pale  tlio’  thou  art,  yet  best,  yet  best  be- 
luv’d, 

Oh  could  my  warmth  to  life  restore  thee  ! 
Yet  lye  all  night  between  my  breists, 

No  youth  lay  ever  there  before  thee. 

Pale,  pale  indeed,  O  luvely  luvely  youth  ! 

Forgive,  forgive  so  foul  a  slaughter  : 

And  lye  all  night  between  my  breists  ; 

No  youth  shall  ever  lye  there  after. 

Return,  return,  O  mournful  mournful 
bride, 

Return,  and  dry  thy  useless  sorrow : 

Thy  luver  heeds  none  of  thy  sighs, 

He  lyes  a  corps  in  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

William  Hamilton  of  Bangouk. 


The  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream, 
When  first  on  them  I  met  my  lover ; 

Thy  braes  how  dreary,  Yarrow  stream, 
When  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover  1 
For  ever  now,  O  Yarrow  stream ! 

Thou  art  to  me  a  stream  of  sorrow ; 

For  never  on  thy  banks  shall  I 

Behold  my  love,  the  flower  of  Yarrow. 

He  promised  me  a  milk-white  steed 
To  bear  me  to  his  father’s  bowers ; 

He  promised  me  a  little  page 

To  squire  me  to  his  father’s  towers  ; 

He  promised  me  a  wedding-ring, — 

The  wedding-day  was  fix’d  to-morrow;— 
Now  he  is  wedded  to  his  grave, 

Alas,  his  watery  grave,  in  Yarrow  ! 

Sweet  were  his  words  when  last  we  met ; 

My  passion  I  as  freely  told  him  ; 

Clasp’d  in  his  arms,  I  little  thought 
That  I  should  never  more  behold  him  ! 
Scarce  was  he  gone,  I  saw  his  ghost ; 

It  vanish’d  with  a  shriek  of  sorrow  ; 
Thrice  did  the  water-wraith  ascend, 

And  gave  a  doleful  groan  thro’  Yarrow. 

His  mother  from  the  window  look’d 
With  all  the  longing  of  a  mother  ; 

|  His  little  sister  weeping  walk’d 

The  greenwood  path  to  meet  her  brother; 
They  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him 
west, 

They  sought  him  all  the  forest  thorough; 
They  only  saw  the  cloud  of  night, 

They  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow. 

No  longer  from  thy  window  look — 

Thou  hast  no  son,  thou  tender  mother  ! 
No  longer  walk,  thou  lovely  maid  ; 

Alas,  thou  hast  no  more  a  brother ! 

No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west, 

And  search  no  more  the  forest  thorough ; 
For,  wandering  in  the  night  so  dark, 

He  fell  a  lifeless  corpse  in  Yarrow. 

The  tear  shall  never  leave  my  cheek, 

No  other  youth  shall  be  my  marrow— 
I’ll  seek  thy  body  in  the  stream. 

And  then  with  thee  I’ll  sleep  in  Yarrow. 


-•O*- 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY . 


385 


— The  tear  did  never  leave  her  cheek, 

No  other  youth  became  her  marrow  ; 

She  found  his  bodv  in  the  stream, 

And  now  with  him  she  sleeps  in  Yarrow. 

John  Logan. 

- - 

The  Child  of  Elle. 

On  yonder  hill  a  castle  standes 
With  walles  and  towres  bedight, 

And  yonder  lives  the  Child  of  Elle, 

A  younge  and  comely  knighte. 

The  child  of  Elle  to  his  garden  went, 

And  stood  at  his  garden  pale, 

Whan,  lo  !  he  beheld  fair  Emmelines  page 
Come  trippinge  downe  the  dale. 

The  Child  of  Elle  he  hyed  him  thence, 
Y-wis  he  stoode  not  stille, 

And  soone  he  mette  fair  Emmelines  page 
Come  climbing  up  the  hille. 

N owe  Christe  th ee  save,  thou  little  foot-page, 
Now  Christe  thee  save  and  see ! 

Oh  tell  me  how  does  thy  ladye  gaye, 

And  what  may  thy  tydinges  bee? 

My  lady  she  is  all  woe-begone, 

And  the  teares  they  falle  from  her  eyne  ; 

And  aye  she  laments  the  deadlye  feude 
Betweene  her  house  and  thine. 

And  here  shee  sends  thee  a  silken  scarfe 
Bedewde  with  many  a  teare, 

And  biddes  thee  sometimes  thinke  on  her, 
Who  lov&d  thee  so  deare. 

And  here  she  sends  thee  a  ring  of  golde, 
The  last  boone  thou  mayst  have, 

And  biddes  thee  weare  it  for  her  sake, 
When  she  is  layde  in  grave. 


Nowe  hyethee  backe,  thou  little  foot-page, 
And  greet  thy  ladye  from  mee, 

And  tell  her  that  I  her  owne  true  love 
Will  dye,  or  sette  her  free. 

Nowe  hye  thee  backe,  thou  little  foot-page, 
And  let  thy  fair  ladye  know 
This  night  will  I  bee  at  her  bowre-win- 
duwe, 

Betide  me  weale  or  woe. 

The  boye  he  tripped,  the  boye  he  ranne, 
He  neither  stint  ne  stayd 
Untill  he  came  to  fair  Emmelines  bowre, 
Whan  kneeling  downe  he  sayd, 

O  ladye,  I’ve  been  with  thy  own  true  love, 
And  he  greets  thee  well  by  mee ; 

This  night  will  he  be  at  thv  bowre-win- 
dowe, 

And  dye  or  sette  thee  free. 

Nowe  dave  was  gone  and  night  was  come, 
And  all  were  fast  asleepe, 

All  save  the  ladye  Emmeline, 

Who  sate  in  her  bowre  to  weepe: 

And  soone  she  heard  her  true  loves  voice 
Lowe  whispering  at  the  walle, 

Awake,  awake,  my  dear  ladyk, 

’Tis  I  thy  true  love  call. 

Awake,  awake,  my  ladye  deare, 

Come,  mount  this  faire  palfraye; 

This  ladder  of  ropes  will  lette  thee  downe, 
He  car  rye  thee  hence  awaye. 

Nowe  nay,  nowe  nay,  thou  gentle  knight, 
Nowe  nay,  this  may  not  bee; 

For  aye  shold  I  tint  my  maiden  fame, 

If  alone  I  should  wend  with  thee. 

O  ladye,  thou  with  a  knighte  so  true 
Mayst  safely  wend  alone, 

To  my  ladye  mother  I  will  thee  bringe, 
Where  marriage  shall  make  us  one. 

“  My  father  he  is  a  baron  bolde, 

Of  lynage  proude  and  hye  ; 

And  what  would  he  saye  if  his  daughter 
Awaye  with  a  knight  should  fly  ? 

Ah  !  well  I  wot,  he  never  would  rest, 

Nor  his  meate  should  doe  him  no  goode 
Until  he  had  slayne  thee,  Child  of  Elle, 
And  scene  thy  deare  hearts  bloode.” 


For,  ah  !  her  gentle  heart  is  broke, 

And  in  grave  soon  must  shee  bee, 

Sith  her  father  hath  chose  her  a  new  new 
love, 

And  forbidde  her  to  think  of  thee. 

Her  father  hath  brought  her  a  carlish 
knight, 

Sir  John  of  the  north  countr&ye, 

And  within  three  dayes  shee  must  him 
wedde, 

Or  he  vowes  he  will  her  slaye. 

25 


386 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


O  ladve,  wert  thou  in  thy  saddle  sette, 
And  a  little  space  him  fro, 

I  would  not  care  for  thy  cruel  father, 

Nor  the  worst  that  he  could  doe. 

O  ladye,  wert  thou  in  thy  saddle  sette, 
And  once  without  this  walle, 

I  would  not  care  for  thy  cruel  father, 

Nor  the  worst  that  might  befalle. 

Faire  Emmeline  sighed,  fair  Emmeline 
wept, 

And  aye  her  heart  was  woe : 

At  length  he  seized  her  lilly-white  hand, 
And  downe  the  ladder  he  drewe : 

And  thrice  he  clasp’d  her  to  his  breste, 
And  kist  her  tenderlie  : 

The  teares  that  fell  from  her  fair  eyes 
Ranne  like  the  fountayne  free. 

Hee  mounted  himselfe  on  his  steede  so 
talle, 

And  her  on  a  fair  palfrilye, 

And  slung  his  bugle  about  his  necke, 

And  roundlye  they  rode  awaye. 

All  this  beheard  her  own  damselle, 

In  her  bed  whereas  shee  ley, 

Quoth  shee,  My  lord  shall  knowe  of  this, 
Soe  I  shall  have  golde  and  fee. 

Awake,  awake,  thou  baron  bolde ! 

Awake,  mv  noble  dame  ! 

Your  daughter  is  fledde  with  the  Child  of 
Elle 

To  doe  the  deede  of  shame. 

The  baron  he  woke,  the  baron  he  rose, 

And  call’d  his  merrye  men  all : 

“And  come  thou  forth,  Sir  John  the 
knighte, 

Thy  ladye  is  carried  to  thrall.” 

Faire  Emmeline  scant  had  ridden  a  mile, 
A  mile  forth  of  the  towne, 

When  she  was  aware  of  her  fathers  men 
Come  galloping  over  the  downe  : 

And  foremost  came  the  carlish  knight, 

Sir  John  of  the  north  countr&ye : 

“  Nowe  stop,  nowe  stop,  thou  false  traitoure, 
Nor  carry  that  ladye  awaye. 

For  she  is  come  of  hye  lineage, 

And  was  of  a  ladye  borne, 


And  ill  it  beseems  thee  a  false  churl’s 
sonne 

To  carrye  her  hence  to  scorne.” 

Nowe  loud  thou  lyest,  Sir  John  the  knight, 
Nowe  thou  doest  lye  of  mee  ; 

A  knight  mee  gott,  and  a  ladye  me  bore, 
Soe  never  did  none  by  thee. 

But  light  nowe  downe,  my  ladye  faire, 
Light  downe,  and  hold  my  steed, 

While  I  and  this  discourteous  knighte 
Doe  trye  this  arduous  deede. 

But  light  nowe  downe,  my  deare  ladyfc, 
Light  downe,  and  hold  my  horse ; 

While  I  and  this  discourteous  knight 
Doe  trye  our  valour’s  force. 

Fair  Emmeline  sigh’d,  fair  Emmeline 
wept, 

And  aye  her  heart  was  woe, 

While  ’twixt  her  love  and  the  carlish 
knight 

Past  many  a  baleful  blowe. 

The  Child  of  Elle  hee  fought  soe  well, 

As  his  weapon  he  waved  amaine, 

That  soone  he  had  slaine  the  carlish  knight, 
And  layd  him  upon  the  plaine. 

And  nowe  the  baron  and  all  his  men 
Full  fast  approached  nye  : 

Ah  !  what  may  ladye  Emmeline  doe? 
’Twere  nowe  no  boote  to  flye. 

Her  lover  he  put  his  home  to  his  mouth, 
And  blew  both  loud  and  shrill, 

And  soone  he  saw  his  owne  merry  men 
Come  ryding  over  the  hill. 

“  Nowe  hold  thy  hand,  thou  bold  baron, 

I  pray  thee  hold  thy  hand, 

Nor  ruthless  rend  two  gentle  hearts 
Fast  knit  in  true  love’s  band. 

Thy  daughter  I  have  dearly  loved 
Full  long  and  many  a  day  ; 

But  with  such  love  as  holy  kirke 
Hath  freelye  said  wee  may. 

Oh  give  consent  shee  may  be  mine, 

And  bless  a  faithfull  paire: 

My  lands  and  livings  are  not  small, 

My  house  and  lineage  faire  : 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


387 


My  mother  she  was  an  earl’s  daughter, 
And  a  noble  knyglit  my  sire — ” 

The  baron  he  frown’d  and  turn’d  away 
With  mickle  dole  and  ire. 

Faire  Emmeline  sigh’d,  faire  Emmeline 
wept, 

And  did  all  tremblinge  stand : 

At  lengthe  she  sprang  upon  her  knee, 

And  held  his  lifted  hand. 

Pardon,  my  lorde  and  father  deare, 

This  fair  yong  knyght  and  mee : 

Trust  me,  but  for  the  carlish  knyght, 

I  never  had  fled  from  thee. 

Oft  have  you  call’d  your  Emmeline 
Your  darling  and  your  joye  ; 

Oh  let  not  then  your  harsh  resolves 
Your  Emmeline  destroye. 

The  baron  he  stroakt  his  dark-brown 
cheeke, 

And  turn’d  his  heade  asyde 
To  whipe  awaye  the  starting  teare 
He  proudly  strave  to  hyde. 

In  deepe  revolving  thought  he  stoode, 

And  mused  a  little  space: 

Then  raised  faire  Emmeline  from  the 
grounde 

With  many  a  fond  embrace. 

Here  take  her,  Child  of  Elle,  he  sayd, 

And  gave  her  lillye  white  hand ; 

Here  take  my  deare  and  only  child, 

And  with  her  half  my  land  : 

Thy  father  once  mine  honour  wrongde 
In  dayes  of  youthful  pride ; 

Do  thou  the  injury  e  repay  re 
In  fondnesse  for  thy  bride. 

And  as  thou  love  her,  and  hold  her  deare, 
Heaven  prosper  thee  and  thine : 

And  nowe  my  blessing  wend  wi’  thee, 

My  lovelye  Emmeline. 

Author  Unknown. 

•04 - 

Hart-leap  Well. 

The  Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wens- 
ley  Moor 

With  the  slow  motion  of  a  summer’s 
cloud; 


He  turned  aside  toward  a  Vassal’s  door, 

And  “  Bring  another  horse !”  he  cried 
aloud. 

“  Another  horse !” — That  shout  the  Vassal 
heard, 

And  saddled  his  best  steed,  a  comely 
gray ; 

Sir  Walter  mounted  him;  he  was  the 
third 

Which  he  had  mounted  on  that  glorious 
day. 

Joy  sparkled  in  the  prancing  Courser’s 
eyes; 

The  horse  and  horseman  are  a  happy 
pair ; 

But,  though  Sir  Walter  like  a  falcon 
flies, 

There  is  a  doleful  silence  in  the  air. 

A  rout  this  morning  left  Sir  Walter’s 
Hall, 

That  as  they  gallop’d  made  the  echoes 
roar ; 

But  horse  and  man  are  vanish’d,  one  and 
all; 

Such  race,  I  think,  was  never  seen  be¬ 
fore. 

Sir  Walter,  restless  as  a  veering  wind, 

Calls  to  the  few  tired  dogs  that  yet  re¬ 
main  : 

Blanch,  Swift,  and  Music,  noblest  of  their 
kind, 

Follow,  and  up  the  weary  mountain 
strain. 

The  knight  halloo’d,  he  cheer’d  and  chid 
them  on 

With  suppliant  gestures  and  upbraiding 
stern  ; 

But  breath  and  eyesight  fail ;  and,  one  by 
one, 

The  dogs  are  stretch’d  among  the  moun¬ 
tain-fern. 

Where  is  the  throng,  the  tumult  of  the 
race? 

The  bugles  that  so  joyfully  were  blown? 

This  chase  it  looks  not  like  an  earthly 
chase ; 

Sir  Walter  and  the  Hart  are  left  alone. 


388 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  poor  Hart  toils  along  the  mountain¬ 
side  ; 

I  will  not  stop  to  tell  how  far  he  fled, 

Nor  will  I  mention  by  what  death  he 
died : 

But  now  the  Knight  beholds  him  lying 
dead. 

Dismounting,  then,  he  lean’d  against  a 
thorn, 

He  had  no  follower,  Dog,  nor  Man,  nor 
Boy: 

He  neither  crack’d  his  whip,  nor  blew  his 
horn, 

But  gazed  upon  the  spoil  with  silent  joy. 

Close  to  the  thorn  on  which  Sir  Walter 
lean’d, 

Stood  his  dumb  partner  in  this  glorious 
feat ; 

Weak  as  a  lamb  the  hour  that  it  is  yean’d, 

And  white  with  foam  as  if  with  cleaving 
sleet. 

Upon  his  side  the  Hart  was  lying  stretch’d : 

His  nostril  touch’d  a  spring  beneath  a 
hill, 

And  with  the  last  deep  groan  his  breath 
had  fetch’d 

The  waters  of  the  spring  were  trembling 
still. 

And  now,  too  happy  for  repose  or  rest 

(Never  had  living  man  such  joyful  lot!), 

Sir  Walter  walk’d  all  round,  north,  south, 
and  west, 

And  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  darling 
spot. 

And  climbing  up  the  hill  (it  was  at  least 

Nine  roods  of  sheer  ascent),  Sir  Walter 
found 

Three  several  hoof-marks  which  the  hunted  | 
beast 

Had  left  imprinted  on  the  grassy  ground.  ! 

Sir  Walter  wiped  his  face,  and  cried,  “Till 
now 

Such  sight  was  never  seen  by  living 
eyes : 

Three  leaps  have  borne  him  from  this  lofty 
brow 

Down  to  the  very  fountain  where  he  lies. 


I’ll  build  a  Pleasure-house  upon  this  spot, 

And  a  small  Arbor,  made  for  rural  joy ; 

’Twill  be  the  Traveller’s  shed,  the  Pilgrim’s 
cot, 

A  place  of  love  for  Damsels  that  are  coy. 

A  cunning  Artist  will  I  have  to  frame 

A  basin  for  that  fountain  in  the  dell! 

And  they  who  do  make  mention  of  the 
same 

From  this  day  forth  shall  call  it  Hart- 
leap  Well. 

And,  gallant  Stag !  to  make  thy  praises 
known. 

Another  monument  shall  here  be  raised; 

Three  several  Pillars,  each  a  rough-hewn 
Stone, 

And  planted  where  thy  hoofs  the  turf 
have  grazed. 

And,  in  the  summer-time  when  days  are 
long, 

I  will  come  hither  with  my  Paramour ; 

And  with  the  Dancers  and  the  Minstrel’s 
song 

We  will  make  merry  in  that  pleasant 
Bower. 

Till  the  foundations  of  the  mountains  fail 

My  Mansion  with  its  Arbor  shall  en¬ 
dure  ; — 

The  joy  of  them  who  till  the  fields  of 
Swale, 

And  them  who  dwell  among  the  woods 
of  Ure !” 

Then  home  he  went,  and  left  the  Hart, 
stone-dead, 

With  breathless  nostrils  stretch’d  above 
the  spring. 

— Soon  did  the  Knight  perform  what  he 
had  said, 

And  far  and  wide  the  fame  thereof  did 
ring. 

Ere  thrice  the  Moon  into  her  port  had 
steer’d, 

A  Cup  of  stone  received  the  living 
Well ; 

Three  Pillars  of  rude  stone  Sir  Walter 
rear’d, 

And  built  a  house  of  Pleasure  in  the 
dell. 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


389 


And  near  the  fountain,  flowers  of  stature 
tall 

With  trailing  plants  and  trees  were  in¬ 
tertwined, — 

Which  soon  composed  a  little  sylvan  Hall, 
A  leafy  shelter  from  the  sun  and  wind. 

And  thither,  when  the  summer-days  were 
long, 

Sir  Walter  led  his  wondering  Paramour; 

And  with  the  Dancers  and  the  Minstrel’s 
song 

Made  merriment  within  that  pleasant 
Bower. 

The  Knight,  Sir  Walter,  died  in  course 
of  time, 

And  his  bones  lie  in  his  paternal  vale. — 

But  there  is  matter  for  a  second  rhyme, 
And  I  to  this  would  add  another  tale. 

Part  Second. 

The  moving  accident  is  not  my  trade, 

To  freeze  the  blood  I  have  no  ready  arts; 

’Tis  my  delight,  alone  in  summer  shade, 
To  pipe  a  simple  song  for  thinking 
hearts. 

As  I  from  Hawes  to  Richmond  did  repair, 
It  chanced  that  I  saw  standing  in  a  dell 

Three  Aspens  at  three  corners  of  a  square, 
And  one,  not  four  yards  distant,  near  a 
Well. 

What  this  imported  I  could  ill  divine, 
And,  pulling  now  the  rein  my  horse  to 
stop, 

I  saw  three  Pillars  standing  in  a  line, 

The  last  Stone  Pillar  on  a  dark  hill-top. 

The  trees  were  gray,  with  neither  arms  nor 
head, 

Half  wasted  the  square  Mound  of  tawny 
green, 

So  that  you  just  might  say,  as  then  I  said, 
“  Here  in  old  time  the  hand  of  man 
hath  been.” 

I  look’d  upon  the  hill  both  far  and  near ; 
More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey; 

It  seem’d  as  if  -the  spring-time  came  not 
here, 

And  Nature  here  were  willing  to  de¬ 
cay. 


I  stood  in  various  thoughts  and  fancies 
lost, 

When  one,  who  was  in  Shepherd’s  garb 
attired, 

Came  up  the  Hollow ;  him  did  I  accost, 

And  what  this  place  might  be  I  then  in¬ 
quired. 

The  Shepherd  stopp’d,  and  that  same  story 
told 

Which  in  my  former  rhyme  I  have  re¬ 
hearsed. 

“A  jolly  place,”  said  he,  “in  times  of 
old, 

But  something  ails  it  now  ;  the  spot  is 
curst. 

You  see  these  lifeless  Stumps  of  aspen 
wood, — 

Some  say  that  they  are  beeches,  others 
elms, — 

These  were  the  Bower,  and  here  a  Mansion 
stood, 

The  finest  palace  of  a  hundred  realms. 

The  Arbor  does  its  own  condition  tell ; 

You  see  the  Stones,  the  Fountain,  and 
the  Stream, 

But  as  to  the  great  Lodge,  you  might  as 
well 

Hunt  half  a  day  for  a  forgotten  dream. 

There’s  neither  dog  nor  heifer,  horse  nor 
sheep, 

Will  wet  his  lips  within  that  Cup  of 
stone, 

And  oftentimes,  when  all  are  fast  asleep, 

This  water  doth  send  forth  a  dolorous 
groan. 

Some  say  that  here  a  murder  has  been 
done, 

And  blood  cries  out  for  blood ;  but  for 
my  part, 

I’ve  guess’d,  when  I’ve  been  sitting  in  the 
sun, 

That  it  was  all  for  that  unhappy  Hart. 

What  thoughts  must  through  the  Crea¬ 
ture’s  brain  have  pass’d ! 

Even  from  the  topmost  Stone  upon  the 
Steep 

Are  but  three  bounds;  and  look,  sir,  at 
this  last ; — 

Oh,  Master !  it  has  been  a  cruel  leap ! 


390 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


For  thirteen  hours  he  ran  a  desperate 

race, 

And  in  my  simple  mind  we  cannot  tell 

What  cause  the  Hart  might  have  to  love 
this  place, 

And  come  and  make  his  deathbed  near 
the  Well. 

Here  on  the  grass  perhaps  asleep  he  sank, 

Lull’d  by  the  Fountain  in  the  summer- 
tide  ; 

This  water  was  perhaps  the  first  he  drank 

When  he  had  wander’d  from  his  moth¬ 
er’s  side. 

In  April  here  beneath  the  scented  thorn 

He  heard  the  birds  their  morning  carols 
sing, 

And  he,  perhaps,  for  aught  we  know,  was 
born 

Not  half  a  furlong  from  that  selfsame 
spring. 

Now,  here  is  neither  grass  nor  pleasant 
shade , 

The  sun  on  drearier  Hollow  never  shone; 

So  will  it  be,  as  I  have  often  said, 

Till  Trees,  and  Stones,  and  Fountain,  all 
are  gone.” 

“  Gray-headed  Shepherd,  thou  hast  spoken 
well ; 

Small  difference  lies  between  thy  creed 
and  mine ; 

This  Beast  not  unobserved  by  Nature  fell : 

His  death  was  mourn’d  by  sympathy  di¬ 
vine. 

The  Being,  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air, 

That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the 
groves, 

Maintains  a  deep  and  reverential  care 

For  the  unoffending  creatures  whom  He 
loves. 

The  Pleasure-house  is  dust, — behind,  be¬ 
fore, 

This  is  no  common  waste,  no  common 
gloom, 

But  Nature,  in  due  course  of  time,  once 
more 

Shall  here  put  on  her  beauty  and  her 
bloom. 


She  leaves  these  objects  to  a  slow  decay, 
That  what  we  are,  and  have  been,  may 
be  known ; 

But  at  the  coming  of  the  milder  day 
These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown. 

One  lesson,  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 
Taught  both  by  what  she  shows,  and 
what  conceals, 

Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 
With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that 
feels.” 

William  Wordsworth. 
- » - - - 

Robin  Hood  and  Allen-a-Dale. 

Come  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free, 
All  you  that  love  mirth  for  to  hear, 

And  I  will  tell  you  of  a  bold  outlaw, 

That  lived  in  Nottinghamshire. 

As  Robin  Hood  in  the  forest  stood, 

All  under  the  greenwood  tree, 

There  he  was  aware  of  a  brave  young  man, 
As  fine  as  fine  might  be. 

The  youngster  was  clad  in  scarlet  red, 

In  scarlet  fine  and  gay ; 

And  he  did  frisk  it  over  the  plain, 

And  chaunted  a  roundelay. 

As  Robin  Hood  next  morning  stood 
Amongst  the  leaves  so  gay, 

There  did  he  espy  the  same  young  man 
Come  drooping  along  the  way. 

The  scarlet  he  wore  the  day  before 
It  was  clean  cast  away ; 

And  at  every  step  he  fetch’d  a  sigh, 

“  Alas  !  and  a-well-a-day  !” 

Then  stepped  forth  brave  Little  John, 

And  Midge,  the  miller’s  son  ; 

Which  made  the  young  man  bend  his  bow, 
WThen  as  he  see  them  come. 

“Standoff!  stand  off!”  the  young  man  said, 
“  What  is  your  will  with  me  ?” 

“You  must  come  before  our  master  straight, 
Under  yon  greenwood  tree.” 

And  when  he  came  bold  Robin  before, 
Robin  ask’d  him  courteously, 

“  Oh,  hast  thou  any  money  to  spare, 

For  my  merry  men  and  me  ?” 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


391 


“  I  have  no  money,”  the  young  man  said, 

“  But  five  shillings  and  a  ring  ; 

And  that  I  have  kept  this  seven  long  years, 
To  have  at  my  wedding. 

“  Yesterday  I  should  have  married  a  maid, 
But  she  was  from  me  ta’en, 

And  chosen  to  be  an  old  knight’s  delight, 
Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  slain.” 

"  What  is  thy  name  ?”  then  said  Robin 
Hood, 

“  Come  tell  me,  without  any  fail.” 

“  By  the  faith  of  my  body,”  then  said  the 
young  man, 

“  My  name  it  is  Allen-a-Dale.” 

“  What  wilt  thou  give  me,”  said  Robin 
Hood, 

“  In  ready  gold  or  fee, 

To  help  thee  to  thy  true  love  again, 

And  deliver  her  unto  thee?” 

“  I  have  no  money,”  then  quoth  the  young 
man, 

“  In  ready  gold  nor  fee, 

But  I  will  swear  upon  a  book 
Thy  true  servant  for  to  be.” 

“  How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true  love  ? 

Come  tell  me  without  guile.” 

“  By  the  faith  of  my  body,”  then  said  the 
young  man, 

“  It  is  but  five  little  mile.” 

Then  Robin  he  hasted  over  the  plain  ; 

He  did  neither  stint  nor  lin, 

Until  he  came  unto  the  church 

Where  Allen  should  keep  his  weddin’. 

“  What  hast  thou  here  ?”  the  bishop  then 
said  ; 

“  I  prithee  now  tell  unto  me.” 

I  am  a  bold  harper,”  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
“  And  the  best  in  the  north  country.” 

“  Oh  welcome,  oh  welcome,”  the  bishop  he 
said  ; 

“  That  music  best  pleaseth  me.” 

“  You  shall  have  no  music,”  said  Robin 
Hood, 

“  Till  the  bride  and  bridegroom  I  see.” 

With  that  came  in  a  wealthy  knight, 
Which  was  both  grave  and  old  ; 


And  after  him  a  finikin  lass, 

Did  shine  like  the  glistering  gold. 

“  This  is  not  a  fit  match,”  quoth  Robin 
Hood, 

“  That  you  do  seem  to  make  here ; 

For  since  we  are  come  into  the  church, 

The  bride  shall  choose  her  own  dear.” 

Then  Robin  Hood  put  his  horn  to  his 
mouth, 

And  blew  blasts  two  or  three  ; 

When  four-and-twenty  yeomen  bold 
Came  leaping  over  the  lea. 

• 

And  when  they  came  into  the  churchyard, 
Marching  all  in  a  row, 

The  first  man  was  Allen-a-Dale, 

To  give  bold  Robin  his  bow. 

“  This  is  thy  true  love,”  Robin  he  said, 

“  Young  Allen,  as  I  hear  say  ; 

And  you  shall  be  married  this  same  time, 
Before  we  depart  away.” 

“  That  shall  not  be,”  the  bishop  he  cried, 

“  For  thy  word  shall  not  stand  ; 

They  shall  be  three  times  ask’d  in  the 
church, 

As  the  law  is  of  our  land.” 

Robin  Hood  pull’d  off  the  bishop’s  coat, 
And  put  it  upon  Little  John  ; 

“  By  the  faith  of  my  body,”  then  Robin 
said, 

“  This  cloth  doth  make  thee  a  man.” 

When  Little  John  went  into  the  quire, 
The  people  began  to  laugh  ; 

He  ask’d  them  seven  times  into  church, 
Lest  three  times  should  not  be  enough. 

“  Who  gives  me  this  maid  ?”  said  Little 
John, 

Quoth  Robin  Hood,  “  That  do  I ; 

And  he  that  takes  her  from  Allen-a-Dale, 
Full  dearly  he  shall  her  buy.” 

And  then  having  ended  this  merry  wed¬ 
ding, 

The  bride  look’d  like  a  queen  ; 

And  so  they  return’d  to  the  merry  green 
wood, 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  green. 

Autiiok  Unknown. 


392 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


BETH-GELERT ;  OR,  THE  GRAVE 
of  the  Greyhound. 

The  Spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound, 
And  cheerily  smiled  the  morn, 

And  many  a  brach  and  many  a  hound 
Obey’d  Llewelyn’s  horn. 

And  still  he  blew  a  louder  blast, 

And  gave  a  lustier  cheer  : 

“  Come,  Gelert,  come,  wert  never  last 

Llewelyn's  horn  to  hear. 

%/ 

“  Oh  !  where  does  faithful  Gelert  roam, 
The  flow’s  of  all  his  race  ? 

So  true,  so  brave  ;  a  lamb  at  home, 

A  lion  in  the  chase  !” 

’Twas  only  at  Llewelyn’s  board 
The  faithful  Gelert  fed  ; 

He  watch’d,  he  serv’d,  lie  cheer’d  his  lord, 
And  sentinell’d  his  bed. 

In  sooth  lie  was  a  peerless  hound, 

The  gift  of  royal  John  ; 

But  now  no  Gelert  could  be  found, 

And  all  the  chase  rode  on. 

And  now,  as  o’er  the  rocks  and  dells 
The  gallant  chidings  rise, 

All  Snowdon’s  craggy  chaos  yells 
The  many-mingled  cries ! 

That  day  Llewelyn  little  loved 
The  chase  of  Hart  or  Hare, 

And  scant  and  small  the  booty  proved, 
For  Gelert  was  not  there. 

Unpleased,  Llewelyn  homeward  hied  : 
When,  near  the  portal  seat, 

His  truant  Gelert  he  espied 
Bounding  his  lord  to  greet. 

But,  when  he  gained  his  castle  door, 
Aghast  the  chieftain  stood  : 

The  hound  all  o’er  was  smear’d  with  gore, 
His  lips,  his  fangs,  ran  blood. 

Llewelyn  gazed  with  fierce  surprise  : 
Unused  such  looks  to  meet, 

His  fav’rite  check’d  his  joyful  guise, 

And  crouch’d  and  lick’d  his  feet. 

Onward  in  haste  Llewelyn  pass’d, 

And  on  went  Gelert  too, 


And  still,  where’er  his  eyes  he  cast, 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shock’d  his  view. 

O’erturn’d  his  infant’s  bed  he  found, 

With  blood-stain’d  covert  rent ; 

And  all  around,  the  walls  and  ground 
With  recent  blood  besprent. 

He  call’d  his  child,  no  voice  replied ; 

He  search’d  with  terror  wild  ; 

Blood,  blood  he  found  on  ev’ry  side ; 

But  nowhere  found  his  child. 

“  Hell-hound !  my  child  by  thee’s  de¬ 
vour’d  !” 

The  frantic  father  cried  ; 

And  to  the  hilt  his  vengeful  sword 
He  plunged  in  Gelert’s  side. 

His  suppliant  looks  as  prone  he  fell, 

No  pity  could  impart; 

But  still  his  Gelert’s  dying  yell 
Pass’d  heavy  o’er  his  heart. 

Aroused  by  Gelert’s  dying  yell 
Some  slumb’rer  waken’d  nigh  : 

What  words  the  parent’s  joy  could  tell 
To  hear  his  infant’s  cry  ! 

Conceal’d  beneath  a  tumbled  heap 
His  hurried  search  had  miss’d, 

All  glowing  from  his  rosy  sleep, 

The  cherub  boy  he  kiss’d. 

Nor  scath  had  he,  nor  harm,  nor  dread ; 

But  the  same  couch  beneath 
Lay  a  gaunt  wolf,  all  torn  and  dead, 
Tremendous  still  in  death. 

Ah,  what  was  then  Llewelyn’s  pain  ! 

For  now  the  truth  was  clear  ; 

His  gallant  hound  the  wolf  had  slain, 

To  save  Llewelyn’s  heir. 

Vain,  vain  was  all  Llewelyn’s  woe  : 

“  Best  of  thv  kind,  adieu  ! 

The  frantic  blow,  which  laid  thee  low, 
This  heart  shall  ever  rue.” 

And  now  a  gallant  tomb  they  raise, 

With  costly  sculpture  deckt ; 

And  marbles,  storied  with  his  praise, 

Poor  Gelert’s  bones  protect. 

There  never  could  the  spearman  pass, 

Or  forester,  unmoved  ; 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


393 


There  oft  the  tear-besprinkled  grass 
Llewelyn’s  sorrow  proved. 

And  there  he  hung  his  sword  and  spear, 
And  there  as  evening  fell, 

In  Fancy’s  ear  he  oft  would  hear 
Poor  Gelert’s  dying  yell. 

And  till  great  Snowdon’s  rocks  grow  old, 
And  cease  the  storm  to  brave, 

The  consecrated  spot  shall  hold 

The  name  of  “  Gelert’s  Grave.” 

William  Robert  Spencer. 

- *<>• - 

Katharine  Janfarie. 

There  was  a  may,  and  a  weel-fared  may, 
Lived  high  up  in  yon  glen  : 

Her  name  was  Katharine  Janfarie, 

She  was  courted  by  mony  men. 

Doun  cam’  the  Laird  o’  Lamington, 

Doun  frae  the  South  Countrie  ; 

And  he  is  for  this  bonnie  lass, 

Her  bridegroom  for  to  be. 

He  ask’d  no  her  father  and  mither, 

Nor  the  chief  o’  a’  her  kin  ; 

But  he  whisper’d  the  bonny  lass  hersel’, 
And  did  her  favor  win. 

Doun  cam’  an  English  gentleman, 

Doun  frae  the  English  border; 

He  is  for  this  bonny  lass, 

To  keep  his  house  in  order. 

9 

He  ask’d  her  father  and  mither, 

And  a’  the  lave  o’  her  kin  ; 

But  he  never  ask’d  the  lassie  hersel’ 

Till  on  her  wedding-e’en. 

But  she  has  wrote  a  long  letter, 

And  seal’d  it  with  her  hand  ; 

And  sent  it  away  to  Lamington, 

To  let  him  understand. 

The  first  line  o’  the  letter  he  read, 

He  was  baith  fain  and  glad  ; 

But  or  he  has  read  the  letter  o’er, 

He’s  turn’d  baith  wan  and  sad. 


Then  he  has  sent  a  messenger, 

To  run  through  all  his  land ; 

And  four  and  twenty  armed  men 
Were  all  at  his  command. 

But  he  has  left  his  merry  men  all, 

Left  them  on  the  lee ; 

And  he’s  awa’  to  the  wedding-house, 

To  see  what  he  could  see. 

They  all  rose  up  to  honor  him, 

For  he  was  of  high  renown  ; 

They  all  rose  up  to  welcome  him, 

And  bade  him  to  sit  down. 

Oh  mickle  was  the  gude  red  wine 
In  silver  cups  did  flow  ; 

But  aye  she  drank  to  Lamington, 

And  fain  with  him  would  go. 

“  Oh  come  ye  here  to  fight,  young  lord? 
Or  come  ye  here  to  play  ? 

Or  come  ye  here  to  drink  gude  wine 
Upon  the  wedding-day?” 

“  I  come  na  here  to  fight,”  he  said, 

“  I  come  na  here  to  play  ; 

I’ll  but  lead  a  dance  wi’  the  bonny  bride, 
And  mount  and  go  my  way.” 

He’s  caught  her  by  the  milk-white  hand, 
And  by  the  grass-green  sleeve  ; 

He’s  mounted  her  hie  behind  himsel’, 
At  her  kinsfolk  spier’d  11a  leave. 

It’s  up,  it’s  up  the  Couden  bank, 

It’s  doun  the  Couden  brae ; 

And  aye  they  made  the  trumpet  sound, 
“  It’s  a’  fair  play  !” 

Now,  a’  ye  lords  and  gentlemen 
That  be  of  England  born, 

Come  ye  na  doun  to  Scotland  thus, 

For  fear  ye  get  the  scorn  ! 

They’ll  feed  ye  up  wi’  flattering  words, 
And  play  ye  foul  play  ; 

They’ll  dress  you  frogs  instead  of  fish 
Upon  your  wedding-day  ! 

Author  Unknown. 


394 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Fair  Annie  of  Lochroyan. 

“  Oh  wha  will  shoe  my  fair  foot, 

And  wha  will  glove  my  han’  ? 

And  wha  will  lace  my  middle  jimp 
Wi’  a  new-made  London  ban’? 

“  Or  wha  will  kemb  my  yellow  hair 
Wi’  a  new-made  silver  kemb  ? 

Or  wha’ll  be  father  to  my  young  bairn, 

Till  love  Gregor  come  hame  ?” 

“  Your  father’ll  shoe  your  fair  foot, 

Your  mother  glove  your  han’ ; 

Your  sister  lace  your  middle  jimp 
Wi’  a  new-made  London  ban’  ; 

“Your  brethren  will  kemb  your  yellow 
hair 

Wi’  a  new-made  silver  kemb; 

And  the  King  o’  heaven  will  father  your 
bairn, 

Till  love  Gregor  come  hame.” 

“  Oh  gin  I  had  a  bonny  ship, 

And  men  to  sail  wi’  me, 

It’s  I  would  gang  to  my  true  love, 

Sin  he  winna  come  to  me  !” 

Her  father’s  gien  her  a  bonny  ship, 

And  sent  her  to  the  stran’ ; 

She’s  ta’en  her  young  son  in  her  arms, 
And  turn’d  her  back  to  the  lan’. 

She  hadna  been  o’  the  sea  sailin’ 

About  a  month  or  more, 

Till  landed  has  she  her  bonny  ship 
Near  her  true  love’s  door. 

The  niclit  was  dark,  and  the  wind  blew 
cald, 

And  her  love  was  fast  asleep, 

And  the  bairn  that  was  in  her  twa  arms 
Fu’  sair  began  to  greet. 

Lang  stood  she  at  her  true  love’s  door, 
And  lang  tirl’d  at  the  pin  ; 

At  length  up  gat  his  fause  mother, 

Says,  “  Wha’s  that  wad  be  in?” 

“Oh  it  is  Annie  of  Lochroyan, 

Your  love,  come  o’er  the  sea, 

But  and  your  young  son  in  her  arms ; 

So  open  the  door  to  me.” 


“Awa’,  awa’,  ye  ill  woman! 

You’re  nae  come  here  for  gude; 

You’re  but  a  witch,  or  a  vile  warlock, 

Or  mermaid  o’  the  flude.” 

“  I’m  nae  a  witch  or  vile  warlock, 

Or  mermaiden,”  said  she  ; — 

“  I’m  but  vour  Annie  of  Lochrovan  ; — 

Oh  open  the  door  to  me  !” 

“  Oh  gin  ye  be  Annie  of  Lochroyan, 

As  I  trust  not  ye  be, 

What  taiken  can  ye  gie  that  e’er 
I  kept  your  companie?” 

“  Oh  dinna  ye  mind,  love  Gregor,”  she 
says, 

“  Whan  we  sat  at  the  wine, 

How  we  changed  the  napkins  frae  our 
necks? 

It’s  nae  sae  lang  sinsyne. 

“  And  yours  was  gude,  and  gude  enough, 
But  nae  sae  gude  as  mine  ; 

For  yours  was  o’  the  cambric  clear, 

But  mine  o’  the  silk  sae  fine. 

“And  dinna  ye  mind,  love  Gregor,”  she 
says, 

“  As  we  twa  sat  at  dine, 

How  we  changed  the  rings  frae  our  fingers, 
And  I  can  shew  thee  thine  : 

“  And  yours  was  gude,  and  gude  enough, 
Yet  nae  sae  gude  as  mine  ; 

For  yours  was  o’  the  gude  red  gold, 

But  mine  o’  the  diamonds  fine. 

“  Sae  open  the  door,  now,  love  Gregor,  , 
And  open  it  wi’  speed  ; 

Or  your  young  son,  that  is  in  my  arms, 
For  cald  will  soon  be  dead.” 

“  Awa’,  awa’,  ye  ill  woman  ! 

Gae  frae  my  door  for  shame ; 

For  I  hae  gotten  anither  fair  love — • 

Sae  ye  may  hie  you  hame.” 

V  V  V 

“  Oh  hae  ye  gotten  anither  fair  love, 

For  a’  the  oaths  ye  sware? 

Then  fare  ye  weel,  now,  fause  Gregor : 

For  me  ye’s  never  see  mair !” 

Oh  hooly,  hoolv  gaed  she  back, 

As  the  day  began  to  peep ; 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


395 


She  set  her  foot  on  good  shipboard, 

And  sair,  sair  did  she  weep. 

Tak  down,  tak  down  the  mast  o’  goud ; 
Set  up  the  mast  o’  tree ; 

Ill  sets  it  a  forsaken  lady 
To  sail  sae  gallantlie. 

“Tak  down,  tak  down,  the  sails  o’  silk: 

Set  up  the  sails  o’  skin ; 

Ill  sets  the  outside  to  be  gay, 

Whan  there’s  sic  grief  within !” 

Love  Gregor  started  frae  his  sleep, 

And  to  his  mother  did  say : 

“  I  dreamt  a  dream  this  night,  mither, 
That  maks  my  heart  richt  wae ; 

“  I  dreamt  that  Annie  of  Lochroyan, 

The  flower  o’  a’  her  kin, 

Was  standin’  mournin’  at  my  door; 

But  nane  wad  lat  her  in.” 

“  Oh  there  was  a  woman  stood  at  the  door, 
Wi’  a  bairn  intill  her  arms; 

But  I  wadna  let  her  within  the  bower, 

For  fear  she  had  done  you  harm.” 

Oh  quickly,  quickly  raise  he  up, 

And  fast  ran  to  the  strand ; 

And  there  he  saw  her,  fair  Annie, 

Was  sailing  frae  the  land. 

And  “  Heigh,  Annie !”  and  “  How,  Annie  ! 

O  Annie,  winna  ye  bide?” 

But  aye  the  louder  that  he  cried  “  Annie,” 
The  higher  rair’d  the  tide. 

And  “  Heigh,  Annie  !”  and  “  How,  Annie ! 

O  Annie,  speak  to  me !” 

But  aye  the  louder  that  he  cried  “  Annie,” 
The  louder  rair’d  the  sea. 

The  wind  grew  loud,  and  the  sea  grew 
rough, 

And  the  ship  was  rent  in  twain  ; 

And  soon  he  saw  her,  fair  Annie, 

Come  floating  o’er  the  main. 

He  saw  his  young  son  in  her  arms, 

Baith  toss’d  aboon  the  tide  ; 

He  wrang  his  hands,  and  fast  he  ran, 

And  plunged  in  the  sea  sae  wide. 

He  catch’d  her  by  the  yellow  hair, 

And  drew  her  to  the  strand ; 


But  cald  and  stiff  was  every  limb, 

Before  he  reach’d  the  land. 

Oh  first  he  kist  her  cherry  cheek, 

And  syne  he  kist  her  chin  : 

And  sair  he  kist  her  ruby  lips, 

But  there  was  nae  breath  within. 

Oh  he  has  mourn’d  o’er  fair  Annie, 

Till  the  sun  was  ganging  down  ; 

Syne  wi’  a  sich  his  heart  it  brast, 

And  his  saul  to  heaven  has  flown, 

Author  Unknown. 

- K>« - 

O'CONNOR'S  CHILD; 

OR, 

“  THE  FLOWER  OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING.” 

Oh  !  once  the  harp  of  Innisfail 
Was  strung  full  high  to  notes  of  glad' 
ness  ; 

But  yet  it  often  told  a  tale 
Of  more  prevailing  sadness. 

Sad  was  the  note,  and  wild  its  fall, 

As  winds  that  moan  at  night  forlorn 
Along  the  isles  of  Fion-Gall, 

When  for  O’Connor’s  child  to  mourn, 
The  harper  told  how  lone,  how  far 
From  any  mansion’s  twinkling  star, 

From  any  path  of  social  men, 

Or  voice,  but  from  the  fox’s  den, 

The  lady  in  the  desert  dwelt ; 

And  yet  no  wrongs,  no  fear  she  felt. 

Say,  why  should  dwell  in  place  so  wild 
O’Connor’s  pale  and  lovely  child  ? 

Sweet  lady  !  she  no  more  inspires 

Green  Erin’s  hearts  with  beauty’s  power, 
As  in  the  palace  of  her  sires 
She  bloom’d  a  peerless  flower. 

Gone  from  her  hand  and  bosom,  gone. 

The  royal  brooch,  the  je well’d  ring, 

That  o’er  her  dazzling  whiteness  shone. 
Like  dews  on  lilies  of  the  spring. 

Yet  why,  though  fall’n  her  brother’s 
kerne, 

Beneath  De  Bourgo’s  battle  stern, 

While  yet  in  Leinster  unexplored, 

Her  friends  survive  the  English  sword, — 
Why  lingers  she  from  Erin’s  host, 

So  far  on  Galway’s  shipwreck’d  coast? 
Why  wanders  she  a  huntress  wild, — 
O’Connor’s  pale  and  lovely  child  ? 


396 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


And,  fix’d  on  empty  space,  why  burn 
Her  eyes  with  momentary  wildness  ; 

And  wherefore  do  they  then  return 
To  more  than  woman’s  mildness  ? 
Dishevell’d  are  her  raven  locks  ; 

On  Connocht  Moran’s  name  she  calls  ; 
And  oft  amidst  the  lonely  rocks 
She  sings  sweet  madrigals. 

Placed  midst  the  foxglove  and  the  moss, 
Behold  a  parted  warrior’s  cross  ! 

That  is  the  spot  where,  evermore, 

The  lady  at  her  shieling  door, 

Enjoys  that,  in  communion  sweet, 

The  living  and  the  dead  can  meet ; 

For  lo  !  to  love-lorn  fantasy, 

The  hero  of  her  heart  is  nigh. 

Bright  as  the  bow  that  spans  the  storm, 

In  Erin’s  yellow  vesture  clad, 

A  son  of  light,  a  lovely  form, 

He  comes  and  makes  her  glad  : 

Now  on  the  grass-green  turf  he  sits, 

His  tasselPd  horn  beside  him  laid  ; 

Now  o’er  the  hills  in  chase  he*  flits, 

The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade  ! 

Sweet  mourner  !  these  are  shadows  vain, 
That  cross  the  twilight  of  her  brain  ; 

Yet  she  will  tell  vou  she  is  blest, 

Of  Connocht  Moran’s  tomb  possess’d, 
More  richly  than  in  Agh rim’s  bower, 
When  bards  high  praised  her  beauty’s 
power, 

And  kneeling  pages  offer’d  up 
The  morat  in  a  golden  cup. 

“  A  hero’s  bride  !  this  desert  bower, 

It  ill  befits  thy  gentle  breeding. 

And  wherefore  dost  thou  love  this  flower 
To  call  1  My  love  lies  bleeding  ’  ?” 

“  This  purple  flower  my  tears  have 
nursed, — 

A  hero’s  blood  supplied  its  bloom  : 

I  love  it,  for  it  was  the  first 

That  grew  on  Connocht  Moran’s  tomb. 
Oh,  hearken,  stranger,  to  my  voice  ! 

This  desert  mansion  is  my  choice  ; 

And  blest,  though  fatal,  be  the  star 
That  led  me  to  its  wilds  afar. 

For  here  these  pathless  mountains  free 
Gave  shelter  to  my  love  and  me  ; 

And  every  rock  and  every  stone 
Bore  witness  that  he  was  my  own. 


“  O’Connor’s  child,  I  was  the  bud 
Of  Erin’s  royal  tree  of  glory  ; 

But  woe  to  them  that  wrapt  in  blood 
The  tissue  of  my  storv  ! 

Still,  as  I  clasp  my  burning  brain, 

A  death-scene  rushes  on  my  sight ; 

It  rises  o’er  and  o’er  again, — 

The  bloody  feud,  the  fatal  night, 

When,  chafing  Connocht  Moran’s  scorn, 
They  call’d  my  hero  basely  born, 

And  bade  him  choose  a  meaner  bride 
Than  from  O’Connor’s  house  of  pride. 
Their  tribe,  they  said,  their  high  degree, 
Was  sung  in  Tara’s  psaltery ; 

Witness  their  Eath’s  victorious  brand, 

And  Cathal  of  the  bloody  hand. 

Glory  (they  said)  and  power  and  honor 
Were  in  the  mansion  of  O’Connor; 

But  he,  my  loved  one,  bore  in  field 
A  humbler  crest,  a  meaner  shield. 

I 

“  Ah  !  brothers,  what  did  it  avail, 

That  fiercely  and  triumphantly 
Ye  fought  the  English  of  the  Pale, 

And  stemm’d  De  Bourgo’s  chivalry? 
And  what  was  it  to  love  and  me, 

That  barons  by  your  standard  rode, 

Or  beal-fires  for  your  jubilee 

Upon  a  hundred  mountains  glow’d? 
What  though  the  lords  of  tower  and  dome 
From  Shannon  to  the  North  Sea  foam, — 
Thought  ye  your  iron  hands  of  pride 
Could  break  the  knot  that  love  had  tied? 
No — let  the  eagle  change  his  plume, 

The  leaf  its  hue,  the  flower  its  bloom  ; 

But  ties  around  this  heart  were  spun 
That  could  not,  would  not,  be  undone  ! 

“  At  bleating  of  the  wild  watch-fold, 

Thus  sang  my  love :  ‘  Oh,  come  with  me  J 
Our  bark  is  on  the  lake,  behold ! 

Our  steeds  are  fasten’d  to  the  tree. 

Come  far  from  Castle  Connor’s  clans, 
Come  with  thy  belted  forestere ; 

And  I,  beside  the  lake  of  swans, 

Shall  hunt  for  thee  the  fallow  deer, 

And  build  thy  hut,  and  bring  thee  home 
The  wild-fowl  and  the  honeycomb, 

And  berries  from  the  wood  provide, 

And  play  my  clarshech  by  thy  side. 

Then  come,  my  love  !’  How  could  I  stayS 
Our  nimble  stag-hounds  track’d  the  way, 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


397 


And  I  pursued,  by  moonless  skies, 

The  light  of  Connocht  Moran’s  eyes. 

“  And  fast  and  far,  before  the  star 

Of  day-spring,  rush’d  we  through  the 
glade, 

And  saw  at  dawn  the  lofty  bawn 
Of  Castle  Connor  fade. 

Sweet  was  to  us  the  hermitage 

Of  this  unplough’d,  untrodden  shore ; 
Like  birds  all  joyous  from  the  cage, 

For  man’s  neglect  we  loved  it  more. 

And  well  he  knew,  my  huntsman  dear, 

To  search  the  game  with  hawk  and  spear ; 
While  I,  his  evening  food  to  dress, 

Would  sing  to  him  in  happiness. 

But  oh,  that  midnight  of  despair! 

When  I  was  doom’d  to  rend  my  hair, — 
The  night,  to  me,  of  shrieking  sorrow ! 

The  night,  to  him,  that  had  no  morrow! 

“  When  all  was  hush’d,  at  even-tide 
I  heard  the  baying  of  their  beagle. 

‘  Be  hush’d  !’  my  Connocht  Moran  cried ; 

‘  ’Tis  but  the  screaming  of  the  eagle.’ 
Alas !  ’twas  not  the  eyrie’s  sound  ; 

Their  bloody  bands  had  track’d  us  out; 
Up  listening  starts  our  couchant  hound, — 
And  hark !  again,  that  nearer  shout 
Brings  faster  on  the  murderers. 

Spare — spare  him!  Brazil — Desmond  fierce ! 
In  vain  ! — no  voice  the  adder  charms ; 
Their  weapons  cross’d  my  sheltering  arms: 

Another’s  sword  has  laid  him  low — 
Another’s,  and  another’s  ; 

And  every  hand  that  dealt  the  blow — 
Ah  me!  it  was  a  brother’s. 

Yes,  when  his  moanings  died  away, 

Their  iron  hands  had  dug  the  clay, 

And  o’er  his  burial-turf  they  trod ; 

And  I  beheld — O  God !  O  God  ! — 

His  life-blood  oozing  from  the  sod. 

“Warm  in  his  death-wounds  sepulchred, 
Alas  !  my  warrior’s  spirit  brave 
Nor  mass  nor  ulla-lulla  heard, 

Lamenting,  soothe  his  grave. 

Dragg’d  to  their  hated  mansion  back, 

How  long  in  thraldom’s  grasp  I  lay 
I  knew  not,  for  my  soul  was  black, 

And  knew  no  change  of  night  or  day. 
One  night  of  horror  round  me  grew; 

Or  if  I  saw,  or  felt,  or  knew, 


’Twas  but  when  those  grim  visages. 

The  angry  brothers  of  my  race, 

Glared  on  each  eyeball’s  aching  throb, 
And  check’d  my  bosom’s  power  to  sob, 

Or  when  my  heart,  with  pulses  drear, 

Beat  like  a  death-watch  to  my  ear. 

“  But  Heaven,  at  last,  my  soul’s  eclipse 
Did  with  a  vision  bright  inspire : 

I  woke,  and  felt  upon  my  lips 
A  prophetess’s  fire. 

Thrice  in  the  east  a  war-drum  beat, — 

I  heard  the  Saxon’s  trumpet  sound, 

And  ranged,  as  to  the  judgment-seat, 

My  guilty,  trembling  brothers  round. 
Clad  in  the  helm  and  shield  they  came ; 
For  now  De  Bourgo’s  sword  and  flame 
Had  ravaged  Ulster’s  boundaries, 

And  lighted  up  the  midnight  skies. 

The  standard  of  O’Connor’s  sway 
Was  in  the  turret  where  I  lay ; 

That  standard,  with  so  dire  a  look, 

As  ghastly  shone  the  moon  and  pale, 

I  gave,  that  every  bosom  shook 
Beneath  its  iron  mail. 

“  1  And  go  !’  I  cried,  ‘  the  combat  seek, 

Ye  hearts  that  unappalled  bore 
The  anguish  of  a  sister’s  shriek, 

Go  ! — and  return  no  more ! 

For  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 

Shall  grasp  unhurt,  than  ye  shall  hold 
The  banner  with  victorious  hand, 

Beneath  a  sister’s  curse  unroll’d.’ 

O  stranger,  by  my  country’s  loss ! 

And  by  my  love !  and  by  the  cross ! 

I  swear  I  never  could  have  spoke 
The  curse  that  sever’d  Nature’s  yoke, 

But  that  a  spirit  o’er  me  stood, 

And  fired  me  with  the  wrathful  mood  ; 
And  frenzy  to  my  heart  was  given, 

To  speak  the  malison  of  Heaven. 

“  They  would  have  cross’d  themselves,  all 
mute  ; 

They  would  have  pray’d  to  burst  the 
spell ; 

But  at  the  stamping  of  my  foot, 

Each  hand  down  powerless  fell. 

‘  And  go  to  Athunree  !’  I  cried, 

‘  High  lift  the  banner  of  your  pride! 

But  know  that  where  its  sheet  unrolls, 

The  weight  of  blood  is  on  your  souls  I 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Go  where  the  havoc  of  your  kerne 
Shall  float  as  high  as  mountain-fern ! 

Men  shall  no  more  your  mansion  know ; 
The  nettles  on  your  hearth  shall  grow  ; 

Dead,  as  the  green  oblivious  flood 
That  mantles  by  your  walls,  shall  be 
The  glory  of  O’Connor’s  blood ! 

Away  !  away  to  Athunree  ! 

Where,  downward  when  the  sun  shall  fall, 
The  raven’s  wing  shall  be  your  pall : 

And  not  a  vassal  shall  unlace 
The  visor  from  your  dying  face !’ 

“A  bolt  that  overhung  our  dome, 
Suspended  till  my  curse  was  given, 

Soon  as  it  pass’d  these  lips  of  foam, 

Peal’d  in  the  blood-red  heaven. 

Dire  was  the  look  that  o’er  their  backs 
The  angry  parting  brothers  threw  ; 

But  now,  behold  !  like  cataracts, 

Come  down  the  hills  in  view 
O’Connor’s  plumed  partisans : 

Thrice  ten  Kilnagorvian  clans 
Were  marching  to  their  doom. 

A  sudden  storm  their  plumage  toss’d, 

A  flash  of  lightning  o’er  them  cross’d 
And  all  again  was  gloom. 

“  Stranger,  I  fled  the  home  of  grief, 

At  Connoclit  Moran’s  tomb  to  fall. 

I  found  the  helmet  of  my  chief, 

His  bow  still  hanging  on  our  wall, 

And  took  it  down,  and  vow’d  to  rove 
This  desert  place  a  huntress  bold; 

Nor  would  I  change  my  buried  love 
For  any  heart  of  living  mould. 

No  !  for  I  am  a  hero’s  child ; 

I’ll  hunt  my  quarry  in  the  wild ; 

And  still  my  home  this  mansion  make, 
Of  all  unheeded  and  unheeding; 

And  cherish,  for  my  warrior’s  sake, 

‘  The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding.’  ” 

Thomas  Campbell. 


The  Prisoner  of  Chillon. 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind  ! 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty,  thou  art,  : 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can 
bind ; 


And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  con¬ 
sign’d — 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault’s  dayless 
gloom — 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  mar- 

tyrdom, 

* 

And  freedom’s  fame  finds  wings  on  every 
wind. 

Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  ’twas 
trod 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace, 
Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard ! — May  none  those  marks 
efface ! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

I. 

My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 

Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 

As  men’s  have  grown  from  sudden  fears ; 
My  limbs  are  bow’d,  though  not  with  toil, 
But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose ; 

For  they  have  been  a  dungeon’s  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann’d  and  barr’d — forbidden  fare. 
But  this  was  for  my  father’s  faith 
I  suffer’d  chains  and  courted  death. 

That  father  perish’d  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 

And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place. 

We  were  seven,  who  now  are  one — 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 

Finish’d  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  Persecution’s  rage  ; 

One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 

Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal’d  : 
Dying,  as  their  father  died, 

For  the  God  their  foes  denied. 

Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 

Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

II. 

There  are  seven  pillars,  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon’s  dungeons  deep  and  old  ; 

There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprison’d  ray, 

A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


399 


And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left ; 
Creeping  o’er  the  floor  so  damp, 

Like  a  marsh’s  meteor  lamp  : 

And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o’er  ; 

I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  droop’d  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

ill. 

They  chain’d  us  each  to  a  column  stone 
And  we  were  three — yet  each  alone. 

We  could  not  move  a  single  pace  ; 

We  could  not  see  each  other’s  face, 

But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight ; 
And  thus  together,  yet  apart — 

Fetter’d  in  hand,  but  join’d  in  heart; 
’Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 

To  hearken  to  each  other’s  speech, 

And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 

Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 

But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 

Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 

An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 

A  grating  sound — not  full  and  free, 

As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be ; 

It  might  be  fancy — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

IV. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three  ; 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do,  and  did,  my  best — 

And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother’s  brow  was  given 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven — 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distress’d 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest; 

For  he  was  beautiful  as  day 


(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free), 

A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer’s  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 

The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun  : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 

With  tears  for  naught  but  other’s  ills; 

And  then  they  flow’d  like  mountain-rilla, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abliorr’d  to  view  below. 

V. 

The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 

But  form’d  to  combat  with  his  kind ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  ’gainst  the  world  in  war  had 
stood, 

And  perish’d  in  the  foremost  rank 
With  joy;  but  not  in  chains  to  pine. 
His  spirit  wither’d  with  their  clank  ; 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so,  perchance,  in  sooth,  did  mine: 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 

He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  follow’d  there  the  deer  and  wolf ; 
To  whom  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 

And  fetter’d  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

VI. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon’s  walls. 

A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below, 

Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow  ; 

Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon’s  snow-white  battlement, 
Which  round  about  the  wave  enthralls  ; 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave, 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay ; 

We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day; 

Sounding  o’er  our  heads  it  knock’d ; 

And  I  have  felt  the  winter’s  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were 
high, 

And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rocked, 
And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshock’d, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


VII. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined  ; 

I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined. 

He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food ; 

It  was  not  that  ’twas  coarse  and  rude, 

For  we  were  used  to  hunter’s  fare, 

And  for  the  like  had  little  care. 

The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain-goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat; 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives’  tears 
Have  moisten’d  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men, 

Like  brutes,  within  an  iron  den. 

But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 

These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb  ; 

My  brother’s  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 

Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain’s  side. 
But  why  delay  the  truth  ? — he  died. 

I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 

Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead, 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died — and  they  unlock’d  his  chain, 
And  scoop’d  for  him  a  shallow  grave  . 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 

I  begg’d  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought ; 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 

I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laugh’d,  and  laid  him  there, 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love ; 

His  empty  chain  above  it  leant — 

Such  murder’s  fitting  monument ! 

VIII. 

But  he,  the  favorite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherish’d  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother’s  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyr’d  father’s  dearest  thought, 
My  latest  care — for  whom  I  sought 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 
Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free — 
He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 
A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 


He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 
Was  wither’d  on  the  stalk  away. 

O  God !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 
In  any  shape,  in  any  mood  : 

I’ve  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood  ; 

I’ve  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 
Strive  with  a  swoln,  convulsive  mo« 
tion ; 

I’ve  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 
Of  sin,  delirious  with  its  dread  ; 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 
Unmix’d  with  such — but  sure  and  slow. 
He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind  ; 
With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 
Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 
As  a  departing  rainbow’s  ray — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 
And  not  a  word  of  murmur,  not 
A  groan  o’er  his  untimely  lot — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise ; 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost 
In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 
Of  fainting  Nature’s  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less. 

I  listen’d,  but  I  could  not  hear — 

I  call’d,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear ; 

I  knew  ’twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 
Would  not  be  thus  admonished  ; 

I  call’d,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 
And  rush’d  to  him  :  I  found  him  not, 

I  only  stirr’d  in  this  black  spot, 

I  only  lived — I  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew ; 

The  last,  the  sole,  the  dearest  link 
Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth  and  one  beneath — 

My  brothers — both  had  ceased  to  breathe. 
I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still — 

Alas !  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive — 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY . 


401 


A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 
That  what  we  love  shall  ne’er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 
I  could  not  die, 

I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith, 

And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

IX. 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well — I  never  knew. 

First  came  the  loss  of  light  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too. 

I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none : 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone  ; 

And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray ; 
It  was  not  night — it  was  not  day  ; 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 

So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight  ; 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 

And  fixedness,  without  a  place ; 

There  were  no  stars,  no  earth,  no  time, 
No  check,  no  change,  no  good,  no  crime ; 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath, 

Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 

A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 

Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless ! 

x. 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; 

It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again — 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard  ; 

And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 

And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 

But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track : 

I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before ; 

I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done ; 

But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch’d  as  fond  and  tame, 
And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree — 

A  lovely  bird  with  azure  wings, 

And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 
And  seem’d  to  say  them  all  for  me! 

I  never  saw  its  like  before — 

I  ne’er  shall  see  its  likeness  more. 

20 


It  seem’d,  like  me,  to  want  a  mate, 

But  was  not  half  so  desolate ; 

And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 

And,  cheering  from  my  dungeon’s  brink, 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 

I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine ; 

But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird  !  I  could  not  wish  for  thine — 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 

A  visitant  from  Paradise ; 

For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought!  the 
while 

Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile ; 

I  sometimes  deem’d  that  it  might  be 
My  brother’s  soul  come  down  to  me ; 

But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 

And  then  ’twas  mortal  well  I  knew  ; 

For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 

And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone — 

Lone  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 

Lone  as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 

While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 

A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 

That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

XI. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate — 

My  keepers  grew  compassionate. 

I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so — 

They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe ; 

But  so  it  was — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten’d  did  remain; 

And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 

And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 

And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun — 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 

My  brothers’  graves  without  a  sod  ; 

For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 

My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 

And  my  crush’d  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

XTI. 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall  : 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape ; 

And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me ; 

No  child,  no  sire,  no  kin  had  I, 

No  partner  in  my  misery. 

I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad, 

For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr’d  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more  upon  the  mountains  high 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

XIII. 

I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  same; 
They  were  not  changed,  like  me,  in  frame; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide,  long  lake  below, 

And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow ; 

I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O’er  channeled  rock  and  broken  bush ; 

I  saw  the  white-wall’d  distant  town. 

And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down ; 

And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 

Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile — 

The  only  one  in  view ; 

A  small,  green  isle,  it  seem’d  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon-floor; 

But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 

And  o’er  it  blew  the  mountain-breeze, 

And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 

And  on  it  there  were  young  flow’rs  growing 
Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 

The  fish  swam  by  the  castle- wall, 

And  they  seem’d  joyous,  each  and  all; 

The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast — 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem’d  to  fly; 

And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 

And  I  felt  troubled,  and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain ; 

And  when  I  did  descend  again 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load ; 

It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 

Closing  o’er  one  we  sought  to  save ; 

And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  oppress’d, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

XIV. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days — 

I  kept  no  count,  I  took  no  note — 


I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote ; 

At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I  ask’d  not  why,  and  reck’d  not  where ; 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 

Fetter’d  or  fetterless  to  be ; 

I  learn’d  to  love  despair. 

And  thus,  when  they  appear’d  at  last, 

And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 

These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage — and  all  my  own  ! 

And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home. 

With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 

And  watch’d  them  in  their  sullen  trade; 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play ; 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they  ? 

We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 

And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 

Had  power  to  kill ;  yet,  strange  to  tell ! 

In  quiet  we  had  learn’d  to  dwell. 

My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 

So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are  : — even  I 
Regain’d  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 

Lord  Byron. 

—  »o«  - 

Fair  Helen ; 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies ; 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 

Oh  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 

On  fair  Ivirconnell  lea ! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought. 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 

And  died  to  succor  me  ! 

Oh  think  na  but  my  heart  was  sair, 

When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae 
mair ! 

I  laid  her  down  wi’  meikle  care, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 

None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide — * 

None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea — 

I  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw ; 

I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma’ — 

I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma’, 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


403 


O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare, 

I’ll  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair, 

Until  the  day  I  die ! 

Oh  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 

Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise — 

Says,  “  Haste  and  come  to  me  !” 

0  Helen  fair !  0  Helen  chaste  ! 

If  I  were  with  thee  I  were  blest, 

Where  thou  lies  low,  and  takes  thy  rest, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

I  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 

A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 

And  I  in  Helen’s  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 

And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 

Since  my  love  died  for  me. 

Author  Unknown. 

- k>« - 

Helen  of  Kirkconnell. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 

For  night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 

And,  like  an  angel,  to  the  skies 
Still  seems  to  beckon  me  ! 

For  me  she  lived,  for  me  she  sigh’d, 

For  me  she  wish’d  to  be  a  bride ; 

For  me  in  life’s  sweet  morn  she  died 
On  fair  Kirkconnell-Lee  ! 

Where  Kirtle  waters  gently  wind, 

As  Helen  on  my  arm  reclined, 

A  rival  with  a  ruthless  mind 
Took  deadly  aim  at  me  : 

My  love,  to  disappoint  the  foe, 

Rush’d  in  between  me  and  the  blow  ; 

And  now  her  corse  is  lying  low 
On  fair  Kirkconnell-Lee ! 

Though  Heaven  forbids  my  wrath  to  swell, 
I  curse  the  hand  by  which  she  fell — 

The  fiend  who  made  my  heaven  a  hell, 
And  tore  my  love  from  me  ! 

For  if,  where  all  the  graces  shine — 

Oh,  if  on  earth  there’s  aught  divine, 

My  Helen  !  all  these  charms  were  thine — 
They  centred  all  in  thee  ! 


Ah,  what  avails  it  that,  amain, 

I  clove  the  assassin’s  head  in  twain  ? 

No  peace  of  mind,  my  Helen  slain, 

No  resting-place  for  me : 

I  see  her  spirit  in  the  air — 

I  hear  the  shriek  of  wild  despair, 

When  Murder  laid  her  bosom  bare  • 
On  fair  Kirkconnell-Lee  ! 

Oh  !  when  I’m  sleeping  in  my  grave, 

And  o’er  my  head  the  rank  weeds  wave, 
May  He  who  life  and  spirit  gave 
Unite  my  love  and  me  ! 

Then  from  this  world  of  doubts  and  sighs, 
My  soul  on  wings  of  peace  shall  rise ; 

And,  joining  Helen  in  the  skies, 

Forget  Kirkconnell-Lee ! 

John  Mayne. 

- K>« - 

Rosabelle. 

Oh  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay  ! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 

Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay 
That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

“  Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew, 
And,  gentle  lady,  deign  to  stay ! 

Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

“  The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with 
white ; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly; 

The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 
Whose  screams  forbode  that  wreck  is 
nigh. 

“  Last  night  the  gifted  seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  lady  gay  ; 
Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch ; 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day?” 

“  ’Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay’s  heir 
To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 

But  that  my  lady-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

“  ’Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 

And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide 
If  ’tis  not  fill’d  by  Rosabelle.” 

— O’er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 
A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam  ; 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


’Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire’s  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin’s  castled  rock, 

It  ruddied  all  the  copse-wood  glen  ; 
’Twas  seen  from  Dry  den’s  groves  of  oak, 
•And  seen  from  cavern’d  Hawthornden. 

Seem’d  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud 
Where  Roslin’s  chiefs  uncoffin’d  lie, 
Each  baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 

Sheath’d  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seem’d  all  on  fire  within,  around, 

Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale ; 

Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 

And  glimmer’d  all  the  dead  men’s  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair — 
So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  Saint  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin’s  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle ; 
Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold, 

But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle  ! 

And  each  Saint  Clair  was  buried  there 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 
But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds 
sung 

The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

- - 

Car  canon. 

His  steed  was  old,  his  armor  worn, 

And  he  was  old  and  worn  and  gray ; 
The  light  that  lit  his  patient  eyes, 

It  shone  from  very  far  away. 

Through  gay  Provence  he  journeyed  on, 
To  one  high  quest  his  life  was  true  ; 
And  so  they  called  him  Carcamon — 

The  knight  who  seeketh  the  world 
through. 

A  pansy  blossomed  on  his  shield  ; 

“  A  token  ’tis,”  the  people  say, 

“  That  still  across  the  world’s  wide  field 
He  seeks  la  dame  de  ses  pens€es.” 

For  somewhere  on  a  painted  wall, 

Or  in  the  city’s  shifting:  crowd, 

V  O  7 


Or  looking  from  a  casement  tall, 

Or  shaped  of  dream  or  evening  cloud — 

Forgotten  when,  forgotten  where — 

Her  face  had  filled  his  careless  eye 

A  moment  ere  he  turned  and  passed, 

Nor  knew  it  was  his  destiny. 

But  ever  in  his  dreams  it  carne, 

Divine  and  passionless  and  strong, 

A  smile  upon  the  imperial  lips 

No  lover’s  kiss  had  dared  to  wrong. 

He  took  his  armor  from  the  wall — 

Ah  !  gone  since  then  was  many  a  day — 

He  led  his  steed  from  out  the  stall 
And  sought  la  dame  de  ses  pensees. 

The  ladies  of  the  Troubadours 

Came  riding  through  the  chestnut  grove: 

“Sir  Minstrel,  string  that  lute  of  yours, 
And  sing  us  a  gay  song  of  love.” 

“0  ladies  of  the  Troubadours, 

My  lute  has  but  a  single  string; 

Sirventes  fit  for  paramours 

My  heart  is  not  in  tune  to  sing. 

“  The  flower  that  blooms  upon  my  shield, 
It  has  another  soil  and  spring 

Than  that  wherein  the  gaudy  rose 
Of  light  Provence  is  blossoming. 

“  The  lady  of  mv  dreams  doth  hold 
Such  roval  state  within  my  mind, 

No  thought  that  conies  unclad  in  gold 
To  that  high  court  may  entrance  find.” 

So  through  the  chestnut  groves  he  passed, 
And  through  the  land  and  far  away ; 

Nor  know  I  whether  in  the  world 
He  found  la  dame  de  ses  p ensues. 

Only  I  know  that  in  the  South 

Long  to  the  harp  his  tale  was  told ; 

Sweet  as  new  wine  within  the  mouth 
The  small,  choice  words  and  music  old. 

To  scorn  the  promise  of  the  Real  ; 

To  seek  and  seek  and  not  to  find ; 

Yet  cherish  still  the  fair  Ideal, — 

It  is  thy  fate,  O  restless  Mind  ! 

Henry  Augustin  Beers. 
- •<>• - 

CURFE  IF  MUST  NO  T  RING  TO-NIGHT. 

Slowly  England’s  sun  was  setting  o’er  the 
hilltops  far  away, 

Filling  all  the  land  with  beauty  at  the  close 
of  one  sad  day  ; 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


405 


And  the  last  rays  kissed  the  forehead  of  a 
man  and  maiden  fair, 

He  with  footsteps  slow  and  weary,  she  with 
sunny,  floating  hair ; 

He  with  bowed  head,  sad  and  thoughtful, 
she  with  lips  all  cold  and  white, 
Struggling  to  keep  back  the  murmur,  “  Cur¬ 
few  must  not  ring  to-night !” 

| 

“  Sexton,”  Bessie’s  white  lips  faltered, 
pointing  to  the  prison  old, 

With  its  turrets  tall  and  gloomy,  with  its 
walls  dark,  damp,  and  cold — 

“  I’ve  a  lover  in  that  prison,  doomed  this 
very  night  to  die 

At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  and  no 
earthly  help  is  nigh. 

Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset;”  and 
her  face  grew  strangely  white 
As  she  breathed  the  husky  whisper,  “  Cur¬ 
few  must  not  ring  to-night !” 

“  Bessie,”  calmly  spoke  the  sexton — and  his 
accents  pierced  her  heart 
Like  the  piercing  of  an  arrow,  like  a  dead¬ 
ly  poisoned  dart — 

“  Long,  long  years  I’ve  rung  the  Curfew 
from  that  gloomy  shadowed  tower; 
Every  evening,  just  at  sunset,  it  has  told 
the  twilight  hour ; 

I  have  done  my  duty  ever,  tried  to  do  it 
just  and  right, 

Now  I’m  old,  I  still  must  do  it:  Curfew, 
girl,  must  ring  to-night!” 

Wild  her  eyes  and  pale  her  features,  stern 
and  white  her  thoughtful  brow, 

And  within  her  secret  bosom  Bessie  made 
a  solemn  vow. 

She  had  listened  while  the  judges  read, 
without  a  tear  or  sigh, 

“At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  Basil  Un¬ 
derwood  must  die.” 

And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster,  and 
her  eyes  grew  large  and  bright, 

As  in  undertone  she  murmured,  “  Curfew 
must  not  ring  to-night!” 

With  quick  step  she  bounded.  forward, 
sprang  within  the  old  church-door, 
Left  the  old  man  threading  slowly  paths 
he’d  trod  so  oft  before ; 


Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden,  but 
with  eye  and  cheek  aglow 
Mounted  up  the  gloomy  tower,  where  the 
bell  swung  to  and  fro  : 

As  she  climbed  the  dustv  ladder,  on  which 
fell  no  ray  of  light, 

Up  and  up,  her  white  lips  saying,  “  Curfew 
shall  not  ring  to-night !” 

She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder,  o’er 
her  hangs  the  great  dark  bell, 

Awful  is  the  gloom  beneath  her  like  the 
pathway  down  to  hell ; 

Lo,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging,  ’tis 
the  hour  of  Curfew  now, 

And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom,  stopped 
her  breath  and  paled  her  brow. 

Shall  she  let  it  ring  ?  No,  never  !  Flash  her 
eyes  with  sudden  light, 

And  she  springs  and  grasps  it  firmly :  “  Cur¬ 
few  shall  not  ring  to-night !” 

Out  she  swung,  far  out ;  the  city  seemed  a 
speck  of  light  below  ; 

She  ’twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended 
as  the  bell  swung  to  and  fro  ; 

And  the  sexton  at  the  bell-rope,  old  and 
deaf,  heard  not  the  bell, 

But  he  thought  it  still  was  ringing  fair 
young  Basil’s  funeral  knell. 

Still  the  maiden  clung  more  firmly,  andf 
with  trembling  lips  and  white, 

Said,  to  hush  her  heart’s  wild  beating, 
“  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night!” 

It  was  o’er :  the  bell  ceased  swaying,  and 
the  maiden  stepped  once  more 
Firmly  on  the  dark  old  ladder,  where  for 
hundred  years  before 

Human  foot  had  not  been  planted;  but 
the  brave  deed  she  had  done 
Should  be  told  long  ages  after : — often  as 
the  setting  sun 

Should  illume  the  sky  with  beauty,  aged 
sires,  with  heads  of  white, 

Long  should  tell  the  little  children,  “Cur¬ 
few  did  not  ring  that  night.” 

O’er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell ;  Bes¬ 
sie  sees  him,  and  her  brow, 

Full  of  hope  and  full  of  gladness,  has  no 
anxious  traces  now. 


406 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


At  his  feet  she  tells  her  story,  shows  her 
hands  all  bruised  and  torn  ; 

And  her  face  so  sweet  and  pleading,  yet 
with  sorrow  pale  and  worn, 

Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity — lit 
his  eye  with  misty  light; 

Go,  your  lover  lives !”  said  Cromwell ; 

“Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night!” 

Rosa  Hartwick  Thorpe. 

- •<>« - 

Glen logie. 

Threescore  o’  nobles  rade  up  the  king’s 
ha’, 

But  bonnie  Glenlogie’s  the  flower  o’  them 
a’, 

Wi’  his  milk-white  steed  and  his  bonnie 
black  e’e, 

“  Glenlogie,  dear  mither,  Glenlogie  for  me  !  ” 

“  Oh,  liaud  your  tongue,  daughter,  ye’ll  get 
better  than  he.” 

“  Oh,  say  nae  sae,  mither,  for  that  canna  be ; 

Though  Doumlie  is  richer  and  greater  than 
he, 

Yet  if  I  maun  tak  him,  I’ll  certainly  dee. 

“  Where  will  I  get  a  bonnie  boy,  to  win 
hose  and  shoon, 

Will  gae  to  Glenlogie,  and  come  again 
soon?” 

“  Oh,  here  am  I,  a  bonnie  boy,  to  win  hose 
and  shoon, 

Will  gae  to  Glenlogie,  and  come  again 
soon.” 

When  he  gaed  to  Glenlogie,  ’twas  “  Wash 
and  go  dine 

’Twas  “  Wash  ye,  my  pretty  boy,  wash  and 
go  dine.” 

“  Oh,  ’twas  ne’er  my  father’s  fashion,  and  it 
ne’er  shall  be  mine 

To  gar  a  lady’s  errand  wait  till  I  dine. 

“  But  there  is,  Glenlogie,  a  letter  for  thee.” 

The  first  line  that  he  read,  a  low  laugh 
gave  he ; 

The  next  line  that  he  read,  the  tear  blindit 
his  e’e ; 

But  the  last  line  that  he  read,  he  gart  the 
table  flee. 


“  Gar  saddle  the  black  horse,  gar  saddle 
the  brown ; 

Gar  saddle  the  swiftest  steed  e’er  rade  frae 
a  town 

But  lang  ere  the  horse  was  drawn  and 
brought  to  the  green, 

Oh,  bonnie  Glenlogie  was  twa  mile  his  lane. 

When  he  came  to  Glenfeldy’s  door,  little 
mirth  was  there  ; 

Bonnie  Jean’s  mother  was  tearing  her  hair. 
“  Ye’re  welcome,  Glenlogie,  ye’re  wel¬ 
come,”  said  she, — 

“  Ye’re  welcome,  Glenlogie,  your  Jeanie  to 
see.” 

Pale  and  wan  was  she  when  Glenlogie 
gaed  ben, 

But  red  and  rosy  grew  she  whene’er  he 
sat  down ; 

She  turn’d  awa’  her  head,  but  the  smile 
was  in  her  e’e, 

“  Oh,  binna  fear’d,  mither,  I’ll  maybe  no 
dee.” 

Author  Unknown. 

- *o« - 

Gin  eve  a. 

If  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  or 
chance 

To  Modena,  where  still  religiously 
Among  her  ancient  trophies  is  preserved 
Bologna’s  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guir- 
landine) 

Stop  at  a  Palace  near  the  Reggio  gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini. 

Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  thee;  thro’  their  arched 
walks, 

Dim  at  noonday,  discovering  many  a 
glimpse 

Of  knights  and  dames,  such  as  in  old 
romance, 

And  lovers,  such  as  in  heroic  song, 
Perhaps  the  two,  for  groves  were  their 
delight, 

That  in  the  spring-time,  as  alone  they  sat. 
Venturing  together  on  a  tale  of  love, 

Read  only  part  that  day. — A  summer  sun 
I  Sets  ere  one  half  is  seen ;  but  ere  thou  go, 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


407 


Enter  the  house — prythee,  forget  it  not — 
And  look  a  while  upon  a  picture  there. 

’Tis  of  a  Lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 

The  very  last  of  that  illustrious  face, 

Done  by  Zampieri — but  I  care  not  whom. 
He  who  observes  it,  ere  he  passes  on 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half  open,  and  her  finger  up, 

As  tho’  she  said,  “  Beware !”  her  vest  of 
gold 

Broider’d  with  flowers,  and  clasp’d  from 
head  to  foot, 

An  emerald  stone  in  every  golden  clasp  ; 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 

A  coronet  of  pearls.  But  then  her  face, 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 
The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart — 

It  haunts  me  still,  tho’  many  a  year  has  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody  ! 

Alone  it  hangs 

Over  a  mouldering  heirloom,  its  compan¬ 
ion, 

An  oaken  chest,  half  eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  Scripture  stories  from  the  Life  of 
Christ ; 

A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had 
held 

The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  Ancestor. 
That  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false — 
But  don’t  forget  the  picture;  and  thou 
wilt  not 

When  thou  hast  heard  the  tale  they  told 
me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child;  from  infancy 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  Sire. 
Her  Mother  dying  of  the  gift  she  gave, 
That  precious  gift,  what  else  remained  to 
him  ? 

The  young  Ginevra  was  his  all  in  life, 

Still  as  she  grew,  for  ever  in  his  sight ; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first 
love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal 
dress, 

She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety, 

Her  pranks  the  favorite  theme  of  every 
tongue. 


But  flow  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the 
hour ; 

Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth 
time, 

The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preach’d  de¬ 
corum  ; 

And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 

Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy;  but  at  the  Bridal- 
feast, 

When  all  sat  down,  the  Bride  was  wanting 
there. 

Nor  was  she  to  be  found!  Her  Father 
cried, 

“  ’Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love !” 

And  filled  his  glass  to  all ;  but  his  hand 
shook, 

And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic 
spread. 

’Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Fran¬ 
cesco, 

Laughing  and  looking  back  and  flying 
still, 

Her  ivory  tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 

But  now,  alas,  she  was  not  to  be  found  ; 

Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be 
guess’d, 

But  that  she  was  not ! 

Weary  of  his  life, 

Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and  forthwith 

Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 

Orsini  lived  ;  and  long  might’st  thou  have 
seen 

An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  some¬ 
thing, 

Something  he  could  not  find — he  knew  not 
what. 

When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remain’d 
a  while 

Silent  and  tenantless — then  went  to  stran¬ 
gers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgot, 

When  on  an  idle  dav,  a  dav  of  search 

’Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  Gallery, 

That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed :  and 
’twas  said 

By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Gi¬ 
nevra, 

“  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking- 
place  ?” 

’Twas  done  as  soon  as  said;  but  on  the 
way 


408 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton,  ‘ 

With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald 
stone, 

A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 

All  else  had  perish’d — save  a  nuptial 
ring, 

And  a  small  seal,  her  mother’s  legacy, 

Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 

“  Ginevra.” 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave ! 

Within  that  chest  had  she  conceal’d  her¬ 
self, 

Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the 
happy ; 

When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush 
there, 

Fasten’d  her  down  for  ever! 

Samuel  Rogers. 

- KX - 

The  Bull-Fight  of  Gazul. 

King  Almanzor  of  Granada,  he  hath  bid 
the  trumpet  sound, 

He  hath  summon’d  all  the  Moorish  lords 
from  the  hills  and  plains  around  ; 

From  Vega  and  Sierra,  from  Betis  and 
Xenil, 

They  have  come  with  helm  and  cuirass  of 
gold  and  twisted  steel. 

’Tis  the  holy  Baptist’s  feast  they  hold  in 
royalty  and  state, 

And  they  have  closed  the  spacious  lists, 
beside  the  Alhambra’s  gate  ; 

In  gowns  of  black  with  silver  laced,  within 
the  tented  ring, 

Eight  Moors  to  fight  the  bull  are  placed  in 
presence  of  the  king. 

Eight  Moorish  lords,  of  valor  tried,  with 
stalwart  arm  and  true, 

The  onset  of  the  beasts  abide,  as  they  come 
rushing  through  : 

The  deeds  they’ve  done,  the  spoils  they’ve 
won,  fill  all  with  hope  and  trust ; 

Yet,  ere  high  in  heaven  appears  the  sun, 
they  all  have  bit  the  dust. 

Then  sounds  the  trumpet  clearly,  then 
clangs  the  loud  tambour  : 

Make  room,  make  room  for  Gazul ! — throw 
wide,  throw  wide  the  door  ! — 


Blow,  blow  the  trumpet  clearer  still !  more 
loudly  strike  the  drum  ! — 

The  alcaydk  of  Algava  to  fight  the  bull 
doth  come. 

And  first  before  the  king  he  pass’d,  with 
reverence  stooping  low ; 

And  next  he  bow’d  him  to  the  queen,  and 
the  Infantas  all  a-row ; 

Then  to  his  lady’s  grace  he  turn’d,  and  she 
to  him  did  throw 

A  scarf  from  out  her  balcony  was  whiter 
than  the  snow. 

With  the  life-blood  of  the  slaughter’d  lords 
all  slippery  is  the  sand, 

Yet  proudly  in  the  centre  hath  Gazul  ta’en 
his  stand  ; 

And  ladies  look  with  heaving  breast,  and 
lords  with  anxious  eye  : 

But  firmly  he  extends  his  arm — his  look 
is  calm  and  high. 

Three  bulls  against  the  knight  are  loosed, 
and  two  come  roaring  on  : 

He  rises  high  in  stirrup,  forth  stretching 
his  rej6n ; 

Each  furious  beast  upon  the  breast  he  deals 
him  such  a  blow, 

He  blindly  totters  and  gives  back  across 
the  sand  to  go. 

“Turn,  Gazul — turn  !”  the  people  cry:  the 
third  comes  up  behind  ; 

Low  to  the  sand  his  head  holds  he,  his  nos¬ 
trils  snuff  the  wind  ; — 

The  mountaineers  that  lead  the  steers 
without  stand  whispering  low, 

“Now  thinks  this  proud  alcaydk  to  stun 
Harpado  so  ?” 

From  Gaudiana  comes  he  not,  he  comes 
not  from  Xenil, 

From  Guadalarif  of  the  plain,  or  Barves 
of  the  hill ; 

But  where  from  out  the  forest  burst  Xa- 
rama’s  waters  clear, 

Beneath  the  oak  trees  was  he  nursed, — this 
proud  and  stately  steer. 

Dark  is  his  hide  on  either  side,  but  the 
blood  within  doth  boil, 

And  the  dun  hide  glows,  as  if  on  fire,  as 
he  paws  to  the  turmoil : 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


409 


His  eyes  are  jet,  and  they  are  set  in  crys¬ 
tal  rings  of  snow ; 

But  now  they  stare  with  one  red  glare  of 
brass  upon  the  foe. 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  bull  the  horns 
stand  close  and  near, — 

From  out  the  broad  and  wrinkled  skull 
like  daggers  they  appear  ; 

His  neck  is  massy,  like  the  trunk  of  some 
old,  knotted  tree, 

Whereon  the  monster’s  shagged  mane,  like 
billows  curl’d  ye  see. 

His  legs  are  short,  his  hams  are  thick,  his 
hoofs  are  black  as  night ; 

Like  a  strong  flail  he  holds  his  tail  in 
fierceness  of  his  might ; 

Like  some  thing  molten  out  of  iron,  or 
hewn  from  forth  the  rock, 

Harpado  of  Xarama  stands,  to  bide  the 
alcayde’s  shock. 

Now  stops  the  drum :  close,  close  they  come ; 

thrice  meet,  and  thrice  give  back  ; 
The  white  foam  of  Harpado  lies  on  the 
charger’s  breast  of  black, — 

The  white  foam  of  the  charger  on  ITar- 
pado’s  front  of  dun  ; — 

Once  more  advance  upon  his  lance, — once 
more,  thou  fearless  one  ! 

Once  more,  once  more  ! — in  dust  and  gore 
to  ruin  must  thou  reel ! — 

In  vain,  in  vain  thou  tearest  the  sand  with 
furious  heel ! — 

In  vain,  in  vain,  thou  noble  beast ! — I  see, 
I  see  thee  stagger  ! 

Now  keen  and  cold  thy  neck  must  hold 
the  stern  alcayd&’s  dagger  ! 

They  have  slipp’d  a  noose  around  his  feet, 
six  horses  are  brought  in, 

And  away  they  drag  Harpado  with  a  loud 
and  joyful  din. 

Now  stoop  thee,  lady,  from  thy  stand,  and 
the  ring  of  price  bestow 
Upon  Gazul  of  Algava,  that  hath  laid 
Harpado  low. 

(From  the  Spanish.) 

John  Gibson  Lockhart. 


G ojrs  Judgment  on  a  Wicked 
Bishop. 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet, 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet. 
’Twas  a  piteous  sight  to  see  all  around 
!  The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 

Every  day  the  starving  poor 
Crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto’s  door, 

For  he  had  a  plentiful  last  year’s  store, 
And  all  the  neighborhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnish’d  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hatto  appointed  a  day 
To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay ; 

He  bade  them  to  his  great  barn  repair, 
And  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter 
there. 

Rejoiced  the  tidings  good  to  hear, 

The  poor  folk  flock’d  from  far  and  near; 
The  great  barn  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young  and 
old. 

Then,  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
Bishop  Hatto  he  made  fast  the  door, 

And  while  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  barn,  and  burnt  them 
all. 

“  I’  faith,  ’tis  an  excellent  bonfire  !”  quoth 
he, 

“  And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to 
me 

For  ridding  it,  in  these  times  forlorn, 

Of  rats  that  only  consume  the  corn.” 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 

And  he  sat  down  to  supper  merrily, 

And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent 
man ; 

But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

In  the  morning,  as  he  enter’d  the  hall 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came, 

For  the  rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the  frame. 

As  he  look’d,  there  came  a  man  from  his 
farm, 

!  He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm : 


410 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  My  Lord,  I  open’d  your  granaries  this 
morn, 

And  the  rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn.” 

Another  came  running  presently, 

And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be. 

“  Fly,  my  lord  bishop,  fly !”  quoth  he, 

“  Ten  thousand  rats  are  coming  this  wa^, 
The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday  !” 

“  I’ll  go  to  my  tower  on  the  Rhine,”  replied 
he ; 

“  ’Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany ; 

The  walls  are  high,  and  the  shores  are 
steep, 

And  the  stream  is  strong,  and  the  water 
deep.” 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hasten’d  away, 

And  he  cross’d  the  Rhine  without  delay, 
And  reach’d  his  tower,  and  barr’d  with 
care 

All  the  windows,  doors,  and  loopholes 
there. 

He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his  eyes, 

But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise  ; 

He  started,  and  saw  two  eves  of  flame 
On  his  pillow,  from  whence  the  screaming 
came. 

He  listen’d  and  look’d, — it  was  only  the 
cat, 

But  the  bishop  he  grew  more  fearful  for 
that, 

For  she  sat  screaming,  mad  with  fear, 

At  the  army  of  rats  that  were  drawing 
near. 

For  they  have  swum  over  the  river  so 
deep, 

And  they  have  climb’d  the  shores  so 
steep, 

And  up  the  tower  their  way  is  bent, 

To  do  the  work  for  which  they  were 
sent. 

They  are  not  to  be  told  by  the  dozen  or 
score  ; 

By  thousands  they  come,  and  by  myriads 
and  more  ; 


Such  numbers  had  never  been  heard  of 
before, 

Such  a  judgment  had  never  been  witness’d 
of  yore. 

Down  on  his  knees  the  bishop  fell, 

And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell, 
As  louder  and  louder,  drawing  near, 

The  gnawing  of  their  teeth  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door, 
And  through  the  walls  helter-skelter  they 
pour ; 

And  down  from  the  ceiling  and  up  through 
the  floor, 

From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind 
and  before, 

From  within  and  without,  from  above  and 
below, — 

And  all  at  once  to  the  bishop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the 
stones, 

And  now  they  pick  the  bishop’s  bones  ; 
They  gnaw’d  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him ! 

Robert  Southey. 

- K>« - 

Annabel  Lee. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 

That  a  maiden  there  lived,  whom  you  may 
know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 

And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other 
thought 

Than  to  love,  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea ; 

But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more 
than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee — 

With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of 
heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 

A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 
My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


411 


So  that  her  high-born  kinsman  came 
And  bore  her  away  from  me, 

To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 
Went  envying  her  and  me, 

Yes !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men 
know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 

That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by 
night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than 
the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  manv  far  wiser  than  we ; 

And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 
Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 

Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bring¬ 
ing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 

And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the 
bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 

And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by 
the  side 

Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and 
my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

- +0+ - 

The  Glove  and  tile  Lions. 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king,  and 
loved  a  royal  sport, 

And  one  day,  as  his  lions  fought,  sat  look¬ 
ing  on  the  court. 

The  nobles  fill’d  the  benches,  with  the 
ladies  in  their  pride, 

And  ’mongst  them  sat  the  Count  de  Lorge, 
with  one  for  whom  he  sigh’d  : 

And  truly  ’twas  a  gallant  thing -to  see  that 
crowning  show, 

Valor  and  love,  and  a  king  above,  and  the 
roval  beasts  below. 


Ramp’d  and  roar’d  the  lions,  with  horrid 
laughing  jaws  ; 

They  bit,  they  glared,  gave  blows  like 
beams,  a  wind  went  with  their  paws  , 
With  wallowing  might  and  stilled  roar 
they  roll’d  on  one  another, 

Till  all  the  pit  with  sand  and  mane  was 
in  a  thunderous  smother  ; 

The  bloody  foam  above  the  bars  came 
whisking  through  the  air  ; 

Said  Francis  then,  “  Faith,  gentlemen, 
we’re  better  here  than  there.” 

De  Lorge’s  love  o’erheard  the  king,  a 
beauteous,  lively  dame, 

With  smiling  lips  and  sharp  bright  eyes, 
which  always  seem’d  the  same  ; 

She  thought,  The  Count  my  lover  is  brave 
as  brave  can  be  ; 

He  surely  would  do  wondrous  things  to 
show  his  love  of  me  ; 

King,  ladies,  lovers,  all  look  on ;  the  oc¬ 
casion  is  divine  ; 

I’ll  drop  my  glove,  to  prove  his  love ;  great 
glory  will  be  mine. 

She  dropp’d  her  glove,  to  prove  his  love. 

then  look’d  at  him  and  smiled  ; 

He  bow’d,  and  in  a  moment  leap’d  among 
the  lions  wild  : 

The  leap  was  quick,  return  was  quick,  he 
has  regain’d  his  place, 

Then  threw  the  glove,  but  not  with  love, 
right  in  the  lady’s  face. 

“By  heaven,”  said  Francis,  “rightly 
done  !”  and  he  rose  from  where  he 
sat ; 

“  No  love,”  quoth  he,  “  but  vanity,  sets 
love  a  task  like  that.” 

Leigh  Hunt. 

- - - 

The  Three  Ravens. 

There  were  three  ravens  sat  on  a  tree, 
They  were  as  black  as  they  might  be. 

The  one  of  them  said  to  his  mate, 

“  Where  shall  we  our  breakfast  take?” 

“  Down  in  yonder  green  field, 

There  lies  a  knight  slain  under  his  shield; 


412 


FI  BESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


il  His  hounds  they  lie  down  at  his  feet, 

So  well  do  they  their  master  keep ; 

“  His  hawks  they  fly  so  eagerly, 

There’s  no  fowl  dare  come  him  nigh.” 

Down  there  comes  a*  fallow  doe, 

As  great  with  young  as  she  might  go. 

She  lifted  up  his  bloody  head, 

And  kiss’d  his  wounds  that  were  so  red. 

She  got  him  up  upon  her  back, 

And  carried  him  to  earthen  lake. 

She  buried  him  before  the  prime, 

She  was  dead  herself  before  even-song 
time. 

God  send  every  gentleman 
Such  hawks,  such  hounds,  and  such  a 
leman. 

Author  Unknown. 

- •<>« - - 

% 

The  Twa  Corbies. 

As  I  gaed  doun  by  yon  liouse-en’ 

Twa  corbies  there  were  sittan  their  lane : 
The  tane  unto  the  tother  sae, 

“  Oh  where  shall  we  gae  dine  to-day?” 

“  Oh  down  beside  yon  new-faun  birk 
There  lies  a  new-slain  knicht ; 

Nae  livin  kens  that  he  lies  there, 

But  his  horse,  his  hounds,  and  his  lady 
fair. 

“  His  horse  is  to  the  huntin  gane, 

His  hounds  to  bring  the  wild  deer  hame ; 
His  lady’s  ta’en  another  mate  ; 

Sae  we  may  make  our  dinner  swate. 

“  Oh  we’ll  sit  on  his  bonnie  briest-bane, 
And  we’ll  pyke  out  his  bonnie  gray  een ; 
Wi’  ae  lock  o’  his  gowden  hair 
We’ll  theek  our  nest  when  it  blaws  bare. 

“  Mony  a  ane  for  him  maks  mane, 

But  nane  sail  ken  where  he  is  gane  ; 

Ower  his  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 

The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair!” 

Author  Unknown. 


Burd  Helen. 

Lord  John  stood  in  his  stable  door, 

Said  he  was  boun’  to  ride  : 

Burd  Helen  stood  in  her  bouir  door, 

Said  she’d  run  by  his  side. 

“The  corn  is  turning  ripe,  Lord  John ; 
The  nuts  are  growing  fu’ : 

An’  ye  are  boun’  for  your  ain  countrie ; 
Fain  wad  I  go  with  you.” 

“  Wi’  me,  Helen  !  wi’  me,  Helen ! 

What  wad  ye  do  wi’  me  ? 

I’ve  mair  need  o’  a  little  foot-page, 

Than  of  the  like  o’  thee.” 

“O,  I  will  be  your  little  foot-boy, 

To  wait  upon  your  steed  ; 

And  I  will  be  your  little  foot-page, 

Your  leish  of  hounds  to  lead.” 

“  But  my  hounds  will  eat  the  breid  o’  wheat, 
And  ye  the  dust  and  bran  ; 

Then  will  ye  sit  and  sigh,  Helen, 

That  e’er  ye  lo’ed  a  man.” 

“  O,  your  dogs  may  eat  the  gude  wheat-breid. 
And  I  the  dust  and  bran  ; 

Yet  will  I  sing  and  say,  weel’s  me, 

That  e’er  I  lo’ed  a  man !” 

“O,  better  ye’d  stay  at  hame,  Helen, 

And  sew  your  silver  seam  ; 

For  my  house  is  in  the  far  Hielands, 

And  ye’ll  ha’e  puir  welcome  hame.” 

“I  winna  stay,  Lord  John,”  she  said, 

“To  sew  my  silver  seam  ; 

Though  your  house  is  in  the  far  Hielands, 
And  I’ll  ha’e  puir  welcome  hame.” 

“Then  if  you’ll  be  my  foot-page,  Helen, 
As  you  tell  unto  me, 

Then  you  must  cut  your  gown  of  green 
An  inch  abune  your  knee. 

“So  you  must  cut  your  yellow  locks 
An  inch  abune  your  e’e ; 

You  must  tell  no  man  what  is  my  name : 
My  foot-page  then  you’ll  be.” 

Then  he  has  luppen  on  his  white  steed, 
And  straight  awa’  did  ride ; 

Burd  Helen,  dressed  in  men’s  array, 

She  ran  fast  by  his  side. 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY.  413 


And  he  was  ne’er  sae  lack  a  knicht, 

As  ance  wad  bid  her  ride ; 

And  she  was  ne’er  sae  mean  a  May, 

As  ance  wad  bid  him  bide. 

Lord  John  he  rade,  Burd  Helen  ran, 

A  live-long  summer  day  ; 

Until  they  cam  to  Clyde- water, 

Was  filled  frae  bank  to  brae. 

“Seest  thou  yon  water,  Helen,”  said  he, 

“  That  flows  from  bank  to  brim  ?” 

“I  trust  to  God,  Lord  John,”  she  said, 
‘‘You  ne’er  will  see  me  swim !” 

But  he  was  ne’er  sae  lack  a  knicht, 

As  ance  wad  bid  her  ride ; 

Nor  did  he  sae  much  as  reach  his  hand, 

To  help  her  ower  the  tide. 

The  firsten  step  that  she  wade  in, 

She  wadit  to  the  knee  ; 

“  Ochone,  alas,”  quo’  that  ladye  fair, 

“This  water’s  no  for  me !” 

The  second  step  that  she  wade  in, 

She  steppit  to  the  middle  : 

Then,  sighing,  said  that  fair  ladye, 

“  I’ve  wet  my  gowden  girdle.” 

The  thirden  step  that  she  wade  in, 

She  steppit  to  the  neck  ; 

When  that  the  bairn  that  she  was  wi’, 

For  cauld  began  to  quake. 

“  Lie  still,  my  babe  ;  lie  still,  my  babe  ; 

Lie  still  as  lang’s  ye  may: 

Your  father,  that  rides  on  horseback  high, 
Cares  little  for  us  twae.” 


And  when  she  cam  to  the  other  side, 

She  sat  down  on  a  stane ; 

Says,  “  Them  that  made  me,  help  me  now ; 
For  I  am  far  frae  hame ! 


“0,  tell  me  this,  now,  good  Lord  John ; 

In  pity  tell  to  me ; 

How  far  is  it  to  your  lodging, 

Where  we  this  nicht  maun  be?” 


“O,  dinna  ye  see  yon  castle,  Helen, 
Stands  on  yon  sunny  lea? 

There  ye’se  get  ane  o’  my  mother’s  men : 
Ye’se  get  nae  mair  o’  me.” 


“O,  weel  see  I  your  bonnie  castell 
Stands  on  yon  sunny  lea; 


But  I’se  hae  nane  o’  your  mother’s  men. 
Though  I  never  get  mair  o’  thee.” 

“But  there  is  in  yon  castle,  Helen, 

That  stands  on  yonder  lea, 

There  is  a  lady  in  yon  castle, 

Will  sinder  you  and  me.” 

“I  wish  nae  ill  to  that  ladye, 

She  comes  na  in  my  tliocht : 

But  I  wish  the  maid  maist  o’  your  love, 
That  dearest  has  you  bocht.” 

When  he  cam  to  the  porter’s  yett, 

He  tirled  at  the  pin  ; 

And  wha  sae  ready  as  the  bauld  porter, 

To  open  and  let  him  in? 

Many  a  lord  and  lady  bright 
Met  Lord  John  in  the  closs; 

But  the  bonniest  lady  among  them  a’ 

Was  liauding  Lord  John’s  horse. 

Four  and  twenty  gay  ladyes 

Led  him  through  bouir  and  ha’ ; 

But  the  fairest  lady  that  was  there 
Led  his  horse  to  the  sta’. 

Then  up  bespak  Lord  John’s  sister ; 

These  were  the  words  spak  she : 

“You  have  the  prettiest  foot-page,  brother, 
My  eyes  did  ever  see — 

“But  that  his  middle  is  sae  thick, 

His  girdle  sae  wond’rous  hie : 

Let  him,  I  pray  thee,  good  Lord  John, 

To  chamber  go  with  me.” 

“It  is  not  fit  for  a  little  foot-page, 

That  has  run  through  moss  and  mire, 

To  go  into  chamber  with  any  ladye 
That  wears  so  rich  attire. 

“  It  were  more  meet  for  a  little  foot-page, 
That  has  run  through  moss  and  mire, 

To  take  his  supper  upon  his  knee, 

And  sit  doun  by  the  kitchen  fire.” 

When  bells  were  rung,  and  mass  was  sung, 
And  a’  men  boun’  to  meat, 

Burd  Helen  was,  at  the  bve-table, 

Amang  the  pages  set. 

“O,  eat  and  drink,  my  bonnie  boy, 

The  white  breid  and  the  beer.” 

“The  never  a  bit  can  I  eat  or  drink; 

My  heart's  sae  fu’  o’  fear.” 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


414 


“  O,  eat  and  drink,  my  bonnie  boy, 

The  white  breid  and  the  wine.” 

“  O,  the  i\ever  a  bit  can  I  eat  or  drink ; 

My  heart’s  sae  fu’  o’  pyne.” 

Blit  out  and  spak  Lord  John  his  mother, 
And  a  skeely  woman  was  she : 

“  Where  met  ye,  my  son,wi’  that  bonnie  boy, 
That  looks  sae  sad  on  thee  ? 

“Sometimes  his  cheek  is  rosy  red, 

And  sometimes  deidly  wan  : 

He’s  liker  a  woman  grit  wi’  child, 

Than  a  young  lord’s  serving-man.” 

“  0,  it  maks  me  laugh,  my  mother  dear, 

Sic  words  to  hear  frae  thee ; 

He  is  a  squire’s  ae  dearest  son, 

That  for  love  has  followed  me. 

“Rise  up,  rise  up,  my  bonnie  boy; 

Gi’e  my  horse  corn  and  hay.” 

“  O  that  I  will,  my  master  deir, 

As  quickly  as  I  may.” 

She  took  the  hay  aneath  her  arm, 

The  corn  intill  her  hand  ; 

But  atween  the  stable  door  and  the  sta’ 
Burd  Helen  made  a  stand. 

“  O  room  ye  round,  my  bonnie  broun  steids ; 

O  room  ye  near  the  wa’ ; 

For  the  pain  that  strikes  through  my  twa 
sides, 

I  fear,  will  gar  me  fa’.” 

She  leaned  her  back  again’  the  wa’ ; 

Strong  travail  came  her  on  ; 

And,  e’en  among  the  great  horse’  feet, 

She  has  brought  forth  her  son. 

When  bells  were  rung,  and  mass  was  sung, 
And  a’  men  boun’  for  bed, 

Lord  John’s  mother  and  sister  gay 
In  ae  bouir  they  were  laid. 

Lord  John  hadna  weel  got  aff  his  claes, 
Nor  was  he  weel  laid  doun, 

Till  his  mother  heard  a  bairn  greet, 

And  a  woman’s  heavy  moan. 

“Win  up,  win  up,  Lord  John,”  she  said; 

“Seek  neither  stockings  nor  shoen  : 

For  I  ha’e  heard  a  bairn  loud  greet, 

And  a  woman’s  heavy  moan  !” 


Richt  hastilie  he  rase  him  up, 

Socht  neither  hose  nor  shoen  ; 

And  he’s  doen  him  to  the  stable  door. 

By  the  lee  licht  o’  the  mune. 

“O,  open  the  door,  Burd  Helen,”  he  said, 
“O,  open  and  let  me  in ; 

I  want  to  see  if  my  steed  be  fed, 

Or  my  greyhounds  fit  to  rin.” 

“O  lullaby,  my  own  deir  child! 

Lullaby,  deir  child,  deir ! 

I  wold  thv  father  were  a  king, 

Thy  mother  laid  on  a  bier !” 

* 

“O,  open  the  door,  Burd  Helen,”  he  says, 

“  O,  open  the  door  to  me ; 

Or,  as  my  sword  hangs  by  my  gair, 

I’ll  gar  it  gang  in  three !” 

“That  never  was  my  mother’s  custome, 
And  I  hope  it’s  ne’er  be  mine ; 

A  knicht  into  her  companie, 

When  she  dries  a’  her  pyne.” 

He  hit  the  door  then  wi’  his  foot, 

Sae  did  he  wi’  his  knee  ; 

Till  door  o’  deal,  and  locks  o’  steel, 

In  splinders  he  gart  flee. 

“An  askin’,  an  askin’,  Lord  John,”  she  says, 
“An  askin’  ye’ll  grant  me  ; 

The  meanest  maid  about  your  house, 

To  bring  a  drink  to  me. 

“An  askin’,  an  askin’,  my  dear  Lord  John, 
An  askin’  ye’ll  grant  me ; 
i  The  warsten  bouir  in  a’  your  touirs, 

For  thy  young  son  and  me !” 

“  I  grant,  I  grant  your  askins,  Helen, 

An’  that  and  mair  frae  me ; 

The  very  best  bouir  in  a’  my  touirs, 

For  my  young  son  and  thee. 

“O,  have  thou  comfort,  fair  Helen, 

Be  of  good  cheer,  I  pray ; 

And  your  bridal  and  your  kirking  baith 
Shall  stand  upon  ae  day.” 

And  he  has  ta’en  her  Burd  Helen, 

And  rowed  her  in  the  silk  ; 

And  he  has  ta’en  his  ain  young  son, 

And  washed  him  in  the  milk. 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


415 


And  there  was  ne’er  a  gayer  bridegroom, 

Nor  yet  a  blyther  bride, 

As  they,  Lord  John  and  Lady  Helen, 

Neist  day  to  kirk  did  ride. 

Author  Unknown. 

- »o»  ■  — 

The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of 
Lincolnshire.  ( 1571 .) 

The  old  mayor  climb’d  the  belfry  tower, 
The  ringers  rang  by  two,  by  three ; 

“  Pull,  if  ye  never  pull’d  before ; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,”  quoth  he, 
“  Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  O  Boston  bells  ! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells, 

Play  up,  ‘  The  Brides  of  Enderby.’  ” 

Men  say  it  wTas  a  stolen  tyde — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all ; 

But  in  mvne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall : 

And  there  was  naught  of  strange,  beside 
The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 
By  millions  crouch’d  on  the  old  sea  wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes ; 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies ; 

And  dark  against  day’s  golden  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 

My  sonne’s  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

“  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cuslia  !”  calling, 

Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 

Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 

“  Cusha  !  Cusha  !”  all  along; 

Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth, 

From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking-song — 

“  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !”  calling, 

“  For  the  dews  will  soon  be  falling ; 

Leave  your  meadow-grasses  mellow, 
Mellow,  mellow  ; 

Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  come  uppe,  Light- 
foot  ; 

Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 
Hollow,  hollow  ; 

Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 

From  the  clovers  lift  your  head  ; 


Come  up,  Whitefoot,  come  up,  Lightfoot, 
Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 

Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed.” 

If  it  be  long,  ay,  long  ago, 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 
Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe  sharp  and  strong ; 
And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee, 

Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee), 

That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 

And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  seene, 

Save  where  full  fvve  good  miles  away 
The  steeple  tower’d  from  out  the  greene ; 
And  lo  !  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 
Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 
That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanherds  where  their  sedges  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset’s  golden  breath, 

The  shepherd-lads  I  heard  afarre, 

And  my  sonne’s  wife,  Elizabeth  ; 

Till  floating  o’er  the  grassy  sea 
!  Came  downe  that  kindly  message  free, 

The  “  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby.” 

Then  some  look’d  uppe  into  the  sky, 

And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 
:  To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 
Thev  savde,  “And  whv  should  this  thing 
be  ? 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby  ! 

“  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 

Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down  ; 

For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 
They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  towne: 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 

And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee, 

Why  ring  ‘  The  Brides  of  Enderby  ’  ?” 

I  look’d  without,  and  lo  !  my  sonne 

Came  riding  down  with  might  and  main  ; 
He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 

Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 

“  Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  !” 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne’er  drew  breath 
Than  my  sonne’s  wife,  Elizabeth.) 


116 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  The  old  sea  wall,”  he  cried,  “  is  downe, 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 

And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 
Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place.” 

He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 

“  God,  save  you,  mother !”  straight  he  saith ; 
“  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth  ?” 

“  Good  sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  her  wray, 
With  her  two  bairns  I  mark’d  her  long, 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song.” 

He  look’d  across  the  grassy  lea, 

To  right,  to  left,  “  Ho,  Enderby!” 

They  rang  “  The  Brides  of  Enderby !” 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast ; 

For,  lo  !  along  the  river’s  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  rear’d  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 

It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud, 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud. 

Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  press’d 
Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine, 
Then  madly  at  the  eygre’s  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  bankes  came  down  with  ruin  and 
rout, 

Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about, 

Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave, 

The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat, 
Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 
Sobb’d  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet ; 

The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 

And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roof  we  sate  that  night, 

The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by ; 

I  mark’d  the  lofty  beacon  light 
Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and 
high; 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see  ; 

And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 

That  in  the  dark  rang  “  Enderby.” 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  row’d; 
And  I — my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 

And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glow’d  ; 


And  yet  he  moan’d  beneath  his  breath, 

“  Oh  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death, 

O  lost !  my  love,  Elizabeth.” 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter 
deare ; 

The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore, 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 

Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 

The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 

Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strew’d  wrecks  about  the  grass, 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas ! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  mee ; 
But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith), 
And  sweeter  woman  ne’er  drew  breath 
Than  my  sonne’s  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 

“  Cusha !  Cusha !  Cusha !”  calling, 

Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling ; 

I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 

“Cusha!  Cusha!”  all  along 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth ; 

From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 
When  the  water  winding  down, 

Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 
Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver ; 

Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 

Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling 
To  the  sandy,  lonesome  shore ; 

:  I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 

|  “  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 
Mellow,  mellow ; 

Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 

Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Light- 
foot, 

Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 

Come  uppe  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow, 
Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 

From  your  clovers  lift  the  head  ; 

Come  uppe,  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 

Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed.” 

Jean  Ingelow. 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


417 


The  Sands  of  Dee. 

“  Oh,  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 

And  call  the  cattle  home, 

Across  the  sands  of  Dee.” 

The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with 
foam, 

And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o’er  and  o’er  the  sand, 

And  round  and  round  the  sand, 

As  far  as  eye  could  see. 

The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the 
land : 

And  never  home  came  she. 

“  Oh  !  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 

A  drowned  maiden’s  hair, 

Above  the  nets  at  sea?” 

Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee. 

They  row’d  her  in  across  the  rolling 
foam, 

The  cruel  crawling  foam, 

The  cruel  hungry  foam, 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea. 

But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the 
cattle  home 

Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 

Charles  Kingsley. 

- »o« 

Barbara  Allens  Cruelty. 

All  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 

When  green  buds  they  were  swelling, 
Young  Jemmy  Grove  on  his  death-bed  lay 
For  love  o’  Barbara  Allen. 

He  sent  his  man  unto  her  then, 

To  the  town  where  she  was  dwelling : 

“  Oh  haste  and  come  to  mv  master  dear, 

If  vour  name  be  Barbara  Allen.” 

Slowly,  slowly  rase  she  up, 

And  she  cam’  where  he  was  lying  ; 

And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by, 

Says,  “Young  man,  I  think  you’re 
dying.” 

“Oh,  it’sJ  am  sick,  and  very,  very  sick, 

And  it’s  a’  for  Barbara  Allen. 

27 


“  Oh  the  better  for  me  ye’se  never  be, 

Tho’  your  heart’s  blude  were  a-spilling! 

“  O,  dinna  ye  min’,  young  man,”  she  says, 
“  When  the  red  wine  ye  were  filling, 

That  ye  made  the  healths  gae  round  and 
round, 

And  ye  slighted  Barbara  Allen?” 

He  turn’d  his  face  unto  the  wa’, 

And  death  was  wi’  him  dealing  : 

“  Adieu,  adieu,  my  dear  friends  a’; 

Be  kind  to  Barbara  Allen.” 

As  she  was  walking  o’er  the  fields, 

She  heard  the  dead-bell  knelling; 

And  every  jow  the  dead-bell  gave, 

It  cried,  “  Woe  to  Barbara  Allen  !” 

“  O  mother,  mother,  mak’  my  bed, 

To  lay  me  down  in  sorrow. 

My  love  has  died  for  me  to-day, 

I’ll  die  for  him  to-morrow.” 

Author  Unknown. 


LA M ENT  OF  THE  BORDER  WlD 0  IF 

My  love  he  built  me  a  bonny  bower, 

And  clad  it  a’  wi’  lily  flower ; 

A  brawer  bower  ye  ne’er  did  see, 

Than  my  true-love  he  built  for  me. 

There  came  a  man  by  middle  day, 

He  spied  his  sport,  and  went  away ; 

And  brought  the  king  that  very  night, 
Who  brake  my  bower  and  slew  my  knight. 

He  slew  my  knight,  to  me  sae  dear  ; 

He  slew  my  knight,  and  poin’d  his  gear  . 
My  servants  all  for  life  did  flee, 

And  left  me  in  extremitie. 

I  sew’d  his  sheet,  making  my  mane  , 

I  watch’d  the  corpse  mysell  alane  ; 

I  watch’d  his  body  night  and  day  ; 

No  living  creature  came  that  way. 

I  took  his  body  on  my  back, 

And  whiles  I  gaed,  and  whiles  I  sat  t 
I  digg’d  a  grave,  and  laid  him  in, 

And  happ’d  him  with  the  sod  sae  green. 

But  think  nae  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 

When  I  laid  the  moul’  on  his  yellow  hair? 


418 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


Oh,  think  nae  ye  my  heart  was  wae, 
When  I  turn’d  about,  away  to  gae? 

Nae  living  man  I’ll  love  again, 

Since  that  my  lovely  knight  is  slain  ; 
Wi’  ae  lock  o’  his  yellow  hair 
I’ll  chain  my  heart  for  evermair. 

Author  Unknown. 

- *0* - 

The  Cruel  Sister. 

There  were  two  sisters  sat  in  a  hour, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  ; 

There  came  a  knight  to  be  their  wooer; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

He  courted  the  eldest  with  glove  and  ring, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie; 

But  he  lo’ed  the  youngest  abune  a’  thing  ; 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

He  courted  the  eldest  with  broach  and 
knife, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

But  he  lo’ed  the  youngest  abune  his  life ; 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie; 

And  sore  envied  her  sister  fair; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

The  eldest  said  to  the  youngest  ane, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

“  Will  ye  go  and  see  our  father’s  ships 
come  in  ?” 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

She’s  ta’en  her  by  the  lily  hand, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie; 

And  led  her  down  to  the  river  strand ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

The  youngest  stude  upon  a  stane, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie; 

The  eldest  came  and  push’d  her  in  ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

.  She  took  her  by  the  middle  sma’, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

And  dash’d  her  bonny  back  to  the  jaw; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

w  0  sister,  sister,  reach  your  hand, 
Binnorie,  0  Binnorie; 


And  ye  shall  be  heir  of  half  my  land.” — 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“  O  sister,  I’ll  not  reach  my  hand, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie; 

And  I’ll  be  heir  of  all  your  land  ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“  Shame  fa’  the  hand  that  I  should  take, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie: 

It’s  twined  me  and  my  world’s  make.” — 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“  O  sister,  reach  me  but  your  glove, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie; 

And  sweet  William  shall  be  your  love.” — 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“  Sink  on,  nor  hope  for  hand  or  glove ! 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

And  sweet  William  shall  better  be  my 
love, 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“  Your  cherry  cheeks  and  your  yellow 
hair, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

Garr’d  me  gang  maiden  evermair.” 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

Sometimes  she  sunk,  and  sometimes  she 

swam, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

Until  she  cam  to  the  miller’s  dam  ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“  O  father,  father,  draw  your  dam  ! 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

There’s  either  a  mermaid,  or  a  milk-white 

swan. ” 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

The  miller  hasted  and  drew  his  dam ! 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie; 

And  there  he  found  a  drown’d  woman ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

You  could  not  see  her  yellow  hair, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie; 

For  gowd  and  pearls  that  were  so  rare ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

You  could  not  see  her  middle  sma’, 
Binnorie,  0  Binnorie; 

Her  gowden  girdle  was  sae’  bra’-; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


419 


A  famous  harper  passing  by, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie; 

The  sweet  pale  face  he  chanced  to  spy ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

And  when  he  look’d  that  lady  on, 
Binnorie,  0  Binnorie ; 

He  sigh’d  and  made  a  heavy  moan  ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

He  made  a  harp  of  her  breast-bone, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

Whose  sounds  would  melt  a  heart  of  stone ; 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

The  strings  he  framed  of  her  yellow  hair, 
Binnorie,  0  Binnorie ; 

Whose  notes  made  sad  the  listening  ear; 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

He  brought  it  to  her  father’s  hall, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

And  there  was  the  court  assembled  all ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

He  laid  his  harp  upon  a  stone, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

And  straight  it  began  to  play  alone ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“  Oh  yonder  sits  my  father,  the  king, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

And  yonder  sits  my  mother,  the  queen  ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“  And  yonder  stands  my  brother  Hugh, 
Binnorie,  O  Binnorie ; 

And  by  him  my  William,  sweet  and  true.” 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

But  the  last  tune  that  the  harp  play’d 
then, 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  ; 

Was — “  Woe  to  my  sister,  false  Helen  !” 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

Author  Unknown. 

- K>« - 

Bonnie  George  Campbell. 

Hie  upon  Hielands, 

And  low  upon  Tay, 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 
Bade  out  on  a  day. 


Saddled  and  bridled 
And  gallant  rade  he  ; 

Hame  cam  his  gude  horse} 

But  never  cam  he. 

Out  cam  his  old  mither 
Greeting  fu’  sair, 

And  out  cam  his  bonnie  bride 
Hivin’  her  hair. 

Saddled  and  bridled 
And  booted  rade  he  ; 

Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he. 

“  My  meadow  lies  green, 

And  my  corn  is  unshorn  ; 

My  barn  is  to  build, 

And  my  baby’s  unborn.” 

Saddled  and  bridled 
And  booted  rade  he  ; 

Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he ! 

Author  Unknown. 

- K>« - 

The  Last  buccaneer. 

Oh,  England  is  a  pleasant  place  for  them 
that’s  rich  and  high  ; 

But  England  is  a  cruel  place  for  such  poor 
folks  as  I ; 

And  such  a  port  for  mariners  I  ne’er  shall 
see  again 

As  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  beside  the 
Spanish  main. 

There  were  forty  craft  in  Aves  that  were 
both  swift  and  stout, 

All  furnish’d  well  with  small-arms  and 
cannons  round  about ; 

And  a  thousand  men  in  Aves  made  laws 
so  fair  and  free 

To  choose  their  valiant  captains  and  obey 
them  loyally. 

Thence  we  sail’d  against  the  Spaniard  with 
his  hoards  of  plate  and  gold, 

Which  he  wrung  with  cruel  tortures  from 
the  Indian  folk  of  old  ; 

Likewise  the  merchant  captains,  with 
hearts  as  hard  as  stone, 

Who  flog  men  and  keel-haul  them  and 
starve  them  to  the  bone. 


420 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Oh  the  palms  grew  high  in  Aves  and  fruits 
that  shone  like  gold, 

And  the  colibris  and  parrots  they  were 
gorgeous  to  behold  ; 

And  the  negro  maids  to  Aves  from  bondage 
fast  did  flee, 

To  welcome  gallant  sailors  a-sweeping  in 
from  sea. 

Oh  sweet  it  was  in  Aves  to  hear  the  land¬ 
ward  breeze 

A-swing  with  good  tobacco  in  a  net  be¬ 
tween  the  trees, 

With  a  negro  lass  to  fan  you  while  you  lis¬ 
ten’d  to  the  roar 

Of  the  breakers  on  the  reef  outside  that 
never  touch’d  the  shore. 

But  Scripture  saith,  an  ending  to  all  fine 
things  must  be, 

So  the  King’s  ships  sail’d  on  Aves,  and 
quite  put  down  were  we. 

All  day  we  fought  like  bulldogs,  but  they 
burst  the  booms  at  night ; 

And  I  fled  in  a  piragua  sore  wounded  from 
the  fight. 

Nine  days  I  floated  starving,  and  a  negro 
lass  beside, 

Till  for  all  I  tried  to  cheer  her,  the  poor 
young  thing  she  died  ; 

But  as  I  lay  a-gasping  a  Bristol  sail  came 

by, 

And  brought  me  home  to  England  here  to 
beg  until  I  die. 

And  now  I’m  old  and  going — I’m  sure  I 
can’t  tell  where  ; 

One  comfort  is,  this  world’s  so  hard  I  can’t 
be  worse  off  there  : 

If  I  might  but  be  a  sea-dove  I’d  fly  across 
the  main, 

To  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Avfcs,  to  look  at  it 
once  again. 

Charles  Kingsley. 

- - 

The  King  of  Denmark's  Ride. 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 
(Hurry !) 

That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering 

And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would 
bring ; 

(Oh  ride  as  though  you  were  flying!) 


Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 

On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 

Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and 
pearl ; 

And  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  is  dying ! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed  ; 

(Hurry !) 

Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 

Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of 
need ; 

(Oh  ride  as  though  you  were  flying!) 

Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank ; 

Worn-out  chargers  stagger’d  and  sank; 

Bridles  were  slacken’d,  and  girths  were 
burst ; 

But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode 
first, 

For  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying! 

His  nobles  are  beaten  one  by  one ; 

( Hurry ! ) 

They  have  fainted,  and  falter’d,  and  home¬ 
ward  gone ; 

His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying. 

The  king  look’d  back  at  that  faithful  child  ; 

Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled; 

They  pass’d  the  drawbridge  with  clattering 
din, 

Then  he  dropp’d ;  and  only  the  king  rode 
in 

Where  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying ! 

The  king  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn ; 

(Silence !) 

No  answer  came;  but  faint  and  forlorn 

An  echo  return’d  on  the  cold  gray  morn, 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 

The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide ; 

None  welcomed  the  king  from  that  weary 
ride ; 

For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning 
day, 

The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 

Who  had  yearn’d  for  his  voice  while 
dying ! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest, 
Stood  weary. 

The  king  return’d  from  her  chamber  of 
rest, 

The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eying, 


421 


LEGENDARY  AND  BALLAD  POETRY. 


The  tears  gush’d  forth  which  he  strove  to 
check  ; 

He  bow’d  his  head  on  his  charger’s  neck : 

11  0  steed — that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 

Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying !” 

Caroline  Norton. 

■  ■  •<>•  — 

A  Song  of  the  North. 

11  Away  !  away  1”  cried  the  stout  Sir 
John, 

“  While  the  blossoms  are  on  the  trees  ; 

For  the  summer  is  short  and  the  time 
speeds  on, 

As  we  sail  for  the  northern  seas. 

Ho!  gallant  Crozier  and  brave  Fitz  James! 

We  will  startle  the  world,  I  trow, 

When  we  find  a  w7ay  through  the  North¬ 
ern  seas 

That  never  was  found  till  now ! 

A  good  stout  ship  is  the  Erebus 

As  ever  unfurl’d  a  sail, 

And  the  Terror  will  match  with  as  brave  a 
one 

As  ever  outrode  a  gale.” 

So  they  bade  farewell  to  their  pleasant 
homes, 

To  the  hills  and  the  valleys  green, 

With  three  hearty  cheers  for  their  native 
isle, 

And  three  for  the  English  queen. 

They  sped  them  awray  beyond  cape  and 
bay, 

Where  the  day  and  the  night  are  one — 

Where  the  hissing  light  in  the  heavens 
grew  bright 

And  flamed  like  a  midnight  sun. 

There  was  naught  below  save  the  fields  of 
snow, 

That  stretch’d  to  the  icy  Pole ; 

And  the  Esquimaux,  in  his  strange  canoe, 

Was  the  only  living  soul ! 

Along  the  coast  like  a  giant  host 

The  glittering  icebergs  frown’d, 

Or  they  met  on  the  main  like  a  battle- 
plain, 

And  crash’d  with  a  fearful  sound  ! 

The  seal  and  the  bear,  with  a  curious  stare, 

Look’d  down  from  the  frozen  heights, 


And  the  stars  in  the  skies  with  their  great 
wild  eyes, 

Peer’d  out  from  the  Northern  Lights. 

The  gallant  Crozier  and  brave  Fitz 
James, 

And  even  the  stout  Sir  John, 

Felt  a  doubt  like  a  chill  through  their 
warm  hearts  thrill 
As  they  urged  the  good  ships  on. 

They  sped  them  away,  beyond  cape  and 
bay, 

Where  even  the  tear-drops  freeze  ; 

But  no  way  was  found  by  a  strait  or  sound, 
To  sail  through  the  Northern  seas; 

They  sped  them  away,  beyond  cape  and 
bay, 

And  they  sought,  but  they  sought  in 
vain, 

For  no  way  was  found,  through  the  ice 
around, 

To  return  to  their  homes  again. 

Then  the  wild  waves  rose,  and  the  waters 
froze 

Till  they  closed  like  a  prison-wall; 

And  the  icebergs  stood,  in  the  sullen  flood, 
Like  their  jailers  grim  and  tall. 

O  God  !  O  God  ! — it  was  hard  to  die 
In  that  prison-house  of  ice  ! 

For  what  was  fame,  or  a  mighty  name, 
When  life  was  the  fearful  price? 

The  gallant  Crozier  and  brave  Fitz  James, 
And  even  the  stout  Sir  John, 

Had  a  secret  dread  and  their  hopes  all 
fled, 

As  the  weeks  and  the  months  pass’d  on. 

Then  the  Ice  King  came,  with  his  eyes  of 
flame, 

And  look’d  on  that  fated  crew ; 

His  chilling  breath  was  as  cold  as  death, 
And  it  pierced  their  warm  hearts 
through. 

A  heavy  sleep,  that  was  dark  and  deep, 
Came  over  their  weary  eyes, 

And  they  dream’d  strange  dreams  of  the 
hills  and  streams, 

And  the  blue  of  their  native  skies. 

The  Christmas  chimes  of  the  good  old 
times 

Were  heard  in  each  dying  ear, 


422 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  the  dancing  feet  and  the  voices  sweet 
Of  their  wives  and  their  children  dear ! 
But  it  faded  away — away — away  ! 

Like  a  sound  on  a  distant  shore ; 

And  deeper  and  deeper  grew  the  sleep, 

Till  they  slept  to  wake  no  more  ! 

Oh,  the  sailor’s  wife  and  the  sailor’s  child ! 

They  will  weep  and  watch  and  pray  ; 
And  the  Lady  Jane,  she  will  hope  in 
vain 

As  the  long  years  pass  away  ! 

The  gallant  Crozier  and  brave  Fitz  James, 
And  the  good  Sir  John  have  found 
An  open  way  to  a  quiet  bay, 

And  a  port  where  we  all  are  bound. 

Let  the  waters  roar  on  the  ice-bound  shore 
That  circles  the  frozen  Pole, 

But  there  is  no  sleep  and  no  grave  so 
deep 

That  can  hold  a  human  soul 

Elizabeth  Doten. 

- +o« - 

The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp. 

“  They  made  her  a  grave  too  cold  and 
damp 

For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true ; 

And  she’s  gone  to  the  Lake  of  the  Dismal 
Swamp, 

Where  all  night  long,  by  a  firefly  lamp, 
She  paddles  her  white  canoe. 

“And  her  firefly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 
And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear  ; 

Long  and  loving  our  life  shall  be, 

And  I’ll  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress  tree, 
When  the  footstep  of  death  is  near.” 

Away  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  he  speeds, — 
His  path  was  rugged  and  sore, 


Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
Through  many  a  fen  where  the  serpent 
feeds, 

And  man  never  trod  before. 

And  when  on  the  earth  he  sank  to  sleep, 

If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew, 

He  lay  where  the  deadly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomous  tear,  and  nightly  steep 
The  flesh  with  blistering  dew  ! 

And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirr’d  the 
brake, 

And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his 
ear, 

Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  dream 
awake, 

“  Oh  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  Lake, 

And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear  ?” 

He  saw  the  Lake,  and  a  meteor  bright 
Quick  over  its  surface  play’d, — 

“  Welcome,”  he  said,  “  my  dear  one’s 
light !” 

And  the  dim  shore  echo’d  for  many  a 
night 

The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid. 

Till  he  hollow’d  a  boat  of  the  birchen 
bark, 

Which  carried  him  off  from  shore ; 

Far,  far  he  follow’d  the  meteor  spark, 

The  wind  was  high  and  the  clouds  were 
dark, 

And  the  boat  return’d  no  more. 

But  oft,  from  the  Indian  hunter’s  camp, 
This  lover  and  maid  so  true 
Are  seen  at  the  hour  of  midnight  damp 
To  cross  the  Lake  by  a  firefly  lamp, 

And  paddle  their  white  canoe  ! 

Thomas  Mooee. 


AuZ  02^.  4***s"**, 

'A  Az  j^A?~  j£/Z^sx*r  2^&'  * 

A^r  7*™- 

A0  ga<-cy*L  7e**A^-  A&*  A- Za*0 

r/JuJ-  Azzz  /W  'Aft-  *-  firf 

AAA  Atz*'  ^7  7u-yA  a^/-  fA^, 

Z/Aus&c-  AfautZcZi. 


Poems  of  Nature. 


A  Hymx. 

The  Seasons. 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father, 
these 

Are  but  the  varied  God.  The  rolling 
year 

Is  full  of  Thee.  Forth  in  the  pleasing 
spring 

Thy  Beauty  walks,  thy  Tenderness  and 
Love. 

Wide  flush  the  fields  ;  the  softening  air  is 
balm  ; 

Echo  the  mountains  round ;  the  forest 
smiles ; 

And  every  sense,  and  every  heart,  is  joy. 

Then  comes  thy  Glory  in  the  summer 
months, 

With  light  and  heat  refulgent.  Then  thy 
Sun 

Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swell¬ 
ing  year; 

And  oft  thy  Voice  in  dreadful  thunder 
speaks, 

And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling 
eve, 

By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow- whisper¬ 
ing  gales. 

Thy  Bounty  shines  in  autumn  unconfined, 

And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that 
lives. 

In  winter  awful  Thou  !  with  clouds  and 
storms 

Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o’er  tempest 
roll’d, 

Majestic  darkness !  On  the  whirlwind’s 
wing, 

Biding  sublime,  Thou  bid’st  the  World 
adore, 

And  humblest  Nature  with  thy  northern 
blast. 


Mysterious  round !  what  skill,  what 

4/  7 

force  divine, 

Deep  felt,  in  these  appear  !  a  simple  train, 

Yet  so  delightful  mix’d,  with  such  kind 
art, 

Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ; 

Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into 
shade  ; 

And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole, 

That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish 
still. 

But  wandering  oft,  with  brute  unconscious 
gaze, 

Man  marks  not  Thee,  marks  not  the  mighty 
Hand, 

That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres  ; 

Works  in  the  secret  deep  ;  shoots,  steam¬ 
ing,  thence 

The  fair  profusion  that  o’erspreads  the 
spring  ; 

Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming 
dav ; 

Feeds  every  creature;  hurls  the  tempest 
forth  ; 

And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  re¬ 
volves, 

With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of 
life. 

Nature,  attend  !  join,  every  living  soul 

Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 

In  adoration  join  ;  and,  ardent,  raise 

One  general  song !  To  Him,  ye  vocal 
gales, 

Breathe  soft,  whose  Spirit  in  your  freshness 
breathes : 

Oh,  talk  of  Him  in  solitary  glooms  ; 

Where,  o’er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  waving 
pine 

Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious 
awe. 

And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 

423 


424 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Who  shake  the  astonish’d  world,  lift  high 
to  heaven 

The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom 
you  rage. 

His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling 
rills  ; 

And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 

Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  pro¬ 
found  ; 

Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid 
maze 

Along  the  vale  ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 

A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 

Sound  His  stupendous  praise,  whose  greater 
voice 

Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings 
fall. 

Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits, 
and  flowers, 

In  mingled  clouds  to  Him,  whose  sun 
exalts, 

Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose 
pencil  paints. 

Ye  forests,  bend,  ye  harvests,  wave,  to  Him ; 

Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper’s 
heart, 

As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous 
moon. 

Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth 
asleep 

Unconscious  lies,  effuse  your  mildest 
beams, 

Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 

Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 

Great  source  of  day  !  best  image  here  be¬ 
low 

Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 

From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean 
round, 

On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  His 
praise. 

The  thunder  rolls :  be  hush’d  the  prostrate 
world, 

While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn 
hymn. 

Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills  ;  ye  mossy  rocks, 

Retain  the  sound  ;  the  broad  responsive 
low, 

Ye  valleys,  raise  ;  for  the  Great  Shepherd 
reigns, 

And  His  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will 
come. 


Ye  woodlands  all,  awake :  a  boundless 
song 

Burst  from  the  groves  ;  and  when  the  rest¬ 
less  day, 

Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 
Sweetest  of  birds  !  sweet  Philomela,  charm 
The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night 
His  praise. 

Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation 
smiles, 

At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue 
of  all, 

Crown  the  great  hymn  !  in  swarming  cities 
vast, 

Assembled  men  to  the  deep  organ  join 
The  long-resounding  voice,  oft  breaking 
clear, 

At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling 
bass ; 

And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases 
each, 

In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  heaven. 

Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade, 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove, 
There  let  the  shepherd’s  flute,  the  virgin’s 
lay, 

The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet’s 
lyre, 

Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons,  as  they 
roll. 

For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme, 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer 
ray 

Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  autumn  gleams, 
Or  winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east, 

Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no 
more, 

And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat ! 
Should  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest 
verge 

Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous 
climes, 

Rivers  unknown  to  song, — where  first  the 
sun 

Gilds  Indian  mountains,  *or  his  setting 
beam 

Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles, — ’tis  naught 
to  me : 

Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 

In  the  void  waste,  as  in  the  city  full, 

And  where  He  vital  breathes,  there  must 
be  joy. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


425 


When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall 
come, 

And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future 
worlds, 

I  cheerful  will  obey ;  there,  with  new 
powers, 

Will  rising  wonders  sing  :  I  cannot  go 
Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their 
suns  ; 

From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 

And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 
In  infinite  progression.  But  I  lose 
Myself  in  Him,  in  Light  ineffable  ! 

Come,  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  His 
praise. 

James  Thomson. 

«■  •<>• - — 

To  Pan. 

All  ye  woods,  and  trees,  and  bowers, 
All  ye  virtues  and  ye  powers 
That  inhabit  in  the  lakes, 

In  the  pleasant  springs  or  brakes, 

Move  your  feet 
To  our  sound, 

Whilst  we  greet 
All  this  ground 
With  his  honor  and  his  name 
That  defends  our  flocks  from  blame. 

He  is  great,  and  he  is  just, 

He  is  ever  good,  and  must 
Thus  be  honor’d.  Daffodillies, 

Roses,  pinks,  and  loved  lilies, 

Let  us  fling, 

Whilst  we  sing, 

Ever  holy, 

Ever  holy, 

Ever  honor’d,  ever  young ! 

Thus  great  Pan  is  ever  sung. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


Description  of  Spring. 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 
brings, 

With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke 
the  vale  ; 

The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she 
sings ; 

The  turtle  to  her  make  hath  told  her 
tale. 


Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now 
springs ; 

The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the 
pale, 

The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he 
slings ; 

The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired 
scale ; 

The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings ; 

The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies 
smale; 

The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings; 

Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowres’ 
bale. 

And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant 
things 

Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow 
springs. 

Henry  Howard 
(Earl  of  Surrey). 


To  Spring. 

Sweet  Spring,  thou  turn’st  with  all  thy 
goodly  train, 

Thy  head  with  flames,  thy  mantle  bright 
with  flowers; 

The  zephyrs  curl  the  green  locks  of  the 
plain, 

The  clouds  for  joy  in  pearls  weep  down 
their  showers. 

Thou  turn’st,  sweet  youth — but,  ah !  my 
pleasant  hours 

And  happy  days,  with  thee  come  not 
again  ; 

The  sad  memorials  only  of  my  pain 

Do  with  thee  turn,  which  turn  my  sweets 
in  sours. 

Thou  art  the  same  which  still  thou  wast 
before, 

Delicious,  wanton,  amiable,  fair; 

But  she  whose  breath  embalm’d  thy  whole¬ 
some  air 

Is  gone ;  nor  gold  nor  gems  her  can  re¬ 
store. 

Neglected  Virtue,  seasons  go  and  come, 

When  thine  forgot  lie  closed  in  a  tomb. 

What  doth  it  serve  to  see  sun’s  burning 
face? 

And  skies  enamell’d  with  both  Indies’ 
gold? 


4^6 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Or  moon  at  night  in  jetty  chariot  roll’d, 

And  all  the  glory  of  that  starry  place? 

What  doth  it  serve  earth’s  beauty  to  behold, 

The  mountain’s  pride,  the  meadow’s 
flowery  grace; 

The  stately  comeliness  of  forests  old, 

The  sport  of  floods  which  would  them¬ 
selves  embrace? 

What  doth  it  serve  to  hear  the  sylvans’ 
songs, 

The  wanton  merle,  the  nightingale’s  sad 
strains, 

Which  in  dark  shades  seem  to  deplore  my 
wrongs  ? 

For  what  doth  serve  all  that  this  world 
contains, 

Sith  she,  for  whom  those  once  to  me  were 
dear, 

No  part  of  them  can  have  now  with  me  here? 

William  Drummond. 

- »o* - 

Chorus. 

From  “Atalanta  in  Calydon.” 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  win¬ 
ter’s  traces, 

The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or 
plain 

Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain ; 

And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 

Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 

For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign 
faces ; 

The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying 
of  quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 

With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 

With  a  clamor  of  waters,  and  with 
might ; 

Bind  on  thy  sandals,  0  thou  most  fleet, 

Over  the  splendor  and  speed  of  thy  feet ! 

For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west 
shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet 
of  the  night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing 
to  her, 

Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees  and 
cling? 


Oh  that  man’s  heart  were  as  fire,  and  could 
spring  to  her, 

Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that 
spring ! 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player ; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to 
her, 

And  the  south-west  wind  and  the  west 
wind  sing. 

For  winter’s  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins ; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that 
wins ; 

And  time  remember’d  is  grief  forgotten, 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot, 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year 
flushes 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 

And  the  hoof’d  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut-liusk  at  the  chestnut-root. 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 
Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 
Follow  with  dancing  and  fill  with  de¬ 
light 

The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid ; 

And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide, 

The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal’s  hair 
Over  her  eyebrows,  shading  her  eyes  ; 
The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 
Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs ; 
The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its 
leaves, 

But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that 
scare 

The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 

- KX - 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


427 


ODE. 

On  the  Spring. 

Lo !  where  the  rosy-bosom’d  Hours, 

Fair  Venus’  train,  appear, 

Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers 
And  wake  the  purple  year ! 

The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat 
Responsive  to  the  cuckoo’s  note, 

The  untaught  harmony  of  spring : 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly, 
Cool  Zephyrs  through  the  clear  blue  sky 
Their  gather’d  fragrance  fling. 

Where’er  the  oak’s  thick  branches  stretch 
A  broader,  browner  shade, 

Where’er  the  rude  and  moss-grown  beech 
O’er-canopies  the  glade, 

Beside  some  water’s  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 
(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 

How  vain  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 

How  low,  how  little  are  the  proud, 

How  indigent  the  great ! 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care; 

The  panting  herds  repose : 

Yet  hark,  how  thro’  the  peopled  air 
The  busy  murmur  glows! 

The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing, 

Eager  to  taste  the  honey’d  spring 
And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon : 

Some  lightly  o’er  the  current  skim, 

Some  show  their  gayly-gilded  trim 
Quick-glancing  to  the  sun. 

To  Contemplation’s  sober  eye 
Such  is  the  race  of  man  ; 

And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly 
Shall  end  where  they  began. 

Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay 
But  flutter  thro’  life’s  little  day, 

In  Fortune’s  varying  colors  drest: 
Brush’d  by  the  hand  of  rough  Mischance 
Or  chill’d  by  Age,  their  airy  dance 
They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 
The  sportive  kind  reply  : 

Poor  moralist!  and  what  art  thou? 

A  solitary  fly ! 

Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 

No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 


No  painted  plumage  to  display  : 

On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown  ; 

Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone — 

We  frolic  while  ’tis  May. 

Thomas  Gray. 

- to* - 

Spring. 

Spring,  the  sweet  spring,  is  the  year’s 
pleasant  king ; 

Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance 
in  a  ring. 

Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do 
sing, 

Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo ! 

The  palm  and  may  make  country  houses 

gay, 

Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe 
all  day, 

And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry 
lay, 

Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss 
our  feet, 

Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a-sunning 
sit, 

In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do 
greet, 

Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

Spring  !  the  sweet  spring ! 

Thomas  Nash. 

»<>• 

Song.  On  Ma  y  Morning. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day’s  har¬ 
binger, 

Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads 
with  her 

The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap 
throws 

The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  prim¬ 
rose. 

Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  doth  inspire 

Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire ! 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 

Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 

And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

John  Milton. 


428 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Song  to  May. 

May  !  queen  of  blossoms 
And  fulfilling  flowers, 

With  what  pretty  music 

Shall  we  charm  the  hours  ? 

Wilt  thou  have  pipe  and  reed, 
Blown  in  the  open  mead  ? 

Or  to  the  lute  give  heed 
In  the  green  bowers  ? 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  us, 

Or  pipe  or  wire, 

That  hast  the  golden  bee 
Ripen’d  with  fire ; 

And  many  thousand  more 
Songsters,  that  thee  adore, 

Filling  earth’s  grassy  floor 
With  new  desire. 

Thou  hast  thy  mighty  herds, 

Tame,  and  free  livers; 

Doubt  not,  thy  music  too 
In  the  deep  rivers  ; 

And  the  whole  plumy  flight, 
Warbling  the  day  and  night — 

Up  at  the  gates  of  light, 

See,  the  lark  quivers ! 

When  with  the  jacinth 

Coy  fountains  are  tress’d  : 

And  for  the  mournful  bird 
Green  woods  are  dress’d, 

That  did  for  Tereus  pine ; 

Then  shall  our  songs  be  thine, 

To  whom  our  hearts  incline  : 

May,  be  thou  bless’d  ! 

Lord  Thurlow. 


Sonnet. 

May. 

When  May  is  in  his  prime,  and  youthful 
Spring 

Doth  clothe  the  tree  with  leaves  and 
ground  with  flowers, 

And  time  of  year  reviveth  everything, 
And  lovely  Nature  smiles,  and  nothing 
lowers ; 

Then  Philomela  most  doth  strain  her 
breast 

With  night-complaints,  and  sits  in  little 
rest. 


This  bird’s  estate  I  may  compare  with 
mine, 

To  whom  fond  Love  doth  work  such 
wrongs  by  day, 

That  in  the  night  my  heart  must  needs  re¬ 
pine, 

And  storm  with  sighs  to  ease  me  as  I 
may; 

Whilst  others  are  becalm’d  or  lie  them 
still, 

Or  sail  secure  with  tide  and  wind  at 
will. 

And  as  all  those  which  hear  this  bird  com¬ 
plain, 

Conceive  in  all  her  tunes  a  sweet  de¬ 
light, 

Without  remorse  or  pitying  her  pain ; 

So  she,  for  whom  I  wail  both  day  and 
night, 

Doth  sport  herself  in  hearing  my  com¬ 
plaint  ; 

A  just  reward  for  serving  such  a  saint ! 

Thomas  Watson. 

- K>« - 

CO  PINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING. 

Get  up,  get  up,  for  shame !  the  blooming 
morn 

Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colors  through  the  air! 

Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 

Each  flower  has  wept  and  bow’d  toward 
the  east, 

Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  not  drest — 
Nay,  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed, 

When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns :  ’tis 
sin, 

Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 

Wlienas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 

Spring  sooner  than  the  lark  to  fetch  in 
May. 

Rise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh 
and  green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.  Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair  : 

Fear  not,  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  ; 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


429 


Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 

Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  un¬ 
wept. 

Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night ; 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 

Till  you  come  forth.  Wash,  dress,  be  brief 
in  praying : 

Few  beads  are  best,  when  once  we  go  a- 
Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come !  and,  coming, 
mark 

How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street 
a  park 

Made  green  and  trimm’d  with  trees  ;  see 
how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch  ;  each  porch,  each  door,  ere 
this 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 

Made  up  of  white  thorn  neatly  inter¬ 
wove, 

As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of 
love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see ’t  ? 
Come  !  we’ll  abroad,  and  let’s  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May  ; 

And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by 
staying, 

But,  my  Corinna,  come !  let’s  go  a-May- 
ing. 

There’s  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl,  this 
day, 

But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white  thorn  laden 
home. 

Some  have  despatch’d  their  cakes  and 
cream 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream  ; 

And  some  have  wept  and  woo’d  and 
plighted  troth, 

And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off 
sloth. 

Many  a  green  gown  has  been  given  ; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even  ; 

Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love’s  firmament ; 


Many  a  jest  told  of  the  key’s  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  pick’d  :  yet  w’  are 
not  a-Maying. 

Come !  let  us  go  while  we  are  in  our 
prime, 

And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time  ; 
We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 
Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun  ; 

And  as  a  vapor,  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne’er  be  found  again, 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 
A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 
Lies  drown’d  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then,  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but 
decaying, 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come  !  let’s  go  a-May¬ 
ing. 

Robert  Herrick. 

-  »o« - 

Summer  Longings. 

Las  mafianas  floridas 
De  Abril  y  Mayo. 

Calderon. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting — 
Waiting  for  the  May — 

Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles, 

Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn  brambles. 
With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting — 
Waiting  for  the  May. 

Ah!  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 

Longing  for  the  May — 

Longing  to  escape  from  study, 

To  the  young  face  fair  and  ruddy, 

And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 

To  the  summer’s  dav. 

%/ 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 

Sighing  for  the  May — 

Sighing  for  their  sure  returning, 

When  the  summer  beams  are  burning, 

Hopes  and  flowers  that,  dead  or  dying, 

All  the  winter  lav. 

%/ 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
Sighing  for  the  May. 


430 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Ah !  my  heart  is  pain’d  with  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May — 

Throbbing  for  the  seaside  billows, 

Or  the  water-wooing  willows  ; 

Where,  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing, 
Glide  the  streams  away. 

Ah !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting  sad,  dejected,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May  : 

Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings — 

Moonlit  evenings,  sunbright  mornings — 

Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 
Life  still  ebbs  away  ; 

Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May  ! 

Denis  Florence  McCarthy. 

— - - 

They  Come /  the  Merry  Summer 
Months. 

They  come !  the  merry  summer  months 
of  beauty,  song,  and  flowers ; 

They  come !  the  gladsome  months  that 
bring  thick  leafiness  to  bowers. 

Up,  up,  my  heart!  and  walk  abroad;  fling 
cark  and  care  aside  ; 

Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where 
peaceful  waters  glide ; 

Or,  underneath  the  shadowr  vast  of  patri¬ 
archal  tree, 

Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky 
in  rapt  tranquillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grate¬ 
ful  to  the  hand ; 

And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the 
breeze  is  sweet  and  bland  ; 

The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding 
courteously ; 

It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love,  to 
bless  and  welcome  thee; 

And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks 
— they  now  are  silvery  gray — 

That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and 
whispering,  “  Be  gay !” 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the 
ocean  of  yon  sky 

But  hath  its  own  wing’d  mariners  to  give 
it  melody ; 


Thou  seest  their  glittering  fans  outspread, 
all  gleaming  like  red  gold ; 

And  hark !  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their 
merry  course  they  hold. 

God  bless  them  all,  those  little  ones,  who, 
far  above  this  earth, 

Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and 
vent  a  nobler  mirth  ! 

But  soft!  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound, — 
from  yonder  wood  it  came ! 

The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did 
breathe  his  own  glad  name  ; — 

Yes,  it  is  he !  the  hermit  bird,  that,  apart 
from  all  his  kind, 

Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the 
soft  western  wind ; 

Cuckoo !  cuckoo !  he  sings  again, — his 
notes  are  void  of  art ; 

But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound  the 
deep  founts  of  the  heart. 

Good  Lord !  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for 
thought-crazed  wight  like  me 
To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  be¬ 
neath  this  summer  tree! 

To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their 
little  souls  away, 

And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of 
youth’s  bright  summer  day, 

When,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the 
reckless,  truant  boy 

Wander’d  through  greenwoods  all  day 
long,  a  mighty  heart  of  joy  ! 

I’m  sadder  now, — I  have  had  cause ;  but 
oh,  I’m  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount,  loved  of  yore,  I 
yet  delight  to  drink  ; — 

Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream, 
the  calm,  unclouded  sky, 

Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in 
the  days  gone  by. 

When  summer’s  loveliness  and  light  fall 
round  me  dark  and  cold, 

I’ll  bear  indeed  life’s  heaviest  curse, — a 

heart  that  hath  wax’d  old ! 

William  Mot* er well. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


431 


Spring. 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the 
air 

Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 

Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver 
rain, 

Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns  - 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there’s  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 

Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  bv  the  season’s  dawn  ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we 
find 

That  age  to  childhood  bind, 

The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature’s  scorn, 
The  brown  of  autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the 
gloom, 

And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth, 
The  crocus  breaking  earth  ; 

And  near  the  snowdrop’s  tender  white  and 
green, 

The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must 
pass 

Along  the  budding  grass, 

And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored 
South 

Shall  kiss  the  rose’s  mouth. 

Still,  there’s  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn ; 

One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 


At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating 

by, 

And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 

A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace-gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant;  and  you  scarce 
would  start, 

If  from  a  beech’s  heart 
A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should 
say, 

“  Behold  me !  I  am  May !” 

Henry  Timrod. 

- *0* - 

The  Airs  of  Spring. 

Sweetly  breathing,  vernal  air, 

That  with  kind  warmth  doth  repair 
Winter’s  ruins;  from  whose  breast 
All  the  gums  and  spice  of  th’  East 
Borrow  their  perfumes;  whose  eye 
Gilds  the  morn,  and  clears  the  sky; 
Whose  dishevelled  tresses  shed 
Pearls  upon  the  violet  bed ; 

On  whose  brow,  with  calm  smiles  drest, 
The  halcyon  sits  and  builds  her  nest ; 
Beauty,  youth,  and  endless  spring, 

Dwell  upon  thy  rosy  wing ! 

Thou,  if  stormy  Boreas  throws 
Down  whole  forests  when  he  blows, 
With  a  pregnant,  flowery  birth, 

Canst  refresh  the  teeming  earth. 

If  he  nip  the  early  bud; 

If  he  blast  what’s  fair  or  good  ; 

If  he  scatter  our  choice  flowers; 

If  he  shake  our  halls  or  bowers ; 

If  his  rude  breath  threaten  us, — 

Thou  canst  stroke  great  iEolus, 

And  from  him  the  grace  obtain, 

To  bind  him  in  an  iron  chain. 

Thomas  Caeew. 

- *o« - 

Song  to  May. 

Born  in  yon  blaze  of  orient  sky, 

Sweet  May  !  thv  radiant  form  unfold, 
Unclose  thy  blue  voluptuous  eye, 

And  wave  thy  shadowy  locks  of  gold. 


432 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


For  thee  the  fragrant  zephyrs  blow, 

For  thee  descends  the  sunny  shower ; 
The  rills  in  softer  murmurs  flow, 

And  brighter  blossoms  gem  the  bower. 

Light  graces  decked  in  flowery  wreaths, 
And  tiptoe  joys  their  hands  combine; 
And  Love  his  sweet  contagion  breathes, 
And,  laughing,  dances  round  thy  shrine. 

Warm  with  new  life,  the  glittering  throng 
On  quivering  fin  and  rustling  wing, 
Delighted  join  their  votive  song, 

And  hail  thee  Goddess  of  the  Spring ! 

Erasmus  Darwin. 

- K>*  ■  — 

The  Reign  of  May. 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale  ; 

The  winds  that  fan  the  flowers, 

And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the 
sail, 

Tell  of  serener  hours, — 

Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south  wind  calls 
From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 

And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music 
falls, 

Beauty  is  budding  there  ; 

The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 
And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 

To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 
A  canopy  of  leaves ; 

And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of 
May ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west  wind 
play ; 

And  the  full-brimming  floods, 

As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 

Hail  the  returning  sun. 

o 

James  Gates  Percival. 


July. 

Loud  is  the  Summer’s  busy  song, 

The  smallest  breeze  can  find  a  tongue, 
While  insects  of  each  tiny  size 
Grow  teasing  with  their  melodies, 

Till  noon  burns  with  its  blistering  breath 
Around,  and  day  lies  still  as  death. 

The  busy  noise  of  man  and  brute 
Is  on  a  sudden  lost  and  mute ; 

Even  the  brook  that  leaps  along, 

Seems  weary  of  its  bubbling  song, 

And,  so  soft  its  waters  creep, 

Tired  silence  sinks  in  sounder  sleep ; 

The  cricket  on  its  bank  is  dumb ; 

The  very  flies  forget  to  hum ; 

And,  save  the  wagon  rocking  round, 

The  landscape  sleeps  without  a  sound. 

The  breeze  is  stopped,  the  lazy  bough 
Hath  not  a  leaf  that  danceth  now ; 

* 

The  taller  grass  upon  the  hill, 

And  spider’s  threads,  are  standing  still ; 
The  feathers,  dropped  from  moorhen’s  wing 
Which  to  the  water’s  surface  cling, 

Are  steadfast,  and  as  heavy  seem 
As  stones  beneath  them  in  the  stream ; 

Hawkweed  and  groundsel’s  fanny  downs 
Unruffled  keep  their  seedy  crowms; 

And  in  the  overheated  air 
Not  one  light  thing  is  floating  there, 
i  Save  that  to  the  earnest  eve 
i  The  restless  heat  seems  twittering  by. 

Noon  swoons  beneath  the  heat  it  made, 
And  flowers  e’en  within  the  shade ; 

Until  the  sun  slopes  in  the  west, 

Like  weary  traveller,  glad  to  rest 
On  pillowed  clouds  of  many  hues. 

Then  Nature’s  voice  its  joy  renews, 

And  checkered  field  and  grassy  plain 
Hum  with  their  summer  songs  again, 

A  requiem  to  the  day’s  decline, 

Whose  setting  sunbeams  coolly  shine 
As  welcome  to  day’s  feeble  powers 
As  falling  dews  to  thirsty  flowers. 

John  Clare. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


433 


Sonnet. 

Summer. 

The  Summer,  the  divinest  Summer  burns, 
The  skies  are  bright  with  azure  and 
with  gold, 

The  mavis  and  the  nightingale  by  turns 
Amid  the  woods  a  soft  enchantment 
hold : 

The  flowering  woods,  with  glory  and  de¬ 
light, 

Their  tender  leaves  unto  the  air  have 
spread ; 

The  wanton  air,  amid  their  alleys  bright, 
Doth  softly  fly,  and  a  light  fragrance 
shed : 

The  nymphs  within  the  silver  fountains 

play, 

The  angels  on  the  golden  banks  recline, 
Wherein  great  Flora,  in  her  bright  array, 
Hath  sprinkled  her  ambrosial  sweets 
divine : 

Or,  else,  I  gaze  upon  that  beauteous  face, 
0  Amoret!  and  think  these  sweets  have 
place. 

Lord  Thurlow. 

•O* - 

Song  of  the  Summer  Winds. 

Up  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne, 

O’er  the  meadow  swift  we  fly  ; 

Now  we  sing,  and  now  we  mourn, 

Now  we  whistle,  now  we  sigh. 

By  the  grassy-fring&d  river, 

Through  the  murmuring  reeds  we  sweep  ; 
’Mid  the  lily-leaves  we  quiver, 

To  their  very  hearts  we  creep. 

Now  the  maiden  rose  is  blushing 
At  the  frolic  things  we  say, 

While  aside  her  cheek  we’re  rushing, 

Like  some  truant  bees  at  play. 

Through  the  blooming  groves  we  rustle, 
Kissing  every  bud  we  pass, — 

As  we  did  it  in  the  bustle, 

Scarcely  knowing  how  it  was. 

Down  the  glen,  across  the  mountain, 

O’er  the  yellow  heath  we  roam, 

Whirling  round  about  the  fountain, 

Till  its  little  breakers  foam. 

28 


Bending  down  the  weeping  willows, 
While  our  vesper  hymn  we  sigh  ; 
Then  unto  our  rosy  pillows 
On  our  weary  wings  we  hie. 

There  of  idlenesses  dreaming, 

Scarce  from  waking  we  refrain, 
Moments  long  as  ages  deeming 
Till  we’re  at  our  play  again. 

George  Darley. 


Reve  du  Midi. 

When  o’er  the  mountain-steeps 
The  hazy  noontide  creeps, 

And  the  shrill  cricket  sleeps 
Under  the  grass  ; 

When  soft  the  shadows  lie, 

And  clouds  sail  o’er  the  sky, 

And  the  idle  winds  go  by 
With  the  heavy  scent  of  blossoms  as  they 
pass — 

Then,  when  the  silent  stream 
Lapses  as  in  a  dream, 

And  the  water-lilies  gleam 
Up  to  the  sun  ; 

When  the  hot  and  burden’d  day 
Rests  on  its  downward  way, 

When  the  moth  forgets  to  play 
And  the  plodding  ant  may  dream  her  work 
is  done — 

Then,  from  the  noise  of  war 
And  the  din  of  earth  afar, 

Like  some  forgotten  star 
Dropt  from  the  sky — 

The  sounds  of  love  and  fear, 

All  voices  sad  and  clear, 

Banish’d  to  silence  drear — 

The  willing  thrall  of  trances  sweet  I 
lie. 

Some  melancholy  gale 
Breathes  its  mysterious  tale, 

Till  the  rose’s  lips  grow  pale 
With  her  sighs ; 

And  o’er  my  thoughts  are  cast 
Tints  of  the  vanish’d  past, 

Glories  that  faded  fast, 

Renew’d  to  splendor  in  my  dreaming 
eyes. 


434 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


As  poised  on  vibrant  wings, 

Where  its  sweet  treasure  swings, 

The  honey-lover  clings 
To  the  red  flowers ; 

So,  lost  in  vivid  light, 

So,  rapt  from  day  and  night, 

I  linger  in  delight, 

Enraptured  o’er  the  vision-freighted  hours. 

Rose  Terry  Cooke. 
- - 

A  Nocturnal  Reverie. 

In  such  a  night,  when  every  louder  wind 

Is  to  its  distant  cavern  safe  confined, 

And  only  gentle  Zephyr  fans  his  wings, 

And  lonely  Philomel  still  waking  sings ; 

Or  from  some  tree,  famed  for  the  owl’s  de¬ 
light, 

She,  holloaing  clear,  directs  the  wanderer 
right : 

In  such  a  night,  when  passing  clouds  give 
place, 

Or  thinly  veil  the  heavens’  mysterious  face; 

When  in  some  river  overhung  with  green 

The  waving  moon  and  trembling  leaves  are 
’  seen ; 

When  freshen’d  grass  now  bears  itself  up¬ 
right, 

And  makes  cool  banks  to  pleasing  rest  in¬ 
vite, 

Whence  springs  the  woodbine,  and  the 
bramble  rose, 

And  where  the  sleepy  cowslip  shelter’d 
grows ; 

Whilst  now  a  paler  hue  the  foxglove  takes, 

Yet  checkers  still  with  red  the  dusky 
brakes ; 

When  scatter’d  glow-worms,  but  in  twi¬ 
light  fine, 

Show  trivial  beauties,  watch  their  hour  to 
shine ; 

Whilst  Salisbury  stands  the  test  of  every 
light, 

In  perfect  charms  and  perfect  virtue 
bright ; 

When  odors  which  declined  repelling  day 

Through  temperate  air  uninterrupted  stray ; 

When  darken’d  groves  their  softest  shad¬ 
ows  wear, 

And  falling  waters  we  distinctly  hear ; 

When  through  the  gloom  more  venerable 
shows 

Some  ancient  fabric,  awful  in  repose ; 


While  sunburnt  hills  their  swarthy  looks 

conceal, 

And  swelling  haycocks  thicken  up  the 
vale ; 

When  the  loosed  horse  now,  as  his  pasture 

leads, 

Comes  slowly  grazing  through  the  adjoin¬ 
ing  meads, 

Whose  stealing  pace  and  lengthen’d  shade 
we  fear, 

Till  torn-up  forage  in  his  teeth  we  hear  ; 
When  nibbling  sheep  at  large  pursue  their 
food, 

And  unmolested  kine  rechew  the  cud  ; 
When  curlews  cry  beneath  the  village 
walls, 

And  to  her  straggling  brood  the  partridge 
calls ; 

Their  short  -  lived  jubilee  the  creatures 
keep, 

Which  but  endures  whilst  tyrant  man  does 
sleep ; 

When  a  sedate  content  the  spirit  feels, 
And  no  fierce  light  disturbs,  whilst  it  re¬ 
veals; 

But  silent  musings  urge  the  mind  to  seek 
Something  too  high  for  syllables  to  speak ; 
Till  the  free  soul  to  a  composedness 
charm’d, 

Finding  the  elements  of  rage  disarm’d, 
O’er  all  below  a  solemn  quiet  grown, 

Joys  in  the  inferior  world,  and  thinks  it 
like  her  own : 

In  such  a  night  let  me  abroad  remain, 

Till  morning  breaks,  and  all’s  confused 
again  ; 

Our  cares,  our  toils,  our  clamors  are  re¬ 
new’d, 

Our  pleasures,  seldom  reach’d,  again  pur¬ 
sued. 

Anne,  Countess  of  Winchelsea. 

K» 

September. 

Sweet  is  the  voice  that  calls 
From  babbling  waterfalls, 

In  meadows  where  the  downy  seeds  are 
flying ; 

And  soft  the  breezes  blow, 

And  eddying  come  and  go, 

In  faded  gardens  where  the  rose  is  dy¬ 
ing. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


435 


Among  the  stubbled  corn 
The  blithe  quail  pipes  at  morn ; 

The  merry  partridge  drums  in  hidden 
places, 

And  glittering  insects  gleam 
Above  the  reedy  stream, 

Where  busy  spiders  spin  their  filmy  laces. 

At  eve,  cool  shadows  fall 
Across  the  garden-wall, 

And  on  the  cluster’d  grapes  to  purple 
turning, 

And  pearly  vapors  lie 
Along  the  eastern  sky, 

Where  the  broad  harvest-moon  is  redly 
burning. 

Ah,  soon  on  field  and  hill 
The  winds  shall  whistle  chill, 

And  patriarch  swallows  call  their  flocks 
together 

To  fly  from  frost  and  snow, 

And  seek  for  lands  where  blow 
The  fairer  blossoms  of  a  balmier  weather. 

The  pollen-dusted  bees 
Search  for  the  honey-lees 
That  linger  in  the  last  flowers  of  Septem¬ 
ber, 

While  plaintive  mourning  doves 
Coo  sadly  to  their  loves 
Of  the  dead  summer  they  so  well  remem¬ 
ber. 

The  cricket  chirps  all  day, 

“  0  fairest  Summer,  stay  !” 

The  squirrel  eyes  askance  the  chestnuts 
browning ; 

Tlje  wild-fowl  fly  afar 
Above  the  foamy  bar, 

And  hasten  southward  ere  the  skies  are 
frowning. 

Now  comes  a  fragrant  breeze 
Through  the  dark  cedar  trees, 

And  round  about  my  temples  fondly  lin¬ 
gers, 

In  gentle  playfulness, 

Like  to  the  soft  caress 
Bestow’d  in  happier  days  by  loving  fin¬ 
gers. 


Yet,  though  a  sense  of  grief 
Comes  with  the  falling  leaf, 

And  memory  makes  the  summer  doubly 
pleasant, 

In  all  my  autumn  dreams 
A  future  summer  gleams, 

Passing  the  fairest  glories  of  the  present ! 

George  Arnold. 


To  Autumn. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing 
sun ! 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and 
bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the 
thatch-eaves  run — 

To  bend  with  apples  the  moss’d  cottage 
trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the 
core — 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the 
hazel-shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel — to  set  budding 
more, 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 

Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never 
cease, 

For  Summer  has  o’er-brimm’d  their 
clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy 
store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may 
find 

Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary-floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing 
wind ; 

Or  on  a  half-reap’d  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies, 
while  thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its 
twined  flowers  ; 

And  sometime  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost 
keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours 
by  hours. 


436 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay, 
where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them — thou  hast  thy  music 
too, 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying 
day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy 
hue ; 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats 
mourn 

Among  the  river-sallows,  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking,  as  the  light  wind  lives  or 
dies  ; 

A.nd  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from 
hilly  bourn  ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with 
treble  soft 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden- 
croft, 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the 
skies. 

John  Keats. 

- *o* - 

i  UTUMN. 

A  Dirge. 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is 
wailing, 

The  bare  boughs  are  sighing,  the  pale 
flowers  are  dying, 

And  the  year 

On  the  earth  her  deathbed,  in  a  shroud  of 
leaves  dead, 

Is  lying. 

Come,  months,  come  away, 

From  November  to  May, 

In  your  saddest  array  ; 

Follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year. 

And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her 
sepulchre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipt  worm  is 
crawling, 

The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is 
knelling 

For  the  year  ; 

The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the 
lizards  each  gone 

To  his  dwelling ; 

Come,  months,  come  away, 

Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray, 
Let  your  light  sisters  play — 


Ye  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year, 

And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on 
tear. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

- - 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind. 

i. 

0  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  au¬ 
tumn’s  being, 

Thou  from  whose  unseen  presence  the 
leaves  dead 

Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter 
fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic 
red, 

Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  O  thou 

Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and 
low, 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 

Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall 
blow 

Her  clarion  o’er  the  dreaming  earth,  and 
fill 

(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in 
air) 

With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere  ; 

Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  oh  hear ! 

II. 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  ’mid  the  steep  sky’s 
commotion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth’s  decaying  leaves 
are  shed, 

Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven 
and  ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning ;  there  are 
spread 

On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 

Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim 
verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith’s  height, 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.  Thou 
dirge 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


437 


Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing 
night 

Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain  and  fire  and  hail  will  burst :  oh 
hear ! 

hi. 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer 
dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay 
Lull’d  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baise’s  bay, 

And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave’s  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 
So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  ! 
Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic’s  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far 
below 

The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which 
wear 

The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with 
fear, 

And  tremble,  and  despoil  themselves :  oh 
hear ! 

IY. 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and 
share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !  if  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over 
heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  the  skyey  speed 
Scarce  seem’d  a  vision,  I  would  ne’er  have 
striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore 
need. 

Oh,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud ! 

I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !  I  bleed  ! 


A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chain’d  and 
bow’d 

One  too  like  thee  :  tameless  and  swift  and 
proud. 

Y. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.  Be  thou,  spirit 
fierce, 

My  spirit !  be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  wither’d  leaves  to  quicken  a  new 
birth ; 

And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguish’d  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  man¬ 
kind  ! 

Be  through  my  lips  to  unawaken’d  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy !  O  wind, 

If  winter  comes,  can  spring  be  far  behind? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

- K>« - 

Tee  First  Snow-fall. 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 
And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 
With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm  tree 
Was  ridged  inch-deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roof’d  with  Carrara 
Came  Chanticleer’s  muffled  crow, 

f 

The  stiff  rails  were  soften’d  to  swan’s-down 
And  still  flutter’d  down  the  snow. 

I  stood  and  watch’d  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds, 
Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 
Where  a  little  headstone  stood ; 

How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 

As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 


438 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  “  Father,  who  makes  it  snow?” 
And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 
Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  look’d  at  the  snow-fall, 

And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 
That  arch’d  o’er  our  first  great  sorrow, 
When  that  mound  was  heap’d  so  high. 

I  remember’d  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow, 
Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  of  our  deep-plunged  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whisper’d, 

“  The  snow  that  husheth  all, 

Darling,  the  merciful  Father 
Alone  can  make  it  fall!” 

Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kiss’d 
her ;  • 

And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 

Folded  close  under  deepening  snow. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

- k>« - 

When  Icicles  Hang  by  the 
Wall. 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 
When  blood  is  nipp’d,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who ; 

Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson’s  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian’s  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who ; 

Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- - 


Blow,  Blow,  ihou  Winter  Wind . 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man’s  ingratitude ; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 

Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Heigh-ho  !  sing  heigh-ho  !  unto  the  green 
holly : 

Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving 
mere  folly : 

Then,  heigh-ho  !  the  holly ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly  ! 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 

Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot : 

Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 

Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 
As  friend  remember’d  not. 

Heigh-ho  !  sing  heigh-ho  !  unto  the  green 
holly  : 

Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving 
mere  folly : 

Then,  heigh-ho  !  the  holly ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly  ! 

William  Shakespeare. 

- •<>• - 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year. 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 

And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sigh¬ 
ing: 

Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 

And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 

For  the  Old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die ; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily, 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move  : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true-love, 
And  the  New  year  will  take  ’em  away. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  go ; 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us. 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


439 


He  froth’d  his  bumpers  to  the  brim  ; 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 

But  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 

And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I’ve  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 

But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o’er. 

To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 

But  he’ll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my 
friend, 

And  the  New  year  blithe  and  bold, 
•  my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  Over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 

The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro : 

The  cricket  chirps  :  the  light  burns  low : 
’Tis  nearly  twelve  o’clock. 

Shake  hands  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we’ll  dearly  rue  for  you : 
What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 

Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone. 

Close  up  his  eyes:  tie  up  his  chin  : 

Step  from  the  corpse  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There’s  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my 
friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my 
friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

- +o+ - 

Morning. 

Hark — hark !  the  lark  at  heaven’s  gate 
sings, 

And  Phoebus  ’gins  arise, 

His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 
On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies  : 


And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 
To  ope  their  golden  eyes ; 

With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise  ; 

Arise,  arise ! 

William  Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I 
seen 

Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sov¬ 
ereign  eye, 

Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows 
green, 

Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  al¬ 
chemy  ; 

Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 

With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 

And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 

Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  dis¬ 
grace. 

Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine, 

With  all  triumphant  splendor  on  my 
brow  ; 

But  out,  alack !  he  was  but  one  hour 
mine, 

The  region  cloud  hath  mask’d  him  from 
me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  dis- 
daineth  ; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when  heaven’s 
sun  staineth. 

William  Shakespeare. 
- »<>• 

The  Sabbath  Morning. 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn, 

That  slowly  wakes  while  all  the  fields 
are  still ! 

A  soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne ; 

A  graver  murmur  gurgles  from  the  rill ; 

And  Echo  answers  softer  from  the  hill ; 

And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn; 

The  skylark  warbles  in  a  tone  less  shrill. 

Hail,  light  serene  !  hail,  sacred  Sabbath 
morn  ! 

The  rooks  float  silent  by  in  airy  drove; 

The  sun  a  placid  yellow  lustre  throws  ; 

The  gales  that  lately  sigh’d  along  the 
grove, 


440 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Have  hush’d  their  downy  wings  in  dead 
repose ; 

The  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to 
move — 

So  smiled  the  day  when  the  first  morn 
arose ! 

John  Leyden. 

- *o* - 

Ode  to  Evening. 

[f  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 

May  hope,  0  pensive  Eve,  to  soothe  thine 
ear, 

Like  thy  own  brawling  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales  ; 

0  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright- 
hair’d  sun 

Sits  in  yon  western  tent  whose  cloudy 
skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O’erhang  his  wavy  bed  : 

Now  air  is  hush’d,  save  where  the  weak- 
eyed  bat, 

With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern 
wing, 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path, 

Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  needless 
hum : 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  soften’d  strain, 

Whose  numbers  stealing  through  thy  dark¬ 
ening  vale 

May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit ; 
As  musing  slow  I  hail 
Thy  genial  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding  star  arising  shows 

His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 
The  fragrant  Hours  and  Elves 
Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her 
brows  with  sedge, 

And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  love¬ 
lier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 


Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy 

scene, 

Or  find  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells, 
Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 
By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving 

0  7  O 

rain, 

Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
That  from  the  mountain’s  side 
Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discover’d 
spires, 

And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks 
o’er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as 
oft  he  wont, 

And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest 
Eve ! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with 
leaves ; 

Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous 
air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes  ; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fa^cy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling 

Peace 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  love  thy  favorite  name. 

William  Collins. 

—  •<>+  ■  —  • 

The  Midges  Dance  a  boon  the 

Burn. 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn ; 

The  dews  begin  to  fa’ ; 

The  pairtricks  down  the  rushy  holm 
Set  up  their  e’ening  ca’. 

Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird’s  sang 
Rings  through  the  briery  shaw, 

While,  flitting  gay,  the  swallows  play 
Around  the  castle-wa’. 

Beneath  the  golden  gloamin’  sky 
The  mavis  mends  her  lay  ; 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


441 


The  redbreast  pours  his  sweetest  strains 
To  charm  the  lingering  day  ; 

While  weary  yeldrins  seem  to  wail 
Their  little  nestlings  torn, 

The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves, 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell ; 

The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Spread  fragrance  through  the  dell. 
Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 
Of  mirth  and  revelry, 

The  simple  joys  that  Nature  yields 
Are  dearer  far  to  me. 

Robert  Tannahill. 


Sonnet. 

It  is  a  beauteous  Evening,  calm  and  free  ; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  Sea : 
Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  Child !  dear  Girl !  that  walkest 
with  me  here, 

If  thou  appear’st  untouch’d  by  solemn 
thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham’s  bosom  all  the 
year ; 

And  worshipp’st  at  the  Temple’s  inner 
shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it 
not. 

William  Wordsworth. 

- K>« - 

Sabbath  Evening. 

How  calmly  sinks  the  parting  sun  ! 

Yet  twilight  lingers  still ; 

And  beautiful  as  dream  of  heaven 
It  slumbers  on  the  hill ; 

Earth  sleeps,  with  all  her  glorious  things, 
Beneath  the  Holy  Spirit’s  wings, 

And,  rendering  back  the  hues  above, 

Seems  resting  in  a  trance  of  love. 

Round  yonder  rocks  the  forest  trees 
In  shadowy  groups  recline, 


Like  saints  at  evening  bow’d  in  prayer 
Around  their  holy  shrine  ; 

And  through  their  leaves  the  night-winds 
blow, 

So  calm  and  still,  their  music  low 
Seems  the  mysterious  voice  of  prayer, 

Soft  echo’d  on  the  evening  air. 

And  yonder  western  throng  of  clouds, 
Retiring  from  the  sky, 

So  calmly  move,  so  softly  glow, 

They  seem  to  Fancy’s  eye 
Bright  creatures  of  a  better  sphere, 

Come  down  at  noon  to  worship  here, 

And,  from  their  sacrifice  of  love, 
Returning  to  their  home  above. 

The  blue  isles  of  the  golden  sea, 

The  night-arch  floating  high, 

The  flowers  that  gaze  upon  the  heavens, 
The  bright  streams  leaping  by, 

Are  living  with  religion — deep 
On  earth  and  sea  its  glories  sleep, 

And  mingle  with  the  starlight  rays, 

Like  the  soft  light  of  j>arted  days. 

The  spirit  of  the  holy  eve 
Comes  through  the  silent  air 
To  Feeling’s  hidden  spring,  and  wakes 
A  gush  of  music  there  ! 

And  the  far  depths  of  ether  beam 
So  passing  fair,  we  almost  dream 
That  we  can  rise  and  wander  through 
Their  open  paths  of  trackless  blue. 

Each  soul  is  fill’d  with  glorious  dreams, 
Each  pulse  is  beating  wild ; 

And  thought  is  soaring  to  the  shrine 
Of  glory  undefiled  ! 

And  holy  aspirations  start, 

Like  blessed  angels,  from  the  heart, 

And  bind — for  earth’s  dark  ties  are  riven- 
Our  spirits  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 

George  Denison  Prentice. 

><X - 

To  Night. 

Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  parent 
knew 

Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy 
name, 

Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 


442 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Yet  ’neath  the  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting 
flame, 

Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 
And  lo !  creation  widen’d  in  man’s  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay 
conceal’d 

Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun  !  or  who  could 
find, 

While  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  lay  reveal’d, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad’st 
us  blind  ! 

Why  do  we,  then,  shun  Death  with  anxious 
strife  ? — 

If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not 
Life? 

Joseph  Blanco  White. 

- »o« - 

TO  NIGHT. 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 
Spirit  of  Night ! 

Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 

Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 
Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray 
Star-inwrought ! 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  day, 

Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 

Then  wander  o’er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 
Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh’d  for  thee  ; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was 
gone, 

And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turn’d  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sigh’d  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 
Wouldst  thou  me  ? 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmur’d  like  a  noontide  bee, 

Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 

Wouldst  thou  me? — And  I  replied, 

No,  not  thee ! 


Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 
Soon,  too  soon — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 

Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  belovbd  Night — 

Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon ! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

— - K»  -  ■■ 

The  Evening  Cloud. 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun, 
A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided 
snow ; 

Long  had  I  watch’d  the  glory  moving  on 
O’er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  be¬ 
low. 

Tranquil  its  spirit  seem’d,  and  floated 
slow  ! 

Even  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest ; 
While  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced  to 
blow 

Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous 
west. 

Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul ! 
To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss 
is  given 

And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll 
Right  onward  to  the  golden  gates  of 
heaven, 

Where  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  peaceful  lies, 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 

John  Wilson. 


The  Evening  Wind. 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice  ; 
thou 

That  cool’st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry 
day ! 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my 
brow  ; 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at 
play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till 
now, 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering 
high  their  spray, 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.  I  welcome 
thee 

To  the  scorch’d  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the 
sea ! 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


443 


Nor  I  alone, — a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 

And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses 
bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night  ; 

And  languishing  to  hear  thy  welcome 
sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland,  stretch’d  beyond 
the  sight. 

Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go 
forth, — 

God’s  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting 
earth ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest ; 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars  ; 
and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 

Summoning,  from  the  innumerable 
boughs, 

The  strange  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his 
breast. 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly 
bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters 
pass, 

And  where  the  o’ershadowing  branches 
sweep  the  grass. 

Stoop  o’er  the  place  of  graves,  and  softly 
sway 

The  sighing  herbage  by  the  gleaming 
stone, 

That  they  who  near  the  churchyard  wil¬ 
lows  stray, 

And  listen  in  the  deepening  gloom, 
alone, 

May  think  of  gentle  souls  that  pass’d 
away, 

Like  thy  pure  breath,  into  the  vast  un¬ 
known, 

Sent  forth  from  heaven  among  the  sons  of 
men, 

And  gone  into  the  boundless  heaven  again. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver 
head 

To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child 
asleep, 

And  dry  the  moisten’d  curls  that  over¬ 
spread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows 
more  deep ; 


And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man’s 
bed 

Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant 
sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go, — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

Which  is  the  life  of  Nature,  shall  re¬ 
store, 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy 
mighty  range, 

Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep 
once  more. 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and 
strange, 

Shall  tell  the  homesick  mariner  of  the 
shore  ; 

And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall 
deem 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running 
stream. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

- KX - 

The  Rainbow. 

Still  young  and  fine,  but  what  is  still  in 
view 

We  slight  as  old  and  soil’d,  though  fresh 
and  new. 

How  bright  wert  thou,  when  Shem’s  ad¬ 
miring  eye 

Thy  burnish’d,  flaming  arch  did  first  des¬ 
cry ! 

When  Terah,  Nahor,  Haran,  Abram, 
Lot, 

The  youthful  world’s  gray  fathers,  in  one 
knot 

Did  with  intentive  looks  watch  every 
hour 

For  thy  new  light,  and  trembled  at  each 
shower ! 

When  thou  dost  shine,  darkness  looks 
white  and  fair, 

Forms  turn  to  music,  clouds  to  smiles  and 
air : 

Pain  gently  spends  his  honey-drops,  and 
pours 

Balm  on  the  cleft  earth,  milk  on  grass 
and  flowers. 


444 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Bright  pledge  of  peace  and  sunshine  !  the 
sure  tie 

Of  thy  Lord’s  hand,  the  object  of  His  eye ! 
When  I  behold  thee,  though  my  light  be 
dim, 

Distinct,  and  low,  I  can  in  thine  see  Him, 
Who  looks  upon  thee  from  His  glorious 
throne, 

And  minds  the  covenant  betwixt  all  and 
One. 

Henry  Vaughan. 

«c>»  -  — 

To  the  Rainbow. 

Triumphal  arch  that  filhst  the  sky 
When  storms  prepare  to  part, 

I  ask  not  proud  Philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art — 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood’s  sight, 

A  mid-way  station  given 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight 
Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  Optics  teach,  unfold 
Thy  form  to  please  me  so, 

As  when  I  dream’d  of  gems  and  gold 
Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow '? 

When  Science  from  Creation’s  face 
Enchantment’s  veil  withdraws, 

What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws ! 

And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams 
But  words  of  the  Most  High, 

Have  told  why  first  thy  robe  of  beams 
Was  woven  in  the  sky. 

When  o’er  the  green  undeluged  earth 
Heaven’s  covenant  thou  did’st  shine, 
How  came  the  world’s  gray  fathers  forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ! 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 
O’er  mountains  yet  untrod, 

Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 
To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Methinks,  thv  jubilee  to  keep, 

The  first-made  anthem  rang 
On  earth,  deliver’d  from  the  deep, 

And  the  first  poet  sang. 


Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse’s  eye 
Unraptured  greet  thy  beam; 

Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 

Be  still  the  prophet’s  theme ! 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 
The  lark  thy  welcome  sings, 

When,  glittering  in  the  freshen’d  fields, 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 
O’er  mountain,  tower,  and  town, 

Or  mirror’d  in  the  ocean  vast, 

A  thousand  fathoms  down  ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 

As  young  thy  beauties  seem, 

As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page, 

Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span, 

Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age 

That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


The  Rainbow. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  Rainbow  in  the  sky : 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 

So  is  it  now  I  am  a  Man ; 

So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 

The  Child  is  Father  of  the  Man ; 

And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 

Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

William  Wordsworth. 

♦o» 

The  Cloud. 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting 
flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 

I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when 
laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 

From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that 
waken 

The  sweet  birds  everv  one, 

When  rock’d  to  rest  on  their  mother’s 
breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


445 


I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under ; 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain; 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 
And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast  ; 

And  all  the  night  ’tis  my  pillow  white, 
While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers 
Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits; 

In  a  cavern  under  is  fetter’d  the  thunder; 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits. 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 
This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 

Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 
In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 

Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the 
hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 

Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or 
stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 

And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven’s  blue 
smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor 
eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 
When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 

As,  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain-crag 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle,  alit,  one  moment  may  sit 
In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings ; 

And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the 
lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 
From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 

With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  airy 
nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 

Glides  glimmering  o’er  my  fleece-like 
floor 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 

And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen 
feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 


May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent’s 
thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and 
flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 

When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built 
tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on 
high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and 
these. 

I  bind  the  sun’s  throne  with  a  burning 
zone, 

And  the  moon’s  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel 
and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  un¬ 
furl. 

From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like 
shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 

Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 

The  triumphal  arch,  through  which  I 
march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 

When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chain’d  to 
my  chair, 

Is  the  million-color’d  bow ; 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  be¬ 
low. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 

I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and 
shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 

For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a 
stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 

And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their 
convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air — 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 

Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost 
from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


446 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


Fancy  in  Nubibus; 

Or,  The  Poet  in  the  Clouds. 

Oh,  it  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease, 
Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlight  skies, 
To  make  the  shifting  clouds  be  what  you 
please, 

Or  let  the  easily-persuaded  eyes 
Own  each  quaint  likeness  issuing  from  the 
mould 

Of  a  friend’s  fancy ;  or  with  head  bent 
low 

And  cheek  aslant  see  rivers  flow  of  gold 
’Twixt  crimson  banks ;  and  then,  a  trav- 
veller,  go 

From  mount  to  mount  through  Cloudland, 
gorgeous  land ! 

Or  list’ning  to  the  tide,  with  closed  sight, 
Be  that  blind  bard,  who  on  the  Chian  strand 
By  those  deep  sounds  possess’d  with  in¬ 
ward  light, 

Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssee 

Rise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 
- - 

Drinking. 

The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain, 

And  drinks,  and  gapes  for  drink  again; 
The  plants  suck  in  the  earth,  and  are, 
With  constant  drinking,  fresh  and  fair; 
The  sea  itself  (which  one  would  think 
Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink) 
Drinks  ten  thousand  rivers  up, 

So  filled  that  they  o’erflow  the  cup. 

The  busie  sun  (and  one  would  guess 
By ’s  drunken  fiery  face  no  less) 

Drinks  up  the  sea,  and  when  he  ’as  done, 
The  moon  and  stars  drink  up  the  sun: 
They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light ; 
They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 
Nothing  in  Nature ’s  sober  found, 

But  an  eternal  “  health  ”  goes  round. 

Fill  up  the  bowl  then,  fill  it  high — 

Fill  all  the  glasses  there;  for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  I ; 

Why,  man  of  morals,  tell  me  why? 

Anacreon  (Greek). 
Translation  of  Abraham  Cowlex. 
- *>• - 

To  Cynthia. 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 


Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep : 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 

Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 
Dare  itself  to  interpose ; 

Cynthia’s  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close ; 
Bless  us,  then,  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver; 

Give  unto  thy  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever ; 
Thou  that  mak’st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Ben  Jonson. 

TO  THE  MOON. 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbingheaven,andga,zingon  theearth, 
Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that  have  a  different 
birth, — 

And  ever  changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy  ? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

- - 

Sonnet. 

To  the  Moon. 

0  Moon,  that  shinest  on  this  heathy 
wild, 

And  light’st  the  hill  of  Hastings  with 
thy  ray, 

How  am  I  with  thy  sad  delight  beguiled ! 

How  hold  with  fond  imagination  play  ! 
By  thy  broad  taper  I  call  up  the  time 
When  Harold  on  the  bleeding  verdure 
lay; 

Though  great  in  glory,  overstain’d  with 
crime, 

And  fallen  by  his  fate  from  kingly  sway  ! 
On  bleeding  knights,  and  on  war-broken 
arms, 

Torn  banners,  and  the  dying  steeds  you 
shone, 

When  this  fair  England,  and  her  peerless 
charms, 

And  all,  but  honor,  to  the  foe  were  gone ! 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


447 


Here  died  the  king,  whom  his  brave  sub¬ 
jects  chose, 

But,  dying,  lay  amid  his  Norman  foes  ! 

Lord  Thurlow. 

- +0+ - 

To  the  Evening  Star. 

How  sweet  thy  modest  light  to  view, 

Fair  star,  to  love  and  lovers  dear, 

While  trembling  on  the  falling  dew, 

Like  beauty  shining  through  a  tear  ! 

Or  hanging  o’er  that  mirror-stream, 

To  mark  that  image  trembling  there, 
Thou  seem’st  to  smile  with  softer  gleam, 
To  see  thy  lovely  face  so  fair. 

Though,  blazing  o’er  the  arch  of  night, 
The  moon  thy  timid  beams  outshine 
As  far  as  thine  each  starry  light, — 

Her  rays  can  never  vie  with  thine. 

Thine  are  the  soft  enchanting  hours 
When  twilight  lingers  on  the  plain, 

And  whispers  to  the  closing  flowers 
That  soon  the  sun  will  rise  again. 

Thine  is  the  breeze  that,  murmuring  bland 
As  music,  wafts  the  lover’s  sigh, 

And  bids  the  yielding  heart  expand 
In  love’s  delicious  ecstasy. 

Fair  star  !  though  I  be  doom’d  to  prove 
That  rapture’s  tears  are  mix’d  with  pain, 
Ah  !  still  I  feel  ’tis  sweet  to  love, — 

But  sweeter  to  be  loved  again. 

John  Leyden. 

- +o* - 

Song. 

To  the  Evening  Star. 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 

And  sett’st  the  weary  laborer  free  ! 

If  any  star  shed  peace,  ’tis  thou 
That  send’st  it  from  above, 

Appearing  when  Heaven’s  breath  and  brow 
Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies 
Whilst  the  landscape’s  odors  rise, 

Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs,  when  toil  is  done, 

From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirr’d 
Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 


Star  of  love’s  soft  interviews  ! 

Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse ; 

Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 
Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 

Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

Thomas  Campbell. 

- - 

On  a  Sprig  of  Heath. 

Flower  of  the  waste!  the  heathfowl  shuns 
For  thee  the  brake  and  tangled  wood— 
To  thy  protecting  shade  she  runs, 

Thy  tender  buds  supply  her  food ; 

Her  young  forsake  h&r  downy  plumes 
To  rest  upon  thy  opening  blooms. 

Flower  of  the  desert  though  thou  art ! 

The  deer  that  range  the  mountain  free, 
The  graceful  doe,  the  stately  hart, 

Their  food  and  shelter  seek  from  thee ; 
The  bee  thy  earliest  blossom  greets, 

And  draws  from  thee  her  choicest  sweets. 

Gem  of  the  heath !  whose  modest  bloom 
Sheds  beauty  o’er  the  lonely  moor, 
Though  thou  dispense  no  rich  perfume, 
Nor  yet  with  splendid  tints  allure, 

Both  valor’s  crest  and  beauty’s  bower 
Oft  hast  thou  decked,  a  favorite  flower. 

Flower  of  the  wild !  whose  purple  glow 
Adorns  the  dusky  mountain’s  side, 

Not  the  gay  hues  of  Iris’  bow, 

Nor  garden’s  artful  varied  pride, 

With  all  its  wealth  of  sweets,  could  cheer, 
Like  thee,  the  hardy  mountaineer. 

Flower  of  his  heart !  thy  fragrance  mild 
Of  peace  and  freedom  seems  to  breathe ; 
To  pluck  thy  blossoms  in  the  wild, 

And  deck  his  bonnet  with  the  wreath, 
Where  dwelt  of  old  his  rustic  sires, 

Is  all  his  simple  wish  requires. 

Flower  of  his  dear-loved  native  land! 

Alas,  when  distant,  far  more  dear ! 

When  he  from  some  cold  foreign  strand 
Looks  homeward  through  the  blinding 
tear, 

How  must  his  aching  heart  deplore, 

That  home  and  thee  he  sees  no  more ! 

Anne  Grant. 


*0* 


448 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Flowers. 

Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and 
olden, 

One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  call’d  the  flowers,  so  blue  and 
golden, 

Stars,  that  in  earth’s  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  his¬ 
tory, 

As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld; 

Yet  not  wrapp’d  about  with  awful  mystery, 
Like  the  burning  stars  which  they  beheld. 

Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  won¬ 
drous, 

God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above ; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under 
us 

Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 
Written  all  over  this  great  world  of 
ours — 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth,  these  golden 
flowers. 

And  the  poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 

Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  self-same,  universal  being 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and 
heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shin¬ 
ing, 

Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lin¬ 
ing, 

Buds  that  open  only  to  decay ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous 
tissues, 

Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light ; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ; 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than 
seeming ; 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same 
powers 

Which  the  poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 
Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 


Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing — 
Some,  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born  ; 
Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o’erflow- 

ing, 

Stand,  like  Ruth,  amid  the  golden  corn. 

Not  alone  in  Spring’s  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  Summer’s  green-emblazon’d 
field, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn’s  wear¬ 
ing, 

In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield  ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 
Of  sequester’d  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  Nature  stoop  to 
drink ; 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 

Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 
But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 

On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone  ; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant ; 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling 
towers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers. 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 
Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like 
wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection, 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand — 
Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

- - 

Flowers. 

Sweet  nurslings  of  the  vernal  skies, 
Bathed  in  soft  airs,  and  fed  with  dew 
What  more  than  magic  in  you  lies 
To  fill  the  heart’s  fond  view ! 

In  childhood’s  sports  companions  gay; 
In  sorrow,  on  life’s  downward  way, 

How  soothing  !  in  our  last  decay, 
Memorials  prompt  and  true. 

Relics  ye  are  of  Eden’s  bowers, 

As  pure,  as  fragrant,  and  as  fair, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


44'.; 


As  when  ye  crown’d  the  sunshine  hours 
Of  happy  wanderers  there. 

Fall’n  all  beside, — the  world  of  life 
How  is  it  stain’d  with  fear  and  strife ! 

In  reason’s  world  what  storms  are  rife, 
What  passions  rage  and  glare ! 

But  cheerful,  and  unchanged  the  while, 
Your  first  and  perfect  form  ye  show, 

The  same  that  won  Eve’s  matron  smile 
In  the  world’s  opening  glow. 

The  stars  of  heaven  a  course  are  taught, 
Too  high  above  our  human  thought ; — 

Ye  may  be  found  if  ye  are  sought, 

And  as  we  gaze,  we  know. 

Ye  dwell  beside  our  paths,  and  homes, 

Our  paths  of  sin,  our  homes  of  sorrow, 
And  guilty  man,  where’er  he  roams, 

Your  innocent  mirth  may  borrow. 

The  birds  of  air  before  us  fleet, 

They  cannot  brook  our  shame  to  meet, — 

* 

But  we  may  taste  your  solace  sweet, 

And  come  again  to-morrow. 

Ye  fearless  in  your  nests  abide; 

Nor  may  we  scorn,  too  proudly  wise, 
Your  silent  lessons,  undescried 
By  all  but  lowly  eyes ; 

For  ye  could  draw  th’  admiring  gaze 
Of  Him  who  worlds  and  hearts  survevs ; 
Your  order  wild,  your  fragrant  maze, 

He  taught  us  how  to  prize. 

Ye  felt  your  Maker’s  smile  that  hour, 

As  when  He  paused,  and  own’d  you 
good, 

His  blessing  on  earth’s  primal  bower, 

Ye  felt  it  all  renew’d. 

What  care  ye  now,  if  winter’s  storm 
Sweep  restless  o’er  each  silken  form  ? 
Christ’s  blessing  at  your  heart  is  warm, 

Ye  fear  no  vexing  mood. 

Alas  !  of  thousand  bosoms  kind, 

That  daily  court  you,  and  caress, 

How  few  the  happy  secret  find 
Of  your  calm  loveliness! 

“  Live  for  to-day  !”  to-morrow’s  light 
To-morrow’s  cares  shall  bring  to  sight. 

Go,  sleep  like  closing  flowers  at  night, 

And  Heaven  thy  morn  will  bless. 

John  Keble. 

■•O*  — 


Chorus  of  the  Flowers. 

We  are  the  sweet  Flowers, 

Born  of  sunny  showers, 

Think,  whene’er  you  see  us,  what  our 
beauty  saith  ; 

Utterance  mute  and  bright 
Of  some  unknown  delight, 

We  fill  the  air  with  pleasure,  by  our  simple 
breath : 

All  who  see  us  love  us ; . 

We  befit  all  places ; 

Unto  sorrow  we  give  smiles ;  and  unto 
graces,  graces. 

Mark  our  ways,  how  noiseless 
All,  and  sweetly  voiceless, 

Though  the  March-winds  pipe  to  make  our 
passage  clear ; 

Not  a  whisper  tells 
Where  our  small  seed  dwells, 

Nor  is  known  the  moment  green  when  our 
tips  appear. 

We  thread  the  earth  in  silence, 

In  silence  build  our  bowers ; 

And  leaf  by  leaf  in  silence  show,  till  we 
laugh  atop,  sweet  Flowers. 

The  dear  lumpish  baby, 

Humming  with  the  May  bee, 

Hails  us  with  his  bright  stare,  stumbling 
through  the  grass ; 

The  honey-dropping  moon, 

On  a  night  in  June, 

Kisses  our  pale  pathway  leaves,  that  fell 
the  bridegroom  pass. 

Age,  the  wither’d  clinger, 

On  us  mutely  gazes, 

And  wraps  the  thought  of  his  last  bed  in 
his  childhood’s  daisies. 

See,  and  scorn  all  duller 
Taste,  how  Heaven  loves  color  ; 

How  great  Nature,  clearly,  joys  in  red  and 
green  ; 

What  sweet  thoughts  she  thinks 
Of  violets  and  pinks, 

And  a  thousand  flashing  hues  made  solely 
to  be  seen  ; 

See  her  whitest  lilies 
Chill  the  silver  showers, 

And  what  a  red  mouth  has  her  rose,  the 
woman  of  the  Flowers. 


29 


450 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Uselessness  divinest, 

Of  a  use  the  finest, 

Painteth  us,  the  teachers  of  the  end  of 
use ; 

Travellers,  weary-eyed, 

Bless  us,  far  and  wide ; 

Unto  sick  and  prison’d  thoughts  we  give 
sudden  truce ; 

Not  a  poor  town-window 
Loves  its  sickliest  planting, 

But  its  wall  speaks  loftier  truth  than 
Babylon’s  whole  vaunting. 

Sage  are  yet  the  uses 
Mix’d  with  our  sweet  juices, 

Whether  man  or  May-fly  profits  of  the 
balm  ; 

As  fair  fingers  heal’d 
Knights  from  the  olden  field, 

We  hold  cups  of  mightiest  force  to  give 
the  wildest  calm. 

E’en  the  terror,  poison, 

Hath  its  plea  for  blooming ; 

Life  it  gives  to  reverent  lips,  though  death 
to  the  presuming. 

And  oh  !  our  sweet  soul-taker, 

That  thief,  the  honey-maker, 

What  a  house  hath  he,  by  the  thymy  glen ! 
In  his  talking  rooms 
How  the  feasting  fumes, 

Till  his  gold  cups  overflow  to  the  mouths 
of  men ! 

The  butterflies  come  aping 
Those  fine  thieves  of  ours, 

And  flutter  round  our  rifled  tops,  like 
tickled  flowers  with  flowers. 

See  those  tops,  how  beauteous ! 

What  fair  service  duteous 
Round  some  idol  waits,  as  on  their  lord  the 
Nine? 

Elfin  court  ’twould  seem, 

And  taught,  perchance,  that  dream 
Which  the  old  Greek  mountain  dreamt 
upon  nights  divine. 

To  expound  such  wonder 
Human  speech  avails  not, 

Yet  there  dies  no  poorest  weed,  that  such 
a  glory  exhales  not. 

Think  of  all  these  treasures, 
Matchless  works  and  pleasures, 


Every  one  a  marvel,  more  than  thought 
can  sav; 

Then  think  in  what  bright  showers 
We  thicken  fields  and  bowers, 

And  with  what  heaps  of  sweetness  half 
stifle  wanton  May ; 

Think  of  the  mossy  forests 
By  the  bee-birds  haunted, 

And  all  those  Amazonian  plains,  lone 
lying  as  enchanted. 

Trees  themselves  are  ours ; 

Fruits  are  born  of  flowers; 

Peach  and  roughest  nut  were  blossoms  in 
the  Spring  ; 

The  lusty  bee  knows  well 
The  news,  and  comes  pell-mell, 

And  dances  in  the  bloomy  thicks  with 
darksome  antheming. 

Beneath  the  very  burthen 
Of  planet-pressing  ocean 
We  wash  our  smiling  cheeks  in  peace,  a 
thought  for  meek  devotion. 

Tears  of  Phoebus — missings 
Of  Cytherea’s  kissings, 

Have  in  us  been  found,  and  wise  men  find 
them  still ; 

Drooping  grace  unfurls 
Still  Hyacinthus’  curls, 

And  Narcissus  loves  himself  in  the  selfish 
rill ; 

Thy  red  lip,  Adonis, 

Still  is  wet  with  morning ; 

And  the  step  that  bled  for  thee  the  rosy 
brier  adorning. 

Oh  !  true  things  are  fables, 

Fit  for  sagest  tables, 

And  the  flowers  are  true  things,  yet  no  fa¬ 
bles  they ; 

Fables  were  not  more 
Bright,  nor  loved  of  yore — 

Yet  they  grew  not,  like  the  flowers,  bv 
every  old  pathway ; 

Grossest  hand  can  test  us  ; 

Fools  may  prize  us  never; 

Yet  we  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise,  marvels 
sweet  for  ever. 

Who  shall  say  that  flowers 
Dress  not  heaven’s  own  bowers  ? 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


451 


Who  its  love,  without  them,  can  fancy — or 
sweet  floor  ? 

Who  shall  even  dare 
To  say  we  sprang  not  there, 

And  came  not  down,  that  Love  might  bring 
one  piece  of  heaven  the  more  ? 

Oh  !  pray  believe  that  angels 
From  those  blue  dominions 

Brought  us  in  their  white  laps  down,  ’twixt 
their  golden  pinions. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

- KX - 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers. 

Day-stars  !  that  ope  your  frownless  eyes 
to  twinkle 

From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth’s  crea¬ 
tion, 

And  dewdrops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprin¬ 
kle 

As  a  libation ! 

Ye  matin  worshippers!  who  bending 
lowly 

Before  the  uprisen  sun — God’s  lidless 
eye— 

Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and 
holy 

Incense  on  high ! 

Ye  bright  mosaics !  that  -with  storied 
beauty 

The  floor  of  Nature’s  temple  tessellate, 

What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive 
duty 

Your  forms  create ! 

’Neath  cloister’d  boughs,  each  floral  bell 
that  swingeth 

And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 

Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever 
ringeth 

A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch 
and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 

But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn, 

Which  God  hath  plann’d ; 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  won¬ 
der, 

"Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and 
moon  supply — 


Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ 
thunder, 

Its  dome  the  sky. 

There — as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 

Through  the  green  aisles,  or,  stretch’d 
upon  the  sod, 

Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God — 

Your  voiceless  lips,  0  Flowers,  are  living 
preachers, 

Each  cup  a  pulpit,  every  leaf  a  book, 

Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles !  that  in  dewy  splendor 

“  Weep  without  woe,  and  blush  without 
a  crime,” 

Oh;  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne’er  surren¬ 
der, 

Your  lore  sublime ! 

“Thou  wert  not,  Solomon!  in  all  thy 
glory, 

Array’d,”  the  lilies  cry,  “  in  robes  like 
ours ; 

How  vain  your  grandeur !  Ah,  how  tran¬ 
sitory 

Are  human  flowers!” 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  Heavenly 
Artist ! 

With  which  thou  paintest  Nature’s  wide¬ 
spread  hall, 

What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  Flowers  !  though  made 
for  pleasure ; 

Blooming  o’er  field  and  wave,  by  day 
and  night, 

From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me 
treasure 

Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  sages  !  what  instructors  hoary 

For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  fur¬ 
nish  scope? 

Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori , 

Yet  fount  of  hope. 

Posthumous  glories!  angel-like  collection  ! 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interr’d  in 
earth, 


452 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection, 

And  second  birth. 

Were  I  in  churchless  solitudes  remaining, 
Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  and 
divines, 

My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  God’s  or¬ 
daining, 

Priests,  sermons,  shrines ! 

Horace  Smith. 


To  an  Early  Primrose. 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms, 

And  cradled  in  the  winds, 

Thee,  when  young  Spring  first  question’d 
Winter’s  sway, 

And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 
Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 
To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 
Unnoticed  and  alone, 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  Virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the 
storms 

Of  chill  adversity  ;  in  some  lone  walk 
Of  life  she  rears  her  head, 

Obscure  and  unobserved  ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her 
blows 

Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast, 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 

Henry  Kirke  White. 

- K>« - 

To  Primroses, 

FILLED  WITH  MORNING  DEW. 

VYhy  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes?  Can 
tears 

Speak  grief  in  you, 

Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teem’d  her  refreshing  dew? 

Alas  !  you  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower; 


Nor  felt  th’  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind ; 

Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years ; 

Or  warp’d,  as  we, 

Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  orphans  young. 
Speaking  by  tears  before  ye  have  a  tongue. 

Speak,  whimpering  younglings,  and  make 
known 

The  reason  why 
Yre  droop  and  weep. 

Is  it  for  want  of  sleep, 

Or  childish  lullaby  ? 

Or,  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet? 

Or  brought  a  kiss 

From  that  sweetheart  to  this? 

No,  no;  this  sorrow,  shown 
By  your  tears  shed, 

Would  have  this  lecture  read  : — 

“  That  things  of  greatest,  so  of  meanest 
worth, 

Conceived  with  grief  are,  and  with  tears 
brought  forth.” 

Robert  Herrick. 

- - 

Daffodils. 

I  wander’d  lonely  as  a  Cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o’er  Vales  and  Hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  Daffodils, 

Beside  the  Lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Way, 

They  stretch’d  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee : — 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company  : 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  mv  couch  I  lie 

7  v 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


453 


They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye, 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude, 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  Daffodils. 

William  Wordsworth. 


To  Daffodils. 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon  : 

As  yet  the  early-rising  Sun 
Has  not  attain’d  his  noon. 

Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song  ; 

And,  having  pray’d  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 
We  have  as  short  a  Spring; 

As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 
As  you,  or  any  thing. 

We  die, 

As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 
Away 

Like  to  the  Summer’s  rain  ; 

Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning’s  dew, 
Ne’er  to  be  found  again. 

Robert  Herrick. 

- K>« - 

The  Violet. 

0  faint,  delicious,  spring-time  violet! 

Thine  odor,  like  a  key, 

Turns  noiselessly  in  memory’s  wards  to  let 
A  thought  of  sorrow  free. 

The  breath  of  distant  fields  upon  my  brow 
Blows  through  that  open  door 
The  sound  of  wind-borne  bells,  more 
sweet  and  low, 

And  sadder  than  of  yore. 

It  comes  afar,  from  that  beloved  place 
And  that  beloved  hour, 

When  life  hung  ripening  in  love’s  golden 
grace, 

Like  grapes  above  a  bower. 

A  spring  goes  singing  through  its  reedy 
grass ; 

The  lark  sings  o’er  my  head, 


Drown’d  in  the  sky — oh  pass,  ye  visions, 
pass ! 

I  would  that  I  were  dead ! — 

Why  hast  thou  open’d  that  forbidden  door 
From  which  I  ever  flee? 

O  vanish’d  Joy!  0  Love,  that  art  no 
more, 

Let  my  vex’d  spirit  be ! 

• 

O  violet!  thy  odor  through  my  brain 
Hath  search’d,  and  stung  to  grief 
This  sunny  day,  as  if  a  curse  did  stain 
Thy  velvet  leaf. 

William  Wetmore  Story. 

- *0* - - 

To  the  Daisy. 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 
Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Sweet  Daisy,  oft  I  talk  to  thee, 

For  thou  art  worthy, 

Thou  unassuming  Commonplace 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 

And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace, 

Which  Love  makes  for  thee  ! 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 
I  sit,  and  play  with  similes, 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 
Thoughts  of  thy  raising  : 

And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame, 

As  is  the  humor  of  the  game, 

While  I  am  gazing. 

A  Nun  demure,  of  lowly  port; 

Or  sprightly  Maiden  of  Love’s  Court, 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 
Of  all  temptations ; 

A  Queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 

A  Starveling  in  a  scanty  vest ; 

Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye 
Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 

That  thought  comes  next — and  instantly 
The  freak  is  over, 

The  shape  will  vanish,  and  behold 
A  silver  Shield  with  boss  of  gold, 

That  spreads  itself,  some  Faery  bold 
In  fight  to  cover  ! 


454 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar  ; — - 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  Star ; 

Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 
In  heaven  above  thee ! 

Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem’st  to  rest ; — 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest, 

Who  shall  reprove  thee ! 

Sweet  Flower  !  for  by  that  name  at  last, 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 

I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet  silent  Creature ! 

That  breath’st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 

Of  thy  meek  nature  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 

- K>« - 

To  the  Daisy. 

Bright  flower,  whose  home  is  everywhere ! 
A  Pilgrim  bold  in  Nature’s  care, 

And  oft,  the  long  year  through,  the  heir 
Of  joy  or  sorrow, 

Methinks  that  there  abides  in  thee 
Some  concord  with  humanity, 

Given  to  no  other  Flower  I  see 
The  forest  through ! 

And  wherefore  ?  Man  is  soon  deprest ; 

A  thoughtless  Thing  !  who,  once  unblest, 
Does  little  on  his  memory  rest, 

Or  on  his  reason  ; 

But  Thou  wouldst  teach  him  how  to  find 
A  shelter  under  every  wind, 

A  hope  for  times  that  are  unkind 
And  every  season. 

Thou  wander’st  this  wide  world  about, 
Uncheck’d  by  pride  or  scrupulous  doubt, 
With  friends  to  greet  thee,  or  without, 

Yet  pleased  and  willing  ; 

Meek,  yielding  to  the  occasion’s  call, 

And  all  things  suffering  from  all, 

Thy  function  apostolical 

In  peace  fulfilling. 

William  Wordsworth. 


To  a  Mountain  Daisy. 

On  Turning  one  down  with  the  Plough, 
in  April,  1786. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou’s  met  me  in  an  evil  hour, 

For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 
Thy  slender  stem  ; 

To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonny  gem. 

Alas  !  it’s  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 

The  bonny  lark,  companion  meet, 

Bending  thee  ’mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi’  speckled  breast, 

When  upward  springing,  blithe,  to  greet 
The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter  biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 
Amid  the  storm, 

Scarce  rear’d  above  the  parent  earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield. 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa’s  mauu 
shield : 

But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 
O’  clod  or  stane, 

Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread, 

Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 
In  humble  guise ; 

But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 

Sweet  flow’ret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 

By  love’s  simplicity  betray’d, 

*And  guileless  trust, 

Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil’d  is  laid 
Low  i’  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life’s  rough  ocean  luckless  starr’d  ! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 
Of  prudent  lore. 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 
And  whelm  him  o’er  ! 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


455 


Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 
To  misery’s  brink, 

Till,  wrench’d  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 
He,  ruin’d,  sink  ! 

Even  thou  who  mourn’st  the  Daisy’s  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine, — no  distant  date  : 

Stern  Ruin’s  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 
Full  on  thy  bloom, 

Till  crush’d  beneath  the  furrow’s  weight 
Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 

Robert  Burns. 

- *04 - 

THE  R HO DORA. 

On  being  Asked,  Whence  is  the 
Flower  ? 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  soli¬ 
tudes, 

I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp 
nook, 

To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish 
brook : 

The  purple  petals  fallen  in  the  pool 

Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty 
gay  — 

Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes 
to  cool, 

And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his 
array. 

Rhodora  !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and 
sky, 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for 
seeing, 

Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 
Why  thou  wert  there,  0  rival  of  the 
rose ! 

I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew ; 

But  in  my  simple  ignorance  suppose 
The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there 
brought  you. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

- - 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian. 

Thou  blossom,  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  color’d  with  the  heaven’s  own  blue, 


That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night ; 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O’er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dress’d, 

Nod  o’er  the  ground-bird’s  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com’st  alone, 

When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  Year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Fook  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 

Blue — blue — as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 

Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 

May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

- ♦<>♦ - 

The  Use  of  Flowers. 

God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth 
Enough  for  great  and  small, 

The  oak  tree  and  the  cedar  tree, 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 

We  might  have  had  enough,  enough, 

For  every  want  of  ours, 

For  luxury,  medicine,  and  toil, 

And  yet  have  had  no  flowers. 

Then  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they  made, 
All  dyed  with  rainbow-light, 

All  fashion’d  with  supremest  grace, 
Upspringing  day  and  night : — 

Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low, 

And  on  the  mountains  high, 

And  in  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not, — 
Then  wherefore  had  they  birth  ? — 

To  minister  delight  to  man, 

To  beautify  the  earth  ; 

To  comfort  man, — to  whisper  hope, 
Whene’er  his  faith  is  dim, 

For  Who  so  careth  for  the  flowers 
Will  care  much  more  for  him  ! 

Mary  Howitt 


456 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


A  Thought  among  the  Roses. 

The  roses  grew  so  thickly, 

I  never  saw  the  thorn, 

Nor  deem’d  the  stem  was  prickly 
Until  my  hand  was  torn. 

Thus  worldly  joys  invite  us 
With  rosy-color’d  hue , 

But,  ere  they  long  delight  us, 

We  find  they  prick  us  too. 

Peter  Spencer. 


'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer. 

’Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer, 

Left  blooming  alone ; 

All  her  lovely  companions 
Are  faded  and  gone; 

No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud,  is  nigh 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I’ll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one  ! 

To  pine  on  the  stem ; 

Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go  sleep  thou  with  them. 

Thus  kindly  I  scatter 
Thy  leaves  o’er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 
Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I  follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 

And  from  love’s  shining  circle 
The  gems  drop  away. 

When  true  hearts  lie  wither’d, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 

Oh,  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  ? 

Thomas  Moore. 


The  Ivy  Green. 

Oh  !  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o’er  ruins  old  ! 

Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I 
ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 

The  walls  must  be  crumbled,  the  stones 
decay’d, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim  ; 


And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have 
made 

Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 

A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no 
wings, 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he ! 

How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he 
clings 

To  his  friend,  the  huge  oak  tree  ! 

And  slyly  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 
And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 

And  he  joyously  twines  and  hugs  around 
The  rich  mould  of  dead  men’s  graves. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 

A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works 
decay’d, 

And  nations  scatter’d  been  ; 

But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade 
From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 

The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 
Shall  fatten  upon  the  past ; 

For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 
Is  the  Ivy’s  food  at  last. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 

A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Charles  Dickens. 

- *>• - 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest 
of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and 
meadows  brown  and  sere. 

Heap’d  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the 
autumn  leaves  lie  dead ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the 
rabbit’s  tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from 
the  shrubs  the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow 
through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flow¬ 
ers,  that  lately  sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beaute¬ 
ous  sisterhood? 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


457 


Alas!  they  all  are  in  their  graves;  the 
gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds  with  the  fair 
and  good  of  ours. 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie ;  but  the 
cold  November  rain 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the 
lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  per¬ 
ish’d  long  ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died 
amid  the  summer  glow  ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the 
aster  in  the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook,  in 
autumn  beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold 
heaven,  as  falls  the  plague  on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone 
from  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day, 
as  still  such  days  will  come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out 
their  winter  home ; 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard, 
though  all  the  trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters 
of  the  rill, 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers 
whose  fragrance  late  he  bore, 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by 
the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youth¬ 
ful  beauty  died, 

The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and 
faded  by  my  side. 

In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her  when 
the  forest  cast  the  leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should 
have  a  life  so  brief ; 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that 
young  friend  of  ours, 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish 
with  the  flowers. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


To  Blossoms. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast? 
Your  date  is  not  so  past 


But  you  may  stay  yet  here  a  while 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 

And  go  at  last. 

What !  were  ye  born  to  be 
An  hour  or  half’s  delight, 

And  so  to  bid  good-night? 

’Tis  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth, 
Merely  to  show  your  worth, 

And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne’er  so  brave ; 
And,  after  they  have  shown  their  pride 
Like  you  a  while,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

Robert  Herrick. 

- *o% - 

Almond-  Bl  ossom. 

Blossom  of  the  almond  trees, 

April’s  gift  to  April’s  bees, 

Birthday  ornament  of  spring, 

Flora’s  fairest  daugliterling  ; — 

Coming  when  no  flowerets  dare 
Trust  the  cruel  outer  air, 

When  the  royal  king-cup  bold 
Dares  not  don  his  coat  of  gold, 

And  the  sturdy  blackthorn  spray 
Keeps  his  silver  for  the  May  ; — 

Coming  when  no  flowerets  would, 

Save  thy  lowly  sisterhood, 

Early  violets,  blue  and  white, 

Dying  for  their  love  of  light, — ■ 
Almond-blossom,  sent  to  teach  us 
That  the  spring  days  soon  will  reach  us, 
Lest,  with  longing  over-tried, 

We  die  as  the  violets  died, — 

Blossom,  clouding  all  the  tree 
With  thy  crimson  ’broidery, 

Long  before  a  leaf  of  green 
On  the  bravest  bough  is  seen, — 

Ah  !  when  winter  winds  are  swinging 
All  thy  red  bells  into  ringing, 

With  a  bee  in  every  bell, 

Almond-bloom,  we  greet  thee  well. 

Edwin  Arnold. 


Song. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me 


458 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird’s  throat, 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 

But  Winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i’  the  sun, 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 

But  Winter  and  rough  weather. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- - 

The  Holly  Tree. 

O  reader  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 
The  holly  tree? 

The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well,  per¬ 
ceives 

Its  glossy  leaves, 

Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 

As  might  confound  the  atheist’s  sophis¬ 
tries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 
Wrinkled  and  keen ; 

No  grazing  cattle,  through  their  prickly 
round, 

Can  reach  to  wound ; 

But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear, 

Smooth  and  unarm’d  the  pointless  leaves 
appear. 

I  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious 
eyes, 

And  moralize ; 

And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  holly  tree 
Can  emblems  see 

Wherewith,  perchance,  to  make  a  pleasant 
rhyme, 

One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 

Thus,  though  abroad,  perchance  I  might 
appear 

Harsh  and  austere 

To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude, 
Reserved  and  rude ; 

Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I’d  be, 

Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly  tree. 


And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  I 
know, 

Some  harshness  show, 

All  vain  asperities  I,  day  by  day,  . 

Would  wear  away, 

Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should 
be 

Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly  tree. 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are 

seen 

So  bright  and  green, 

The  holly-leaves  their  fadeless  hues  dis¬ 
play 

Less  bright  than  they ; 

But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we 
see, 

What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly  tree  ? 

So,  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 
The  thoughtless  throng ; 

So  would  I  seem,  amid  the  young  and  gay, 
More  grave  than  they ; 

That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 

As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly  tree. 

Robert  Southey. 

- •<>•— 

The  Aged  Oak  at  Oakley , 
Somerset. 

I  was  a  young  fair  tree : 

Each  spring  with  quivering  green 
My  boughs  were  clad ;  and  far 
Down  the  deep  vale  a  light 
Shone  from  me  on  the  eyes 
Of  those  who  pass’d, — a  light 
That  told  of  sunny  days, 

And  blossoms,  and  blue  sky  ; 

For  I  was  ever  first 
Of  all  the  grove  to  hear 
The  soft  voice  under  ground 
Of  the  warm-working  spring ; 

And  ere  my  brethren  stirr’d 
Their  sheathed  buds,  the  kine, 

And  the  kine’s  keeper,  came 
Slow  up  the  valley- path, 

And  laid  them  underneath 
My  cool  and  rustling  leaves ; 

And  I  could  feel  them  there 
As  in  the  quiet  shade 
They  stood,  with  tender  thoughts 
That  pass’d  along  their  life 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


459 


Like  wings  on  a  still  lake, 

Blessing  me  ;  and  to  God, 

The  blessed  God,  who  cares 
Fop  all  my  little  leaves, 

Went  up  the  silent  praise , 

And  I  was  glad  with  joy 
Which  life  of  laboring  things 
Ill  knows, — the  joy  that  sinks 
Into  a  life  of  rest. 

Ages  have  fled  since  then  : 

But  deem  not  my  pierced  trunk 
And  scanty  leafage  serves 
No  high  behest;  my  name 
Is  sounded  far  and  wide , 

And  in  the  Providence 
That  guides  the  steps  of  men, 
Hundreds  have  come  to  view 
My  grandeur  in  decay ; 

And  there  hath  pass’d  from  me 

A  quiet  influence 

Into  the  minds  of  men  : 

The  silver  head  of  age, 

The  majesty  of  laws, 

The  very  name  of  God, 

And  holiest  things  that  are 
Have  won  upon  the  heart 
Of  humankind  the  more, 

For  that  I  stand  to  meet 
With  vast  and  bleaching  trunk 

The  rudeness  of  the  sky. 

Hexry  Alford. 


The  Question. 

I  dream’ d  that  as  I  wander’d  by  the  way 
Bare  Winter  suddenly  was  changed  to 
Spring, 

And  gentle  odors  led  my  steps  astray, 
Mix’d  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the 
stream, 

But  kiss’d  it  and  then  fled,  as  thou  might- 
est  in  dream. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 
Daisies,  those  pearl’d  Arcturi  of  the 
earth, 

The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets  ; 
Faint  ox-lips ;  tender  blue-bells,  at 
whose  birth 


The  sod  scarce  heaved ;  and  that  tall 
flower  that  wets 

Its  mother’s  face  with  heaven-collected 
tears, 

When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate’s  voice, 
it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglan¬ 
tine, 

Green  cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-col- 
or’d  may, 

And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups, 
whose  wine 

Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drain’d  not  by 
the  day  ; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine, 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wander¬ 
ing  astray ; 

And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streak’d  with 
gold, 

Fairer  than  any  waken’d  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river’s  trembling  edge 
There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple 
prankt  with  white, 

And  starry  river-buds  among  the  sedge, 
And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and 
bright, 

Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 
With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own 
watery  light ; 

And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep 
green 

As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober 
sheen. 

Methouglit  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 

That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural 
bowers 

Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 

Kept  these  imprison’d  children  of  the 
Hours 

Within  my  hand, — and  then,  elate  and 

gav, 

I  hasten’d  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come 

That  I  might  there  present  it — oh !  to 
whom  ? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

-  ♦Cx - 

Origin  of  the  Opal. 

A  dewdrop  came,  with  a  spark  of  flame 
He  had  caught  from  the  sun’s  last  ray, 


460 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


To  a  violet’s  breast,  where  he  lay  at  rest 

Till  the  hours  brought  back  the  day. 

The  rose  look’d  down,  with  a  blush  and 
frown  ; 

But  she  smiled  all  at  once  to  view 

Her  own  bright  form,  with  its  coloring 
warm, 

Keflected  back  by  the  dew. 

Then  the  stranger  took  a  stolen  look 

At  the  sky  so  soft  and  blue ; 

And  a  leaflet  green,  with  its  silver  sheen, 

Was  seen  by  the  idler  too. 

A  cold  north  wind,  as  he  thus  reclined, 

Of  a  sudden  raged  around  ; 

And  a  maiden  fair,  who  was  walking  there, 

Next  morning,  an  opal  found. 

Author  Unknown. 

- »<>♦  — 

Song  of  the  Brook. 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern  : 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 

And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges ; 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip’s  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stonv  wavs, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles ; 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
Bv  manv  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 


And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 
Upon  me,  as  I  travel, 

With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 
Above  the  golden  gravel ; 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots ; 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers ; 

I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 
That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows, 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses ; 

I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

- »o» - 

Are  thus  a. 

Arethusa  arose 
From  her  couch  of  snows 
In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains, — 
From  cloud  and  from  crag 
With  many  a  jag, 

Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 

She  leapt  down  the  rocks 
With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams  ; — 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 
The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams : 
And,  gliding  and  springing, 

She  went,  ever  singing 
In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep ; 

The  Earth  seem’d  to  love  her, 

And  Heaven  smiled  above  her. 

As  she  linger’d  toward  the  deep. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


461 


Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 

With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook; 
And  open’d  a  chasm 
In  the  rocks ; — with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 
It  conceal’d  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 
Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below : 

The  beard  and  the  hair 
Of  the  river-god  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent’s  sweep, 

As  he  follow’d  the  light 
Of  the  fleet  nymph’s  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

“  Oh,  save  me !  Oh,  guide  me  ! 

And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 

For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair  !” 
The  loud  Ocean  heard, 

To  its  blue  depth  stirr’d, 

And  divided  at  her  prayer ; 

And  under  the  water 
The  Earth’s  white  daughter 
Fled  like  a  sunny  beam  ; 

Behind  her  descended, 

.  Her  billows  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream. 

Like  a  gloomy  stain 
On  the  emerald  main, 

Alpheus  rush’d  behind, — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 
A  dove  to  its  ruin 

Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 

Under  the  bowers 
Where  the  Ocean  Powers 
Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones  ; 

Through  the  coral  woods 
Of  the  weltering  floods, 

Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones ; 
Through  the  dim  beams 
Which  amid  the  streams 
Weave  a  network  of  color’d  light ; 

And  under  the  caves, 

Where  the  shadowy  waves 
Are  as  green  as  the  forest’s  night — 
Outspeeding  the  shark, 

And.  the  sword-fish  dark, 


Under  the  ocean  foam  ; 

And  up  through  the  rifts 
Of  the  mountain-clifts 
They  pass’d  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 
In  Elina’s  mountains, 

Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks, 
Like  friends  once  parted, 

Grown  single-hearted, 

They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 
From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill ; 

At  noontide  they  flow 
Through  the  woods  below, 

And  the  meadows  of  asphodel; 

And  at  night  they  sleep 
In  the  rocking  deep 
Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore  ; — 

Like  spirits  that  lie 
In  the  azure  sky, 

When  they  love,  but  live  no  more. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

- ♦<>• 

Song  of  the  River. 

Clear  and  cool,  clear  and  cool, 

By  laughing  shallow  and  dreaming  pool ; 
Cool  and  clear,  cool  and  clear, 

By  shining  shingle  and  foaming  weir; 
Under  the  crag  where  the  ouzel  sings, 

And  the  ivied  wall  where  the  church-bell 
rings, 

Undefiled  for  the  undefiled; 

Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and 
child. 

Dank  and  foul,  dank  and  foul, 

By  the  smoky  town  in  its  murky  cowl ; 
Foul  and  dank,  foul  and  dank, 

By  wharf,  and  sewer,  and  slimy  bank ; 
Darker  and  darker  the  further  I  go, 

Baser  and  baser  the  richer  I  grow ; 

Who  dare  sport  with  the  sin-defiled? 
Shrink  from  me,  turn  from  me,  motl 
and  child. 

Strong  and  free,  strong  and  free, 

The  flood-gates  are  open,  away  to  the 
sea : 

Free  and  strong,  free  and  strong, 
i  Cleansing  my  streams  as  I  hurry  along 


462 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


To  the  golden  sands  and  the  leaping  bar, 
And  the  taintless  tide  that  awaits  me  afar, 
As  I  lose  myself  in  the  infinite  main, 

Like  a  soul  that  has  sinn’d  and  is  pardon’d 
again, 

Undefiled  for  the  undefiled; 

Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and 
child. 

Charles  Kingsley. 

- *0%  -  ■  — 

The  Sea. 

The  sea!  the  sea!  the  open  sea! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free ! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth’s  wide  regions’  round, 
It  plays  with  the  clouds ;  it  mocks  the 
skies ; 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I’m  on  the  sea!  I’m  on  the  sea! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be ; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 
And  silence  wheresoe’er  I  go  ; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the 
deep, 

What  matter  ?  I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love  (oh  how  I  love!)  to  ride 
On  the  fierce  foaming,  bursting  tide, 

When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest-tune, 

And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 

And  why  the  south-west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull  tame  shore 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 
And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother’s  nest; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is  to  me ; 

For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born  ; 

And  the  wdiale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise 
roll’d, 

And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of 
gold ; 

And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child ! 

I’ve  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers  a  sailor’s  life, 


With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to 

range, 

But  never  have  sought,  nor  sigh’d  for 
change ; 

And  Death,  whenever  he  come  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild  unbounded  sea  ! 

Bryan  Waller  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall). 


The  Sea-Limits. 

Consider  the  sea’s  listless  chime : 

Time’s  self  it  is,  made  audible, — 

The  murmur  of  the  earth’s  own  shell. 
Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea’s  end :  our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  further.  Since  time  was, 
This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death’s, — it  hath 
The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 
Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 

As  the  world’s  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 

Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 

Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 

Gray  and  not  known,  alongdts  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods ; 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee : 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  throng’d 
men 

Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 
And  listen  at  its  lips :  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery, 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea’s  speech. 

And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art: 

And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 

- »<>•  -  ■  ■■ 

The  Tempest. 

The  tempest  has  darken’d  the  face  of  the 
skies, 

The  winds  whistle  wildly  across  the 
waste  plain, 

The  fiends  of  the  whirlwind  terrific  arise. 
And  mingle  the  clouds  with  the  white 
foaming  main. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


463 


All  dark  is  the  night  and  all  gloomy  the 
shore, 

Save  when  the  red  lightnings  the  ether 
divide ; 

Then  follows  the  thunder  with  loud-sound¬ 
ing  roar, 

And  echoes  in  concert  the  billowy  tide. 

But  though  now  all  is  murky  and  shafted 
with  gloom, 

Hope,  the  soother,  soft  whispers  the  tem¬ 
pest  shall  cease ; 

Then  Nature  again  in  her  beauty  shall 
bloom, 

And  enamor’d  embrace  the  fair,  sweet- 
smiling  Peace. 

For  the  bright  blushing  Morning,  all  rosy 
with  light, 

Shall  convey  on  her  wings  the  creator  of 
day; 

He  shall  drive  all  the  tempests  and  terrors 
of  night, 

And  Nature,  enliven’d,  again  shall  be 

gay. 

Then  the  warblers  of  Spring  shall  attune 
the  soft  lav, 

And  again  the  bright  floweret  shall 
blush  in  the  vale ; 

On  the  breast  of  the  ocean  the  zephyr  shall 
play, 

And  the  sunbeam  shall  sleep  on  the  hill 
amd  the  dale. 

If  the  tempests  of  Nature  so  soon  sink  to 
rest, 

If  her  once-faded  beauties  so  soon  glow 
again, 

Shall  man  be  for  ever  by  tempests  op¬ 
press’d, — 

By  the  tempests  of  passion,  of  sorrow, 
and  pain? 

Ah,  no !  for  his  passions  and  sorrows  shall 
cease 

When  the  troublesome  fever  of  life  shall 
be  o’er  : 

In  the  night  of  the  grave  he  shall  slumber 
in  peace, 

And  passion  and  sorrow  shall  vex  him 
no  more. 


And  shall  not  this  night,,  and  its  long  dis¬ 
mal  gloom, 

Like  the  night  of  the  tempest  again 
pass  away  ? 

Yes!  the  dust  of  the  earth  in  bright 
beauty  shall  bloom, 

And  rise  to  the  morning  of  heavenly 
day. 

Sir  Humphry  Davy. 

—  - 

Gulf-  Weed. 

A  weary  weed,  toss’d  to  and  fro, 

Drearily  drench’d  in  the  ocean  brine, 
Soaring  high  and  sinking  low, 

Lash’d  along  without  will  of  mine ; 
Sport  of  the  spoom  of  the  surging  sea : 

Flung  on  the  foam,  afar  and  anear, 
Mark  my  manifold  mystery, — 

Growth  and  grace  in  their  place  appear. 

I  bear  round  berries,  gray  and  red, 
Rootless  and  rover  though  I  be ; 

My  spangled  leaves,  when  nicely  spread, 
Arboresce  as  a  trunkless  tree ; 

Corals  curious  coat  me  o’er, 

White  and  hard  in  apt  array ; 

’Mid  the  wild  waves’  rude  uproar 
Gracefully  grow  I,  night  and  day. 

Hearts  there  are  on  the  sounding  shore, 
Something  whispers  soft  to  me, 

Restless  and  roaming  for  evermore, 

Like  this  weary  weed  of  the  sea ; 

Bear  they  yet  on  each  beating  breast 
The  eternal  type  of  the  wondrous  whole, 
Growth  unfolding  amidst  unrest, 

Grace  informing  with  silent  soul. 

Cornelius  George  Fenner. 

- - 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep. 

What  hid’st  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves 
and  cells, 

Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysterious 
main  ? — 

Pale  glistening  pearls  and  rainbow-coior’d 
shells, 

Bright  things  which  gleam  unreck’d-of 
and  in  vain  ! — 

Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea  ! 
We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 


464 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more ! — what 
wealth  untold, 

Far  down,  and  shining  through  their 
stillness  lies  ! 

Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning 
gold, 

Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  argosies ! — 

Sweep  o’er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and 
wrathful  main  ! 

Earth  claims  not  these  again. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more!  thy 
waves  have  roll’d 

Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by  ; 

Sand  hath  fill’d  up  the  palaces  of  old, 

Sea-weed  o’ergrown  the  halls  of  rev¬ 
elry.— 

Dash  o’er  them,  Ocean,  in  thy  scornful 
play  ! 

Man  yields  them  to  decay. 

Yet  more,  the  billows  and  the  depths  have 
more ! 

High  hearts  and  brave  are  gather’d  to 
thy  breast ! 

They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters 
roar, 

The  battle-thunders  will  not  break  their 
rest. — 

Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems,  thou  stormy 
grave ! 

Give  back  the  true  and  brave  ! 

Give  back  the  lost  and  lovely  !  those  for 
whom 

The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth 
so  long  ! 

The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight’s 
breathless  gloom, 

And  the  vain  yearning  woke  midst  fes¬ 
tal  song ! 

Hold  fast  thy  buried  isles,  thy  towers  o’er- 
thrown, — 

But  all  is  not  thine  own. 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone 
down, 

Dark  flow  thy  tides  o’er  manhood’s  noble 
head, 

O'er  youth’s  bright  locks,  and  beauty’s 
flowerv  crown  ; 

Yet  must  thou  hear  a  voice,— Restore 
the  dead  ! 


Earth  shall  reclaim  her  precious  things 
from  thee  ! — 

Restore  the  dead,  thou  sea ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 

- •<>♦ - 

The  Coral  Grove. 

DaEP  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 

Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove ; 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of 
blue 

That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 

But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain- 
drift, 

And  the  pearl-shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow ; 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows 
flow  ; 

The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 

For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that 
glow 

In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air. 
There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent 
water, 

And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter. 
There  with  a  light  and  easy  motion 
The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear, 
deep  sea ; 

And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea  ; 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 

Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 
And  is  safe  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of 
storms 

Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own. 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 
Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar, 
When  the  wTind-god  frowns  in  the  murky 
skies, 

And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on 
shore ; 

Then,  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea, 

The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral 
grove. 

James  Gates  Percival. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


465 


Drifting. 

My  soul  to-day 
Is  far  away, 

Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay  ; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat, 

Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote : — 

Round  purple  peaks 
It  sails,  and  seeks 

Blue  inlets,  and  their  crystal  creeks, 
Where  high  rocks  throw, 
Through  deeps  below, 

A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim, 

The  mountains  swim  ; 

While  on  Vesuvius’  misty  brim, 

With  outstretch’d  hands, 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O’erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

In  lofty  lines, 

’Mid  palms  and  pines, 

And  olives,  aloes,  elms,  and  vines, 
Sorrento  swings 
On  sunset  wings, 

Where  Tasso’s  spirit  soars  and  sings. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 
O’er  liquid  miles ; 

And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if 
My  rippling  skiff 

Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff ; — 
With  dreamful  eyes 
My  spirit  lies 

Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls 
Where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay’s  deep  breast  at  intervals, 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 

A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild, 

Is  Heaven’s  own  child, 

With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled ; 

The  airs  I  feel 
Around  me  steal 

Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 

30 


Over  the  rail 
My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail, 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense, 

Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 
My  spirit  lies 

Where  Summer  sings  and  never  dies, — 
O’erveil’d  with  vines, 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 
The  cliffs  amid, 

Are  gambolling  with  the  gambolling  kid ; 
Or  down  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls, 

Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher’s  child, 

With  tresses  wild, 

Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 
With  glowing  lips 
Sings  as  she  skips, 

Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 
Where  Traffic  blows, 

From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows;— 
This  happier  one, 

Its  course  is  run 

From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 

With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip  ! 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew ! 

No  more,  no  more 
The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar! 

With  dreamful  eyes 
My  spirit  lies 

Under  the  walls  of  Paradise! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read 
- •<>« - 

At  Sea. 

The  night  was  made  for  cooling  shade, 
For  silence,  and  for  sleep  ; 

And  when  I  was  a  child,  I  laid 
My  hands  upon  my  breast,  and  pray’d. 
And  sank  to  slumbers  deep. 


466 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Childlike,  as  then,  I  lie  to-night, 

And  watch  my  lonely  cabin-light. 

Each  movement  of  the  swaying  lamp 
Shows  how  the  vessel  reels, 

And  o’er  her  deck  the  billows  tramp, 
And  all  her  timbers  strain  and  cramp 
With  everv  shock  she  feels ; 

It  starts  and  shudders,  while  it  burns, 
And  in  its  hinged  socket  turns. 

Now  swinging  slow,  and  slanting  low, 

It  almost  level  lies: 

And  yet  I  know,  while  to  and  fro 
I  watch  the  seeming  pendule  go 
With  restless  fall  and  rise, 

The  steady  shaft  is  still  upright, 

Poising  its  little  globe  of  light. 

O  hand  of  God!  O  lamp  of  peace! 

O  promise  of  my  soul ! 

Though  weak  and  toss’d,  and  ill  at  ease 
Amid  the  roar  of  smiting  seas, — 

The  ship’s  convulsive  roll, — 

I  own,  with  love  and  tender  awe, 

Yon  perfect  type  of  faith  and  law. 

A  heavenly  trust  my  spirit  calms, — 

My  soul  is  fill’d  with  light; 

The  ocean  sings  his  solemn  psalms  ; 

The  wild  winds  chant ;  I  cross  my  palms  ; 

Happy,  as  if  to-night, 

Under  the  cottage- roof  again, 

I  heard  the  soothing  summer  rain. 

John  T.  Trowbridge. 

- K>« - 

Where  Lies  the  Land? 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship 
would  go? 

Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know  ; 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ? 
Away, 

Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck’s  smooth 
face, 

Link’d  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to 
pace ; 

Or,  o’er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On  stormy  nights  when  wild  north-westers 
rave, 

How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and 
wave ! 


|  The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship 
would  go? 

Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know ; 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ? 
Away, 

Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 

- K>»  — 

By  the  Autumn  Sea. 

Fair  as  the  dawn  of  the  fairest  dav, 

Sad  as  the  evening’s  tender  gray, 

By  the  latest  lustre  of  sunset  kissed, 

That  wavers  and  wanes  through  an  amber 
mist, 

There  cometh  a  dream  of  the  past  to  me, 
On  the  desert  sands  by  the  autumn  sea. 

All  heaven  is  wrapped  in  a  mystic  veil, 
And  the  face  of  the  ocean  is  dim  and  pale, 
And  there  rises  a  wind  from  the  chill 
north-west 

That  seemeth  the  wail  of  a  soul’s  unrest, 
As  the  twilight  falls,  and  the  vapors  flee 
Far  over  the  wastes  of  the  autumn  sea. 

A  single  ship  through  the  gloaming  glides, 
Upborne  on  the  swell  of  the  seaward  tides ; 
And  above  the  gleam  of  her  topmast  spar 
Are  the  virgin  eyes  of  the  vesper-star 
That  shine  with  an  angel’s  ruth  on  me, 

A  hopeless  waif,  by  the  autumn  sea. 

The  wings  of  the  ghostly  beach-birds  gleam 
Through  the  shimmering  surf,  and  the  cur¬ 
lew’s  scream 

Falls  faintly  shrill  from  the  darkening 
height ; 

The  first  weird  sigh  on  the  lips  of  Night 
Breathes  low  through  the  sedge  and  the 
blasted  tree, 

With  a  murmur  of  doom,  by  the  autumn 
sea. 

O  sky-enshadowed  and  yearning  main ! 
Your  gloom  but  deepens  this  human  pain; 
Those  waves  seem  big  with  a  nameless  care, 
That  sky  is  a  type  of  the  heart’s  despair, 
As  I  linger  and  muse  by  the  sombre  lea, 
And  the  night-shades  close  on  the  autumn 
sea. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


4G7 


Invitation  to  Izaak  Walton. 

Whilst  in  this  cold  and  blustering  clime, 
Where  bleak  winds  howl  and  tempests 
roar, 

We  pass  away  the  roughest  time 
Has  been  of  many  years  before ; 

Whilst  from  the  most  tempestuous  nooks 
The  dullest  blasts  our  peace  invade, 
And  by  great  rains  our  smallest  brooks 
Are  almost  navigable  made ; 

Whilst  all  the  ills  are  so  improved 
Of  this  dead  quarter  of  the  year, 

That  even  you,  so  much  beloved, 

We  would  not  now  wish  with  us  here, — 

In  this  estate,  I  say,  it  is 

Some  comfort  to  us  to  suppose 
That  in  a  better  clime  than  this 

You,  our  dear  friend,  have  more  repose; 

And  some  delight  to  me  the  while, 

Though  Nature  now  does  weep  in  rain, 
To  think  that  I  have  seen  her  smile, 

And  haply  may  I  do  again. 

If  the  all-ruling  Power  please 
We  live  to  see  another  May, 

We’ll  recompense  an  age  of  these 
Foul  days  in  one  fine  fishing-day. 

We  then  shall  have  a  day  or  two, 

Perhaps  a  week,  wherein  to  try 
What  the  best  master’s  hand  can  do 
With  the  most  deadly  killing  fly — 

A  day  with  not  too  bright  a  beam ; 

A  warm,  but  not  a  scorching  sun; 

A  southern  gale  to  curl  the  stream  ; 

And,  master,  half  our  work  is  done. 

Then,  whilst  behind  some  bush  we  wait 
The  scaly  people  to  betray, 

AVe’ll  prove  it  just,  with  treacherous  bait, 
To  make  the  preying  trout  our  prey  ; 

And  think  ourselves,  in  such  an  hour, 
Happier  than  those,  though  not  so  high, 
Who,  like  leviathans,  devour 
Of  meaner  men  the  smaller  fry. 

This,  my  best  friend,  at  my  poor  home, 
Shall  be  our  pastime  and  our  theme; 
But  then,  should  you  not  deign  to  come, 
You' make  all  this  a  flattering  dream. 

Charles  Cotton. 


The  Anglehs  Wish. 

I  ix  these  flowery  meads  would  be, 

These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me ; 
To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise 
I,  with  my  angle,  would  rejoice, 

Sit  here,  and  see  the  turtle-dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love ; 

Or,  on  that  bank,  feel  the  west  wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty ;  please  my 
mind, 

To  see  sweet  dewdrops  kiss  these  flowers, 
And  then  wash’d  off  by  April  showers ; 
Here,  hear  my  kenna  sing  a  song : 
There,  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young, 

Or  a  laverock  build  her  nest; 

Here,  give  my  weary  spirits  rest, 

And  raise  my  low-pi tch’d  thoughts  above 
Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love. 

Thus,  free  from  lawsuits,  and  the 
noise 

Of  princes’  courts,  I  would  rejoice; 

Or,  with  my  Bryan  and  a  book, 

Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  brook ; 
There  sit  by  him,  and  eat  my  meat ; 

There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set ; 

There  bid  good-morning  to  next  day ; 
There  meditate  my  time  away ; 

And  angle  on  ;  and  beg  to  have 
A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave. 

Izaak  Walton. 

- Kx - 

Verses  in  Praise  of  Angling. 

Quivering  fears,  heart-tearing  cares, 
Anxious  sighs,  untimely  tears, 

Fly,  fly  to  courts, 

Fly  to  fond  worldlings’  sports, 

Where  strain’d  sardonic  smiles  are  glosing 
still, 

And  Grief  is  forced  to  laugh  against  her 
will, 

Where  mirth’s  but  mummery, 

And  sorrows  only  real  be. 

Fly  from  our  country  pastimes,  fly, 

Sad  troops  of  human  misery, 

Come,  serene  looks, 

Clear  as  the  crystal  brooks. 


468 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Or  the  pure  azured  heaven  that  smiles  to 

see 

The  rich  attendance  on  our  poverty  ; 

Peace  and  a  secure  mind, 

Which  all  men  seek,  we  only  find. 

Abused  mortals  !  did  you  know 
Where  joy,  heart’s  ease,  and  comforts  grow, 
You’d  scorn  proud  towers, 

And  seek  them  in  these  bowers, 

Where  winds,  sometimes,  our  woods  per¬ 
haps  may  shake, 

But  blustering  care  could  never  tempest 
make ; 

Nor  murmurs  e’er  come  nigh  us, 
Saving  of  fountains  that  glide  by  us. 

Here’s  no  fantastic  mask  nor  dance, 

But  of  our  kids  that  frisk  and  prance ; 

Nor  wars  are  seen, 

Unless  upon  the  green 
Two  harmless  lambs  are  butting  one  the 
other, 

Which  done,  both  bleating  run,  each  to 
his  mother ; 

And  wounds  are  never  found, 

Save  what  the  ploughshare  gives  the 
ground. 

Here  are  no  entrapping  baits 
To  hasten  too,  too  hasty  fates ; 

Unless  it  be 
The  fond  credulity 

Of  silly  fish,  which  (worldling-like)  still 
look 

Upon  the  bait,  but  never  on  the  hook ; 

Nor  envy,  ’less  among 
The  birds,  for  price  of  their  sweet 
song. 

Go,  let  the  diving  negro  seek 

For  gems,  hid  in  some  forlorn  creek ; 

We  all  pearls  scorn 
Save  what  the  dewy  morn 
Congeals  upon  each  little  spire  of  grass, 
Which  careless  shepherds  beat  down  as 
they  pass ; 

And  gold  ne’er  here  appears, 

Save  what  the  yellow  Ceres  bears. 

Blest  silent  groves,  oh  may  you  be, 

For  ever,  mirth’s  best  nurserv  ! 

May  pure  contents 
For  ever  pitch  their  tents 


Upon  these  downs,  these  meads,  these 
rocks,  these  mountains ; 

And  peace  still  slumber  by  these  purling 
fountains, 

Which  we  may  every  year 
Meet,  when  we  come  a-fishing  here. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


The  Angler. 

Oh  the  gallant  fisher’s  life  ! 

It  is  the  best  of  any : 

’Tis  full  of  pleasure,  void  of  strife, 
And  ’tis  beloved  by  many ; 

Other  joys 
Are  but  tovs ; 

Only  this 
Lawful  is  ; 

For  our  skill 
Breeds  no  ill, 

But  content  and  pleasure. 

In  a  morning  up  we  rise, 

Ere  Aurora’s  peeping ; 

Drink  a  cup  to  wash  our  eyes, 

Leave  the  sluggard  sleeping ; 
Then  we  go, 

To  and  fro, 

With  our  knacks 
At  our  backs, 

To  such  streams 
As  the  Thames, 

If  we  have  the  leisure. 

When  we  please  to  walk  abroad 
For  our  recreation, 

In  the  fields  is  our  abode, 

Full  of  delectation, 

Where,  in  a  brook, 

With  a  hook — 

Or  a  lake, — 

Fish  we  take; 

There  we  sit 
For  a  bit, 

Till  we  fish  entangle. 

We  have  gentles  in  a  horn, 

We  have  paste  and  worms  too; 
We  can  watch  both  night  and  morn, 
Suffer  rain  and  storms  too ; 

None  do  here 
Use  to  swear : 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


469 


Oaths  do  fray 
Fish  away  ; 

We  sit  still, 

Watch  our  quill : 

Fishers  must  not  wrangle. 

If  the  sun’s  excessive  heat 
Make  our  bodies  swelter, 

To  an  osier  hedge  we  get, 

For  a  friendly  shelter; 

Where — in  a  dyke, 

Perch  or  pike, 

Poach  or  dace, 

We  do  chase, 

Bleak  or  gudgeon, 

Without  grudging; 

We  are  still  contented. 

Or,  we  sometimes  pass  an  hour 
Under  a  green  willow 
That  defends  us  from  a  shower, 
Making  earth  our  pillow  ; 

Where  we  may 
Think  and  pray, 

Before  death 
Stops  our  breath ; 

Other  joys 
Are  but  toys, 

And  to  be  lamented. 

John  Chalkhill. 

- -»o« 

The  An  glees  Tr  ysting-  Tree. 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Meet  the  morn  upon  the  lea ; 

Are  the  emeralds  of  the  spring 
On  the  angler’s  trysting-tree  ? 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me ! 

Are  there  buds  on  our  willow  tree  ? 
Buds  and  birds  on  our  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing! 

Have  you  met  the  honey-bee, 

Circling  upon  rapid  wing, 

’Round  the  angler’s  trysting-tree? 

Up,  sweet  thrushes,  up  and  see ! 

Are  there  bees  at  our  willow  tree  ? 
Birds  and  bees  at  the  trysting-tree? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Are  the  fountains  gushing  free? 

Is  the  south  wind  wandering 
Through  the  angler’s  trysting-tree? 


Up,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 

Is  there  wind  up  our  willow  tree? 

Wind  or  calm  at  our  trysting-tree? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Wile  us  with  a  merry  glee  ; 

To  the  flowery  haunts  of  spring — 

To  the  angler’s  trysting-tree. 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 

Are  there  flow’rs  ’neath  our  willow  tree  ? 
Spring  and  flowers  at  the  trysting-tree  ? 

Thomas  Tod  Stoddaet. 

- »o» - 

Address  to  Certain  Gold- 
Fishes. 

Restless  forms  of  living  light 
Quivering  on  your  lucid  wings, 
Cheating  still  the  curious  sight 
With  a  thousand  shadowings ; 

Various  as  the  tints  of  even, 

Gorgeous  as  the  hues  of  heaven, 

Reflected  on  your  native  streams 
In  flitting,  flashing,  billowy  gleams ! 
Harmless  warriors,  clad  in  mail 
Of  silver  breastplate,  golden  scale — 

Mail  of  Nature’s  own  bestowing, 

With  peaceful  radiance  mildly  glowing — 
Fleet  are  ye  as  fleetest  galley 
Or  pirate  rover  sent  from  Sallee  ; 

Keener  than  the  Tartar’s  arrow, 

Sport  ye  in  your  sea  so  narrow. 

Was  the  sun  himself  your  sire? 

Were  ye  born  of  vital  fire? 

Or  of  the  shade  of  golden  flowers 
Such  as  we  fetch  from  Eastern  bowers, 

To  mock  this  murky  clime  of  ours? 
Upward,  downward,  now  ye  glance, 
Weaving  many  a  mazy  dance; 

Seeming  still  to  grow  in  size 
When  ye  would  elude  our  eyes — 

Pretty  creatures  !  we  might  deem 
Ye  were  happy  as  ye  seem — 

As  gay,  as  gamesome,  and  as  blithe, 

As  light,  as  loving,  and  as  lithe, 

As  gladly  earnest  in  your  play, 

As  when  ye  gleam’d  in  far  Cathay : 

And  yet  since  on  this  hapless  earth 
There’s  small  sincerity  in  mirth, 

And  laughter  oft  is  but  an  art 
To  drown  the  outcry  of  the  heart; 


470 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


It  may  be,  that  your  ceaseless  gambols, 
Your  wheelings,  dartings,  divings,  rambles, 
Your  restless  roving  round  and  round 
The  circuit  of  your  crystal  bound — 

Is  but  the  task  of  weary  pain, 

An  endless  labor,  dull  and  vain ; 

And  while  your  forms  are  gavly  shining, 
Your  little  lives  are  inly  pining! 

Nay — but  still  I  fain  would  dream, 

That  ye  are  happy  as  ye  seem. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 
- - 

The  Chambered  Nap  thus. 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 
Sails  the  unshadow’d  main, — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled 
wings 

In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 
And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their 
streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 
Wreck’d  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chamber’d  cell, 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to 
dwell, 

As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing 
shell, 

Before  thee  lies  reveal’d, — 

Its  iris’d  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt 
unseal’d ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 

He  left  the  past  year’s  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway 
through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretch’d  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew 
the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought 
by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 

From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear 
a  voice  that  sins:s : — 


Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  0  my 

soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 

Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more 
vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life’s  un¬ 
resting  sea ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

♦Oo - 

The  Stormy  Petrel. 

A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we, 
Tossing  about  on  the  stormy  sea — 

From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast, 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast. 

The  sails  are  scatter’d  abroad  like  weeds ; 
The  strong  masts  shake  like  quivering 
reeds ; 

The  mightv  cables  and  iron  chains. 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  dis¬ 
dains, — 

They  strain  and  they  crack;  and  hearts 
like  stone 

Their  natural,  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Lip  and  down  ! — up  and  down  ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow’s 
crown, 

And  amidst  the  flashing  and  feathery 
foam 

The  stormy  petrel  finds  a  home, — 

A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 
To  warm  her  young,  and  to  teach  them  to 
spring 

At  once  o’er  the  waves  on  their  stormy 
wing ! 

O’er  the  deep  ! — o’er  the  deep  ! 

Where  the  whale  and  the  shark  and  the 
swordfish  sleep, — 

Outflving  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  petrel  telleth  her  tale — in  vain  ; 

For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Which  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storm 
unheard  ! 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


471 


Ah  !  thus  does  the  prophet  of  good  or  ill 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth 
still  ; 

Yet  he  ne’er  falters, — so,  petrel,  spring 
Once  more  o’er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy 
wing  ! 

Bryan  Waller  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall). 

- K>« - 

The  Little  Beach-Bird. 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the 
sea, 

Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice, 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
O’er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 

Oh  !  rather,  bird,  with  me 
Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  ! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and 
pale, 

As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea  ; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 

As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us.  Thy  wail — 

What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 

Thou  call’st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt’st 
the  surge, 

Restless  and  sad  ;  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 

One  spirit  did  ye  urge — 

The  Mystery — the  Word. 

Of  thousands  thou  both  sepulchre  and 
pall, 

Old  Ocean,  art !  A  requiem  o’er  the 
dead 

From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells — 

Tells  of  man’s  woe  and  fall, 

His  sinless  glory  fled. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy 
flight 

Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness 
bring 

Thy  spirit  never  more. 

Come,  quit  with  me,  the  shore 
For  gladness,  and  the  light 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 

Richard  Henry  Dana. 


To  a  Waterfowl. 

Whither,  ’midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last 
steps  of  day, 

Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou 
pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler’s  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee 
wrong, 

As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek’st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and 
sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless 
coast, 

The  desert  and  illimitable  air, 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fann’d, 

At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmo¬ 
sphere, 

Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome 
land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 

Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home  and 
rest, 

And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds 
shall  bend 

Soon  o’er  thy  shelter’d  nest. 

Thou’rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallow’d  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my 
heart, 

Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast 
given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  cer¬ 
tain  flight, 

In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


■+0+- 


472 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


To  a  Bird 

that  Haunted  the  Waters  of  Laaken 
in  the  Winter. 

0  melancholy  bird  !  a  winter’s  day 
Thou  standest  by  the  margin  of  the 
pool, 

And,  taught  by  God,  dost  thy  whole 
being  school 

To  patience,  which  all  evil  can  allay. 

God  has  appointed  thee  the  fish  thy  prey, 
And  given  thyself  a  lesson  to  the  fool 
Unthrifty,  to  submit  to  moral  rule, 

And  his  unthinking  course  by  thee  to 
weigh. 

There  need  not  schools  nor  the  profes¬ 
sor’s  chair, 

Though  these  be  good,  true  wisdom  to  im¬ 
part  ; 

He  who  has  not  enough  for  these  to 
spare 

Of  time  or  gold,  may  yet  amend  his  heart, 
And  teach  his  soul  by  brooks  and  rivers 
fair, — 

Nature  is  always  wise  in  every  part. 

Lord  Thurlow. 

- - 

Song. 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest, 

And,  climbing,  shakes  his  dewy  wings  ; 

He  takes  this  window  for  the  east  ; 

And  to  implore  your  light,  he  sings, — 

Awake,  awake,  the  morn  will  never  rise, 

Till  she  can  dress  her  beauty  at  your 
eyes. 

The  merchant  bows  unto  the  seaman’s 
star, 

The  ploughman  from  the  sun  his  season 
takes, 

Blit  still  the  lover  wonders  what  they  are 

*  Who  look  for  day  before  his  mistress 
wakes. 

Awake,  awake,  break  through  your  veils 
of  lawn, 

Then  draw  your  curtains,  and  begin  the 
dawn. 

Sir  William  Davenant. 


Philomela. 

Hark  !  ah,  the  nightingale ! 

The  tawny-throated ! 

Hark !  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a 
burst ! 

What  triumph  !  hark — what  pain  ! 

O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 

Still — after  many  years,  in  distant  lands — 
Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder’d  brain 
That  wild,  unquench’d,  deep-sunken,  old- 
world  pain — 

Say,  will  it  never  heal? 

And  can  this  fragrant  lawn, 

With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 

And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 

And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 

To  thy  racked  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  Eng¬ 
lish  grass, 

The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian 
wild  ? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse, 

With  hot  cheeks  and  sear’d  eyes, 

The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister’s 
shame  ? 

Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight ;  and  feel  come  over  thee, 

Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more ;  and  once  more  seem  to  make 
resound 

With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian 
vale? 


Listen,  Eugenia — 

How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding 
through  the  leaves ! 

Again — thou  hearest? 

Eternal  passion ! 

Eternal  pain ! 

Matthew  Arnold. 

- - 


■•o*- 


Song. 

’Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  merry  lark, 
That  bids  a  blithe  good-morrow  ; 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


473 


But  sweeter  to  hark,  in  the  twinkling  dark, 
To  the  soothing  song  of  sorrow. 

0  nightingale  !  What  doth  she  ail  ? 

And  is  she  sad  or  jolly  ? 

For  ne’er  on  earth  was  sound  of  mirth 
So  like  to  melancholy. 

The  merry  lark,  he  soars  on  high, 

No  worldly  thought  o’ertakes  him  ; 

He  sings  aloud  to  the  clear  blue  sky, 

And  the  daylight  that  awakes  him. 

As  sweet  a  lay,  as  loud,  as  gay, 

The  nightingale  is  trilling  ; 

With  feeling  bliss,  no  less  than  his, 

Her  little  heart  is  thrilling. 

Yet  ever  and  anon,  a  sigh 

Peers  through  her  lavish  mirth  ; 

For  the  lark’s  bold  song  is  of  the  sky, 

And  her’s  is  of  the  earth. 

By  night  and  day,  she  tunes  her  lay, 

To  drive  away  all  sorrow  ; 

For  bliss,  alas  !  to-night  must  pass, 

And  woe  may  come  to-morrow. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 

- - •<>•  .  . 

To  a  Skylark. 

Up  with  me  !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! 
For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong  ; 

Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! 
Singing,  singing, 

With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing, 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 

That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind  ! 

I  have  walk’d  through  wildernesses  dreary, 
And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary  ; 

Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery, 

Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 

There’s  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 
In  that  song  of  thine  ; 

Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 
To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning, 

Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning  ; 

Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth, 
Drunken  Lark!  thou  wouldst  be  loth 
To  be  such  a  Traveller  as  I. 


Happy,  happy  Liver, 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  River 

Pouring  out  praise  to  the  Almighty  Giver, 

Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 

- K>« - 

To  a  Skylark. 

Ethereal  Minstrel !  Pilgrim  of  the  sky ! 

Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares 
abound  ? 

Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and 
eye 

Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy 
ground? — 

Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at 
will, 

Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that 
music  still ! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 

Mount,  daring  Warbler  !  that  love- 
prompted  strain 

(’Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing 
bond) 

Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the 
plain : 

Yet  might’st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege! 
to  sing 

All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

Leave  to  the  Nightingale  her  shady  wood; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine; 

Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a 
flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine ; 

Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never 
roam ; 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and 
Home ! 

William  Wordsworth. 

- - 

Tile  Skylark. 

Bird  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 

Sweet  be  thy  matin  o’er  moorland  and 
lea ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

Oh  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee : 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud ; 


474 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Love  gives  it  energy — love  gave  it  birth. 
Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing — 

Where  art  thou  journeying? 

Thy  lay  is  in  heaven — thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O’er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O’er  moor  and  mountain  green, 

O’er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day  ; 
Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow’s  rim, 

Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 
Low  in  the  heather  blooms, 

Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love 
be ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

Oh  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

James  Hogg. 


To  a  Skylark. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit — 

Bird  thou  never  wert — 

That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 

And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring 
ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 
Of  the  setting  sun, 

O’er  which  clouds  are  bright’ning, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 

Like  an  embodied  joy  whose  race  is  just 
begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 
Melts  around  thy  flight ; 

Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill 
delight — 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 

Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 

Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel,  that  it  is  there. 


All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thv  voice  is  loud, 

As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven 
is  overflow’d. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 

From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 

As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of 
melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 

Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it 
heeded  not ; 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 
In  a  palace  tower, 

Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 

With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows 
her  bower ; 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden, 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 

Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen 
it  from  the  view  ; 

Like  a  rose  embower’d 
In  its  own  green  leaves, 

Bv  warm  winds  deflower’d, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these 
heavy-winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 

Bain-awaken’d  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 

Joyous  and  fresh  and  clear,  thy  music  doth 
surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine; 

I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so 
divine. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


475 


Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphant  chaunt, 

Match’d  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt, — 

A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some 
hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 
Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 

What  fields,  or  wayes,  or  mountains? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 

What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  What 
ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joyance 
Languor  cannot  be ; 

Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee; 

Thou  lovest,  but  ne’er  knew  love’s  sad 
satiety. 

Waking,  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 

Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 

Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a 
crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not; 

Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of 
saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 
Hate  and  pride  and  fear, 

If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 

I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should 
come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 
Of  delightful  sound, 

Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 

Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the 
*  ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 
That  thv  brain  must  know, 

Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 

The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  lis¬ 
tening  now. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


The  Early  Blue-Bird. 

Blue-bird  !  on  yon  leafless  tree, 

Dost  thou  carol  thus  to  me, 

“  Spring  is  coming !  Spring  is  here  ! ” 
Sav’st  thou  so,  my  birdie  dear? 

What  is  that,  in  misty  shroud, 

Stealing  from  the  darken’d  cloud  ? 

Lo  !  the  snow-flakes’  gathering  mound 
Settles  o’er  the  whiten’d  ground, 

Yet  thou  singest,  blithe  and  clear, 

“  Spring  is  coming !  Spring  is  here  !” 

Strik’st  thou  not  too  bold  a  strain  ? 
Winds  are  piping  o’er  the  plain  ; 

Clouds  are  sweeping  o’er  the  sky 
With  a  black  and  threatening  eye ; 
Urchins,  by  the  frozen  rill. 

Wrap  their  mantles  closer  still; 

Yon  poor  man,  with  doublet  old, 

Doth  he  shiver  at  the  cold  ? 

Hath  he  not  a  nose  of  blue? 

Tell  me,  birdling,  tell  me  true. 

Spring’s  a  maid  of  mirth  and  glee, 
Bosy  wreaths  and  revelry : 

Hast  thou  woo’d  some  winged  love 
To  a  nest  in  verdant  grove  ? 

Sung  to  her  of  greenwood  bower, 

Sunnv  skies  that  never  lower? 

Lured  her  with  thy  promise  fair 
Of  a  lot  that  knows  no  care  ? 

Pr’ythee,  bird,  in  coat  of  blue, 

Though  a  lover,  tell  her  true. 

Ask  her  if,  when  storms  are  long, 

She  can  sing  a  cheerful  song? 

When  the  rude  winds  rock  the  tree, 

If  she’ll  closer  cling  to  thee? 

Then  the  blasts  that  sweep  the  sky, 
Unappall’d  shall  pass  thee  by; 

Though  thy  curtain’d  chamber  show 
Siftings  of  untimely  snow, 

Warm  and  glad  thy  heart  shall  be, 

Love  shall  make  it  Spring  for  thee. 

Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney. 

- *o« - - 

The  Blue-bird. 

When  winter’s  cold  tempests  and  snows 
are  no  more, 

Green  meadows  and  brown  -  furrowed 
fields  reappearing, 


476 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  fishermen  hauling  their  shad  to  the 
shore, 

And  cloud-cleaving  geese  to  the  Lakes 
are  a-steering ; 

When  first  the  lone  butterfly  flits  on  the 
wing ; 

When  red  glow  the  maples,  so  fresh  and 
so  pleasing, 

Oh  then  comes  the  blue-bird,  the  herald 
or  spring! 

And  hails  with  his  warblings  the  charms 
of  the  season. 

Then  loud-piping  frogs  make  the  marshes 
to  ring ; 

Then  warm  glows  the  sunshine,  and  fine 
is  the  weather ; 

The  blue  woodland  flowers  just  beginning 
to  spring, 

And  spicewood  and  sassafras  budding 
together : 

Oh  then  to  your  gardens,  ye  housewives,  re¬ 
pair  ! 

Your  walks  border  up  ;  sow  and  plant  at 
your  leisure ; 

The  blue-bird  will  chant  from  his  box 
such  an  air, 

That  all  your  hard  toils  will  seem  truly 
a  pleasure. 

He  flits  through  the  orchard,  he  visits  each 
tree, 

The  red-flowering  peach  and  the  apple’s 
sweet  blossoms ; 

He  snaps  up  destroyers  wherever  they  be, 

And  seizes  the  caitiffs  that  lurk  in  their 
bosoms ; 

He  drags  the  vile  grub  from  the  corn  he 
devours, 

The  worms  from  their  webs  where  they 
riot  and  welter; 

His  song  and  his  services  freely  are  ours, 

And  all  that  he  asks  is  in  summer  a 
shelter. 

The  ploughman  is  pleased  when  he  gleans 
in  his  train, 

Now  searching  the  furrows,  now  mount¬ 
ing  to  cheer  him ; 

The  gardener  delights  in  his  sweet  simple 
strain, 

And  leans  on  his  spade  to  survey  and  to 
hear  him ; 


The  slow-lingering  schoolboys  forget  they’ll 
be  chid, 

While  gazing  intent  as  he  warbles  before 
’em 

In  mantle  of  sky-blue,  and  bosom  so 
red, 

That  each  little  loiterer  seems  to  adore 
him. 

When  all  the  gay  scenes  of  the  summer  are 
o’er, 

And  autumn  slow  enters  so  silent  and 
sallow, 

And  millions  of  warblers,  that  charmed  us 
before, 

Have  fled  in  the  train  of  the  sun-seeking 
swallow, 

The  blue-bird,  forsaken,  yet  true  to  his 
home, 

Still  lingers,  and  looks  for  a  milder  to¬ 
morrow, 

Till,  forced  by  the  horrors  of  winter  to 
roam, 

He  sings  his  adieu  in  a  lone  note  of 
sorrow. 

While  spring’s  lovely  season,  serene,  dewy, 
warm, 

The  green  face  of  earth,  and  the  pure 
blue  of  heaven, 

Or  love’s  native  music  have  influence  to 
charm, 

Or  sympathy’s  glow  to  our  feelings  is 
given, 

Still  dear  to  each  bosom  the  blue-bird  shall 
be ; 

His  voice,  like  the  thrillings  of  hope,  is 
a  treasure ; 

For,  through  bleakest  storms  if  a  calm  he 
but  see, 

He  comes  to  remind  us  of  sunshine  and 
pleasure ! 

Alexander  Wilson. 


The  Thrush s Nest. 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn 
bush, 

That  overhung  a  molehill  large  and 
round, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


477 


[  heard  from  morn  to  morn  a  merry  thrush 
Sing  hymns  of  rapture,  while  I  drank 
the  sound 

With  joy,  and  oft,  an  unintruding  guest, 

I  watch’d  her  secret  toils  from  day  to 

day ; 

•/  * 

How  true  she  warp’d  the  moss  to  form  her 
nest, 

And  modell’d  it  within  with  wood  and 
clay. 

And  by  and  by,  like  heath-bells  gilt  with 
dew, 

There  lay  her  shining  eggs  as  bright  as 
flowers, 

Ink-spotted  over,  shells  of  green  and  blue  : 
And  there  I  witness’d  in  the  summer 
hours 

A  brood  of  Nature’s  minstrels  chirp  and 

fly, 

Glad  as  the  sunshine  and  the  laughing 
sky. 

John  Clare. 


Sonnet 

To  the  Redbreast. 

When  that  the  fields  put  on  their  gay 
attire, 

Thou  silent  sitt’st  near  brake  or  river’s 
brim, 

Whilst  the  gay  thrush  sings  loud  from 
covert  dim  ; 

But  when  pale  Winter  lights  the  social 
fire, 

And  meads  with  slime  are  sprent  and 
ways  with  mire. 

Thou  charm’st  us  with  thy  soft  and  solemn 
hymn, 

From  battlement  or  barn,  or  haystack  trim  ; 

And  now  not  seldom  tun’st,  as  if  for  hire, 

Thy  thrilling  pipe  to  me,  waiting  to 
catch 

The  pittance  due  to  thy  well-warbled  song : 

Sweet  bird,  sing  on  !  for  oft  near  lonely 
hatch, 

Like  thee,  myself  have  pleased  the  rustic 
throng, 

And  oft  for  entrance,  ’neath  the  peaceful 
thatch, 

Full  many  a  tale  have  told  and  ditty 
long. 

John  Bampfylde. 


Robin  Redbreast. 

Good-bye,  good-bye  to  Summer ! 

For  Summer’s  nearly  done  ; 

The  garden  smiling  faintly, 

Cool  breezes  in  the  sun  ; 

Our  thrushes  now  are  silent, 

Our  swallows  flown  away, — 

But  Robin’s  here  in  coat  of  brown, 

And  scarlet  breast-knot  gay. 

Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear ! 

Robin  sings  so  sweetly 
In  the  falling  of  the  year. 

Bright  yellow,  red,  and  orange, 

The  leaves  come  down  in  hosts ; 

The  trees  are  Indian  princes, 

But  soon  they’ll  turn  to  ghosts; 

The  leathery  pears  and  apples 
Hang  russet  on  the  bough ; 

It’s  autumn,  autumn,  autumn  late, 
’Twill  soon  be  winter  now. 

Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

0  Robin  dear ! 

And  what  will  this  poor  Robin  do  ? 

For  pinching  days  are  near. 

The  fireside  for  the  cricket, 

The  wheat-stack  for  the  mouse, 

When  trembling  night-winds  whistle 
And  moan  all  round  the  house. 

The  frosty  ways  like  iron, 

The  branches  plumed  with  snow, — 
Alas  !  in  winter  dead  and  dark, 

Where  can  poor  Robin  go  ? 

Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear ! 

And  a  crumb  of  bread  for  Robin, 

His  little  heart  to  cheer. 

William  Allingham. 

- - 

To  a  Nightingale. 

Sweet  bird  !  that  sing’st  away  the  early 
hours 

Of  winters  past  or  coming,  void  of 
care ; 

Well  pleased  with  delights  which  pres¬ 
ent  are, 

Fair  seasons,  budding  sprays,  sweet-smell¬ 
ing  flowers — 


478 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy 
bowers 

Thou  thy  Creator’s  goodness  dost  de¬ 
clare, 

And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  He  did  not 
spare, 

A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 

What  soul  can  be  so  sick  which  by  thy 
songs 

(Attired  in  sweetness)  sweetly  is  not 
driven 

Quite  to  forget  earth’s  turmoils,  spites, 
and  wrongs, 

And  lift  a  reverend  eye  and  thought  to 
Heaven  ! 

Sweet,  artless  songster !  thou  my  mind 
dost  raise 

To  airs  of  spheres — yes,  and  to  angels’ 
lays. 

William  Drummond. 

-  •<>♦ 

To  the  Nightingale . 

Dear  chorister,  who  from  those  shadows 
sends — 

Ere  that  the  blushing  morn  dare  show 
her  light — 

Such  sad  lamenting  strains,  that  night  at¬ 
tends, 

Become  all  ear,  stars  stay  to  hear  thy 
plight : 

If  one  whose  grief  e’en  reach  of  thought 
transcends, 

Who  ne’er  (not  in  a  dream)  did  taste 
delight, 

May  thee  importune  who  like  case  pre¬ 
tends, 

And  seems  to  joy  in  woe,  in  woe’s  de¬ 
spite; 

Tell  me  (so  mav  thou  fortune  milder  try, 

And  long,  long,  sing!)  for  what  thou  thus 
complains, 

Since  winter’s  gone,  and  sun  in  dappled 
sky 

Enamor’d  smiles  on  woods  and  flowery 
plains  ? 

The  bird,  as  if  my  questions  did  her 
move, 

With  trembling  wings  sigh’d  forth,  “  I 
love,  I  love.” 

William  Drummond. 


To  the  Nightingale. 

0  Nightingale,  that  on  yon  bloomy 
spray, 

Warblest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are 
still, 

Thou  with  fresh  hope  the  .  lover’s  heart 
dost  fill, 

While  the  jolly  hours  lead  on  propitious 
Mav. 

Thy  liquid  notes,  that  close  the  eye  of 
day, 

First  heard  before  the  shallow  cuckoo’s 
bill, 

Portend  success  in  love.  Oh,  if  Jove’s 
will 

Have  link’d  that  amorous  power  to  thy 
soft  lay, 

Now  timely  sing,  ere  the  rude  bird  of 
hate 

Foretell  my  hopeless  doom  in  some  grove 
nigh  ; 

As  thou  from  year  to  year  hast  sung  too 
late 

For  my  relief,  yet  hadst  no  reason  why. 

Whether  the  Muse,  or  Love  call  thee  his 

.  mate, 

Both  them  I  serve,  and  of  their  train  am  I. 

John  Milton. 

•<>♦ - 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsv  numbness 
pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had 
drunk, 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-ward  had 
sunk. 

’Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 

But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, 

That  thou,  light- winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 

Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  number¬ 
less, 

Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

Oh,  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool’d  a  long  age  in  the  deep  delved 
earth, 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and  Provengal  song,  and  sun- 
burn’d  mirth ! 


*0* 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


479 


Oh,  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippo- 
crene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth, — 

That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world 
unseen, 

And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim! 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never 
known, 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other 
groan, 

Where  palsy  shakes  a  few  sad,  last  gray 
hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre- 
thin,  and  dies, 

Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 

Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous 
eyes, 

Or  new  love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-mor¬ 
row. 

Away !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  re¬ 
tards  : 

Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her 
throne, 

Cluster’d  around  by  all  her  starry  fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the 
breezes  blown 

Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding 
mossy  ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 
Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the 
boughs ; 

But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each 
sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  en¬ 
dows 

The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit  tree 
wild,— 

White  hawthorn  and  the  pastoral  eglan¬ 
tine; 


Fast-fading  violets,  cover’d  up  in  leaves, 
And  mid-May’s  eldest  child, 

The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy 
wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer 
eves. 

Darkling  I  listen,  and  for  many  a  time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful 
Death, 

Call’d  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused 
rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 

Now,  more  than  ever,  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight,  with  no 
pain, 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul 
abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  siilg,  and  I  have  ears 
in  vain, — 

To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal 
bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 

The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was 
heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  ; 

Perhaps  the  selfsame  song  that  found  a 
path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when, 
sick  for  home, 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charm’d  magic  casements  opening  on 
the  foam 

Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 
To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole 
self? 

Adieu !  the  Fancv  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 

Adieu !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still 
stream, 

Up  the  hillside,  and  now  ’tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades; 

Was  it  a  vision  or  a  waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music, — do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

John  Keats. 

- »o+  ■  , 


480 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Nightingale. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 

Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing, 

Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  spring, 
Everything  did  banish  moan 
Save  the  nightingale  alone. 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Lean’d  her  breast  against  a  thorn, 

And  there  sung  the  dolefullest  dittv 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry ; 

Tereu,  tereu,  by  and  by  : 

That  to  hear  her  so  complain 
Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain  ; 

For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 
Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

■ — Ah,  thought  I,  thou  mourn’st  in  vain, 
None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain  : 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee, 
Ruthless  beasts,  they  will  not  cheer  thee  ; 
King  Pandion,  he  is  dead, 

All  thy  friends  are  lapp’d  in  lead : 

All  thy  fellow-birds  do  sing 
Careless  of  thy  sorrowing  : 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee 

None  alive  will  pity  me. 

Richard  Barnefield. 

-  ■  »<>• - 

The  Songs  of  Birds. 

W hat  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail  ? 

Oh  ’tis  the  ravish’d  nightingale — 

Jug,  jug,  jug,  jug,— teru— she  cries, 

And  still  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 

Brave  prick-song  !  who  is’t  now  we  hear  ? 
None  but  the  lark  so  shrill  and  clear  ; 

Now  at  heaven’s  gate  she  claps  her  wings, 
The  morn  not  waking  till  she  sings. 

Hark,  hark  !  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poor  Robin  Redbreast  tunes  his  note ; 

Hark,  how  the  jolly  cuckoos  sing 

“  Cuckoo  !”  to  welcome  in  the  spring. 

John  Lyly. 

- »<>•  -  - 

On  the  Departure  of  the 
Nightingale. 

Sweet  poet  of  the  woods — a  long  adieu  ! 

Farewell,  soft  minstrel  of  the  early  year  ! 

•  •/  •/  | 


Ah !  ’twill  be  long  ere  thou  shalt  sing 
anew, 

And  pour  thy  music  on  “  the  night’s 
dull  ear.” 

Whether  on  Spring  thy  wandering  flights 
await, 

Or  whether  silent  in  our  groves  you 
dwell, 

The  pensive  Muse  shall  own  thee  for  her 
mate, 

And  still  protect  the  song  she  loves  so 
well. 

With  cautious  step  the  love-lorn  youth 
shall  glide 

Through  the  long  brake  that  shades  thy 
mossy  nest ; 

And  shepherd  girls  from  eyes  profane  shall 
hide 

The  gentle  bird  who  sings  of  pity  best : 

For  still  thy  voice  shall  soft  affections 
move, 

And  still  be  dear  to  sorrow,  and  to  love ! 

Charlotte  Smith. 


To  the  Cuckoo. 

O  blithe  new-comer !  I  have  heard, 

I  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

O  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 

Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear, 

That  seems  to  fill  the  whole  air’s  space, 
As  loud  far  off  as  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring! 
Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  Bird  :  but  an  invisible  Thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  Schoolboy  days 
I  listen’d  to  ;  that  Cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 

Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


481 


And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love ; 

Still  long’d  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  Bird !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place ; 

That  is  fit  home  for  Thee  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 

•<>•  ■  ■  — 

To  the  Cuckoo. 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove ! 

Thou  messenger  of  Spring  ! 

Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

Soon  as  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear. 

Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year? 

Delightful  visitant !  with  thee 
I  hail  the  time  with  flowers, 

And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 
From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  schoolboy,  wandering  through  the 
wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 

Starts,  thv  most  curious  voice  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 
Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 

An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 

Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  Winter  in  thy  year! 

Oh,  could  I  flv,  I’d  fly  with  thee ! 

We’d  make,  with  joyful  wing, 

Our  annual  visit  o’er  the  globe, 

Attendants  on  the  Spring. 

John  Logan. 


The  Black  Cock. 

Good-morrow  to  thy  sable  beak, 

And  glossy  plumage  dark  and  sleek. 

Thy  crimson  moon  and  azure  eye, 

Cock  of  the  heath,  so  wildly  shy  ! 

I  see  thee,  slyly  cowering,  through 
That  wiry  web  of  silvery  dew, 

That  twinkles  in  the  morning  air, 

Like  casement  of  my  lady  fair. 

A  maid  there  is  in  vonder  tower. 

Who,  peeping  from  her  early  bower, 

Half  shows,  like  thee,  with  simple  wile, 
Her  braided  hair  and  morning  smile. 

The  rarest  things,  with  wayward  will, 
Beneath  the  covert  hide  them  still ; 

The  rarest  things  to  light  of  day 
Look  shortly  forth,  and  shrink  away. 

One  fleeting  moment  of  delight 
I  sunn’d  me  in  her  cheering  sight ; 

And  short,  I  ween,  the  tefm  will  be 
That  I  shall  parley  hold  with  thee. 
Through  Snowdon’s  mist  red  beams  the 
day, 

The  climbing  herd-boy  chants  his  lay, 

The  gnat-flies  dance  their  sunny  ring, — 
Thou  art  already  on  the  wing. 

Joanna  Baillie. 

- ♦<>• 

Song. 

Oh  welcome,  bat  and  owlet  gray, 

Thus  winging  low  your  airy  way  ! 

And  welcome,  moth  and  drowsy  flv, 

That  to  mine  ear  come  humming  by  ! 

And  welcome,  shadows  dim  and  deep. 

And  stars  that  through  the  pale  sky 
peep  ! 

Oh  welcome  all !  to  me  ye  say, 

My  woodland  love  is  on  her  way. 

Upon  the  soft  wind  floats  her  hair ; 

Her  breath  is  in  the  dewy  air  ; 

Her  steps  are  in  the  whisper’d  sound 
That  steals  along  the  stilly  ground. 

0  dawn  of  day,  in  rosy  bower, 

What  art  thou  to  this  witching  hour? 

O  noon  of  day,  in  sunshine  bright, 

What  art  thou  to  the  fall  of  night  ? 

Joanna  Baillie. 


31 


-•0+- 


-♦o* 


482 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


To  the  Butterfly. 

Child  of  the  sun  !  pursue  thy  rapturous 
flight, 

Mingling  with  her  thou  lov’st  in  fields  of 
light ; 

And,  where  the  flowers  of  Paradise  unfold, 

Quaff  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of 
gold. 

There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening 
sky, 

Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstasy ! 

— Yet  wert  thou  once  a  worm,  a  thing  that 
crept 

On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a  tomb 
and  slept. 

And  such  is  man  ;  soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 

To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 


On  the  Grasshopper  and 
Cricket. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot 
sun 

A.nd  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

F rom  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown 
mead. 

That  is  the  Grasshopper’s — he  takes  the 
lead 

In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 

1/  7 

With  his  delights  ;  for,  when  tired  out  with 
fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant 
weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove 
there  shrills 

The  Cricket’s  song,  in  warmth  increasing 
ever, 

And  seems,  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

The  Grasshopper’s  among  some  grassy 
hills. 

John  Keats. 

- »<>• - 

To  the  Grasshopper  and 
Cricket. 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of 
June — 


Sole  voice  that’s  heard  amidst  the  lazy 
noon 

When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning 
brass ; 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who 

class 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come 
too  soon, 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome 
tune 

Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they 
pass ; 

O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the 
hearth, 

Both  have  your  sunshine:  both,  though 
small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts ;  and  both  seem 
given  to  earth 

To  ring  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural 
song — 

In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter. 
Mirth. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


The  Humble-Bee. 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee, 

Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 

Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek  ; — 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 

Thou  animated  torrid  zone ! 

Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 

Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines : 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 

Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 

Sailor  of  the  atmosphere, 

Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air, 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 
Epicurean  of  June, 

Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 

All  without  is  martyrdom, 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall; 

And,  with  softness  touching  all, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


483 


Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  the  color  of  romance  ; 

And  infusing  subtle  heats 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets, — 

Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  Midsummer’s  petted  crone, 

Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 

Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found  ; 

Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen  ; 

But  violets,  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple  sap,  and  daffodils, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 
Succory  to  match  the  sky, 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 

Clover,  catch-fly,  adder’s-tongue, 

And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among: 

All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 

All  was  picture  as  he  pass’d. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 

Yellow -breech’d  philosopher! 

Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 

Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 

Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  north-western  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep  ; 

W oe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep  ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 

Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


Song, 

made  Extempore  by  a  Gentleman,  oc¬ 
casioned  by  a  Fly  drinking  out  of 
his  Cup  of  Ale. 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly, 

Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I ; 

Freely  welcome  to  my  cup, 

Could’st  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up. 


Make  the  most  of  life  you  may  ; 

Life  is  short  and  wears  away. 

Both  alike  are  mine  and  thine, 
Hastening  quick  to  their  decline  ; 
Thine’s  a  summer,  mine  no  more, 
Though  repeated  to  threescore  ; 
Threescore  summers,  when  they’re  gone. 

Wilt  appear  as  short  as  one. 

William  Oldys. 

- +o* - 

Sonnet  to  the  Glow-Worm. 

Tasteful  illumination  of  the  night, 
Bright  scatter’d,  twinkling  star  of  span¬ 
gled  earth  ! 

Hail  to  the  nameless  color’d  dark  and  light, 
The  witching  nurse  of  thy  illumined 
birth. 

In  thy  still  hour  how  dearly  I  delight 
To  rest  my  weary  bones,  from  labor  free  ; 
In  lone  spots  out  of  hearing,  out  of  sight, 
To  sigh  day’s  smother’d  pains ;  and 
pause  on  thee, 

Bedecking  dangling  brier  and  ivied  tree, 
Or  diamonds  tipping  on  the  grassy  spear ; 
Thy  pale-faced  glimmering  light  I  love  to 
see, 

Gilding  and  glistering  in  the  dew-drop 
near : 

0  still-hour’s  mate  !  my  easing  heart  sobs 
free, 

While  tiny  bents  low  bend  with  many 
an  added  tear. 

John  Clare. 

- *o« - 

To  a  Mouse, 

ON  TURNING  Her  UP  IN  HER  NeST  WITH 

the  Plough,  November,  1785. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow’rin’,  tim’rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic ’s  in  thy  breastie  ! 

Thou  need  na  start  awa’  sae  hasty, 

Wi’  bickering  brattle ! 

I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an’  chase  thee, 

Wi’  murd’ring  pattle  ! 

I’m  truly  sorry  man’s  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature’s  social  union, 

An’  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion. 
An’  fellow-mortal ! 


484 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve ; 

What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  ! 

A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 
’S  a  sma’  request : 

I’ll  get  a  biessin’  wi’  the  lave, 

And  never  miss ’t. 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 

Its  silly  wa’s  the  win’s  are  strewin’ ! 

An’  naething  now  to  big  a  new  ane 
O’  foggage  green  ! 

An’  bleak  December’s  winds  ensuin’, 

Baith  snell  and  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an’  waste, 

An’  weary  winter  cornin’  fast, 

An’  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 

’Till,  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 
Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o’  leaves  an’  stibble 

Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble ! 

Now  thou’s  turn’d  out,  for  a’  thy  trouble, 
But  house  or  hald, 

To  thole  the  winter’s  sleety  dribble, 

An’  cranreuch  cauld  ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 

In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 

The  best-laid  schemes  o’  mice  an’  men 
Gang  aft  agley, 

An’  lea’e  us  naught  but  grief  and  pain, 
For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi’  me  ! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 

But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e’e 
On  prospects  drear ! 

An’  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an’  fear. 

Eobert  Burns. 


The  Kitten. 

Wanton  droll,  whose  harmless  play 
Beguiles  the  rustic’s  closing  day, 

When,  drawn  the  evening  fire  about, 

Sit  aged  crone  and  thoughtless  lout, 

And  child  upon  his  tliree-foot  stool, 
Waiting  until  his  supper  cool ; 

And  maid,  whose  cheek  outblooms  the 
rose, 

As  bright  the  blazing  fagot  glows, 


Who,  bending  to  the  friendly  light, 

Plies  her  task  with  busy  sleight ; 

Come,  show  thy  tricks  and  sportive  graces, 
Thus  circled  round  with  merry  faces. 

Backward  coil’d,  and  crouching  low, 
With  glaring  eyeballs  watch  thy  foe, 

The  housewife’s  spindle  whirling  round, 
Or  thread,  or  straw,  that  on  the  ground 
Its  shadow  throws,  by  urchin  sly 
Held  out  to  lure  thy  roving  eye ; 

Then  onward  stealing,  fiercely  spring 
Upon  the  tempting,  faithless  thing. 

Now,  wheeling  round  with  bootless  skill, 
Thy  bo-peep  tail  provokes  thee  still, 

As  still  beyond  thy  curving  side 
Its  jetty  tip  is  seen  to  glide ; 

Till,  from  thy  centre  starting  far, 

Thou  sidelong  veer’st,  with  rump  in  air, 
Erected  stiff,  and  gait  awry, 

Like  madam  in  her  tantrums  high, 
Though  ne’er  a  madam  of  them  all, 
Whose  silken  kirtle  sweeps  the  hall, 

More  varied  trick  and  whim  displays 
To  catch  the  admiring  stranger’s  gaze. 

Doth  power  in  measured  verses  dwell, 

All  thy  vagaries  wild  to  tell? 

Ah,  no!  the  start,  the  jet,  the  bound, 

The  giddy  scamper  round  and  round, 
With  leap  and  toss  and  high  curvet, 

And  many  a  whirling  somerset 
(Permitted  by  the  modern  Muse 
Expression  technical  to  use), 

These  mock  the  deftest  rhvmester’s  skill, 
But  poor  in  art,  though  rich  in  will. 

The  featest  tumbler,  stage-bedight, 

To  thee  is  but  a  clumsy  wight, 

Who  every  limb  and  sinew  strains 
To  do  what  costs  thee  little  pains ; 

For  which,  I  trow,  the  gaping  crowd 
Requite  him  oft  with  plaudits  loud. 

But,  stopp’d  the  while  thy  wanton  play 
Applauses,  too,  thy  feats  repay ; 

For  then  beneath  some  urchin’s  hand 
With  modest  pride  thou  tak’st  thy  stand, 
While  many  a  stroke  of  kindness  glides 
Along  thy  back  and  tabby  sides. 

Dilated  swells  thy  glossy  fur, 

And  loudly  croons  thy  busy  purr, 

As,  timing  well  the  equal  sound, 

Thy  clutching  feet  bepat  the  ground, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


485 


And  all  their  harmless  claws  disclose, 
Like  prickles  of  an  early  rose ; 

While  softly  from  thy  whisker’d  cheek 
Thy  half-closed  eyes  peer  mild  and  meek. 

But  not  alone  by  cottage  fire 
Do  rustics  rude  thy  feats  admire ; 

The  learned  sage,  whose  thoughts  explore 
The  widest  range  of  human  lore, 

Or,  with  unfetter’d  fancy,  fly 
Through  airy  heights  of  poesy, 

Pausing,  smiles  with  alter’d  air 
To  see  thee  climb  his  elbow-chair, 

Or,  struggling  on  the  mat  below, 

Hold  warfare  with  his  slipper’d  toe. 

The  widow’d  dame,  or  lonely  maid, 

Who  in  the  still  but  cheerless  shade 
Of  home  unsocial  spends  her  age, 

And  rarely  turns  a  letter’d  page, 

Upon  her  hearth  for  thee  lets  fall 
The  rounded  cork  or  paper  ball, 

Nor  chides  thee  on  thy  wicked  watch 
The  ends  of  ravell’d  skein  to  catch, 

But  lets  thee  have  thy  wayward  will, 
Perplexing  oft  her  better  skill. 

E’en  he,  whose  mind  of  gloomy  bent, 

In  lonely  tower  or  prison  pent, 

Reviews  the  coil  of  former  days, 

And  loathes  the  world  and  all  its  ways, 
What  time  the  lamp’s  unsteady  gleam 
Doth  rouse  him  from  his  moody  dream, 
Feels,  as  thou  gambol’st  round  his  seat, 
His  heart  of  pride  less  fiercely  beat, 

And  smiles,  a  link  in  thee  to  find 
That  joins  it  still  to  living  kind. 

Whence  hast  thou,  then,  thou  witless  Puss, 
The  magic  power  to  charm  us  thus? 

Is  it  that  in  thy  glaring  eye 
And  rapid  movements  we  descry — 

Whilst  we  at  ease,  secure  from  ill, 

The  chimney-corner  snugly  fill — 

A  lion  darting  on  his  prey, 

A  tiger  at  his  ruthless  play  ? 

Or  is  it  that  in  thee  we  trace, 

With  all  thy  varied  wanton  grace, 

An  emblem,  view’d  with  kindred  eve. 

Of  tricky,  restless  infancy? 

Ah,  many  a  lightly  sportive  child, 

Who  hath  like  thee  our  wits  beguiled, 

To  dull  and  sober  manhood  grown, 

With  strange  recoil  our  hearts  disown. 


And  so,  poor  Kit,  must  thou  endure 
When  thou  becom’st  a  cat  demure, 

Full  many  a  cuff  and  angry  word, 

Chased  roughly  from  the  tempting  board. 
But  yet,  for  that  thou  hast,  I  ween, 

So  oft  our  favor’d  playmate  been  ; 

Soft  be  the  change  which  thou  shalt  prove ! 
When  time  hath  spoil’d  thee  of  our  love, 
Still  be  thou  deem’d  by  housewife  fat 
A  comely,  careful,  mousing  cat, 

Whose  dish  is,  for  the  public  good, 
Replenish’d  oft  with  savory  food. 

Nor,  when  thy  span  of  life  is  past, 

Be  thou  to  pond  or  dunghill  cast, 

But,  gently  borne  on  good  man’s  spade, 
Beneath  the  decent  sod  be  laid, 

And  children  show,  with  glistening  eyes, 

The  place  where  poor  old  Pussy  lies. 

Joanna  Baillik. 

- K>« - 

The  Kitten  and  the  Falling 
Lea  ves. 

That  way  look,  my  Infant,  lo  ! 

What  a  pretty  baby-show  ! 

See  the  Kitten  on  the  Wall, 

Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall, 

Wither’d  leaves — one — two — and  three — 
From  the  lofty  Elder  tree  ! 

Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air, 

Of  this  morning  bright  and  fair, 

Eddying  round  and  round  they  sink 
Softly,  slowly  :  one  might  think, 

From  the  motions  that  are  made, 

Every  little  leaf  convey’d 
Sylph  or  Faery  hither  tending, — 

To  this  lower  world  descending, 

Each  invisible  and  mute, 

In  his  wavering  parachute. 

- But  the  Kitten,  how  she  starts, 

Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts  I 
First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow 
Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow  ; 

There  are  many  now — now  one — 

Now  they  stop,  and  there  are  none; 

What  intenseness  of  desire 
In  her  upward  eye  of  fire! 

With  a  tiger-leap  half  way 
Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 

Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 
Has  it  in  her  power  again  : 


486 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Now  she  works  with  three  or  four, 

Like  an  Indian  Conjuror  ; 

Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art, 

Far  beyond  in  joy  of  heart. 

Were  her  antics  play’d  in  the  eye 
Of  a  thousand  standers-bv, 

Clapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare, 
What  would  little  Tabby  care 
For  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd? 
Over-happy  to  be  proud, 

Over-wealthy  in  the  treasure 
Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure  ! 

’Tis  a  pretty  Baby-treat ; 

Nor,  I  deem,  for  me  unmeet ; 

Here,  for  neither  Babe  nor  me, 

Other  playmate  can  I  see. 

Of  the  countless  living  things, 

That  with  stir  of  feet  and  wings 
(In  the  sun  or  under  shade, 

Upon  bough  or  grassy  blade) 

And  with  busy  revellings, 

Chirp  and  song,  and  murmurings, 

Made  this  Orchard’s  narrow  space, 

And  this  Vale  so  blithe  a  place  ; 
Multitudes  are  swept  away, 

Never  more  to  breathe  the  day  : 

Some  are  sleeping  ;  some  in  Bands 
Tra veil’d  into  distant  Lands  ; 

Others  slunk  to  moor  and  wood, 

Far  from  human  neighborhood  ; 

And,  among  the  Kinds  that  keep 
With  us  closer  fellowship, 

With  us  openly  abide, 

All  have  laid  their  mirth  aside. 

— Where  is  he,  that  giddy  Sprite, 

Blue  cap,  with  his  colors  bright, 

Who  was  blest  as  bird  could  be,' 

Feeding  in  the  apple  tree  • 

Made  such  wanton  spoil  and  rout, 
Turning  blossoms  inside  out; 

Hung  with  head  toward  the  ground, 
Flutter’d,  perch’d,  into  a  round 
Bound  himself,  and  then  unbound : 
Lithest,  gaudiest  Harlequin  ! 

Prettiest  Tumbler  ever  seen  ! 

Light  of  heart  and  light  of  limb ; 

What  is  now  become  of  him  ? 

Lambs,  that  through  the  mountains  went 
Frisking,  bleating  merriment, 

When  the  year  was  in  its  prime, 

They  are  sober’d  by  this  time. 


If  you  look  to  vale  or  hill, 

If  you  listen,  all  is  still, 

Save  a  little  neighboring  Rill, 

That  from  out  the  rocky  ground 
Strikes  a  solitary  sound. 

Vainly  glitter  hill  and  plain, 

And  the  air  is  calm  in  vain  ; 

Vainly  Morning  spreads  the  lure 
Of  a  sky  serene  and  pure  ; 

Creature  none  can  she  decoy 
Into  open  sign  of  joy  : 

Is  it  that  they  have  a  fear 
Of  the  dreary  season  near  ? 

Or  that  other  pleasures  be 
Sweeter  even  than  gayety  ? 

Yet,  whate’er  enjoyments  dwell 
In  the  impenetrable  cell 
Of  the  silent  heart  which  Nature 
Furnishes  to  everv  Creature; 
Whatsoe’er  we  feel  and  know 
Too  sedate  for  outward  show, 

Such  a  light  of  gladness  breaks, 

Pretty  Kitten  !  from  thy  freaks, — 
Spreads  with  such  a  living  grace 
O’er  mv  little  Laura’s  face  ; 

Yes,  the  sight  so  stirs  and  charms 
Thee,  Baby,  laughing  in  my  arms, 
That  almost  I  could  repine 
That  your  transports  are  not  mine, 
That  I  do  not  wholly  fare 
Even  as  ye  do,  thoughtless  Pair  ! 

And  I  will  have  my  careless  season 
Spite  of  melancholy  reason, 

Will  walk  through  life  in  such  a  way 
That,  when  time  brings  on  decay, 

Now  and  then  I  may  possess 
Hours  of  perfect  gladsomeness. 

— Pleased  by  any  random  toy ; 

By  a  Kitten’s  busy  joy, 

Or  an  Infant’s  laughing  eye 
Sharing  in  the  ecstasy ; 

I  would  fare  like  that  or  this, 

Find  my  wisdom  in  my  bliss  ; 

Keep  the  sprightly  soul  awake, 

And  have  faculties  to  take, 

Even  from  things  by  sorrow  wrought, 
Matter  for  a  jocund  thought, 

Spite  of  care,  and  spite  of  grief, 

To  gambol  with  Life’s  falling  Leaf. 

William  Wordsworth. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


487 


The  Pet  Lamb. 

A  Pastoral. 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began 
to  blink ; 

I  heard  a  voice;  it  said,  “  Drink,  pretty 
Creature,  drink !” 

And,  looking  o’er  the  hedge,  before  me  I 
espied 

A  snow-white  mountain  Lamb  with  a 
Maiden  at  its  side. 

No  other  sheep  were  near,  the  Lamb  was 
all  alone, 

And  by  a  slender  cord  was  tether’d  to  a 
stone  ; 

With  one  knee  on  the  grass  did  the  little 
Maiden  kneel, 

While  to  that  Mountain  Lamb  she  gave  its 
evening  meal. 

The  Lamb,  while  from  her  hand  he  thus 
his  supper  took, 

Seem’d  to  feast  with  head  and  ears;  and 
his  tail  with  pleasure  shook. 

“  Drink,  pretty  Creature,  drink,”  she  said 
in  such  a  tone 

That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  my 
own. 

’Twas  little  Barbara  Lewthwaite,  a  Child 
of  beauty  rare! 

I  watch’d  them  with  delight,  they  were  a 
lovely  pair. 

Now  with  her  empty  Can  the  Maiden 
turn’d  away: 

But  ere  ten  yards  were  gone  her  footsteps 
did  she  stay. 

Right  toward  the  Lamb  she  look’d  ;  and 
from  a  shady  place 

I  unobserved  could  see  the  workings  of 
her  face : 

If  Nature  to  her  tongue  could  measured 
numbers  bring, 

Thus,  thought  I,  to  her  Lamb  that  little 
Maid  might  sing: 

“What  ails  thee,  Young  One?  what? 
Why  pull  so  at  thy  cord? 

Is  it  not  well  with  thee?  well  both  for  bed 
and  board  ? 


Thy  plot  of  grass  is  soft,  and  green  as 
grass  can  be; 

Rest,  little  Young  One,  rest ;  what  is’t  that 
aileth  thee  ? 

“What  is  it  thou  would’st  seek?  What 
is  wanting  to  thy  heart? 

Thy  limbs  are  they  not  strong  ?  And  beau¬ 
tiful  thou  art : 

This  grass  is  tender  grass ;  these  flowers 
they  have  no  peers  ; 

And  that  green  corn  all  day  is  rustling  in 
thy  ears  ! 

“  If  the  Sun  be  shining  hot,  do  but  stretch 
thy  woollen  chain, 

This  beech  is  standing  by,  its  covert  thou 
canst  gain; 

For  rain  and  mountain-storms,  the  like 
thou  needest  not  fear — 

The  rain  and  storm  are  things  that  scarcely 
can  come  here. 

“Rest,  little  Young  One,  rest;  thou  hast 
forgot  the  day 

When  my  Father  found  thee  first  in  places 
far  away ; 

Many  flocks  were  on  the  hills,  but  thou 
wert  own’d  by  none, 

And  thy  mother  from  thy  side  for  ever¬ 
more  was  gone. 

“  He  took  thee  in  his  arms,  and  in  pity 
brought  thee  home : 

A  blessed  day  for  thee !  then  whither 
wouldst  thou  roam? 

A  faithful  Nurse  thou  hast;  the  dam  that 
did  thee  yean 

Upon  the  mountain-tops  no  kinder  could 
have  been. 

“  Thou  knowest  that  twice  a  day  I  brought 
thee  in  this  Can 

Fresh  water  from  the  brook,  as  clear  as 
ever  ran  ; 

And  twice  in  the  day,  when  the  ground  is 
wet  with  dew, 

I  bring  thee  draughts  of  milk,  warm  milk 
it  is  and  new. 

“  Thy  limbs  will  shortly  be  twice  as  stout 
as  they  are  now, 

Then  I’ll  yoke  thee  to  my  cart  like  a  pony 
in  the  plough ; 


488 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


My  Playmate  thou  shalt  be  ;  and  when  the 
wind  is  cold 

Our  hearth  shall  be  thy  bed,  our  house 
shall  be  thy  fold. 

“  It  will  not,  will  not  rest ! — Poor  Creature, 
can  it  be 

That  ’tis  thy  mother’s  heart  which  is  work¬ 
ing  so  in  thee? 

Things  that  I  know  not  of  belike  to  thee 
are  dear, 

And  dreams  of  things  which  thou  canst 
neither  see  nor  hear. 

“  Alas,  the  mountain-tops  that  look  so 
green  and  fair ! 

I’ve  heard  of  fearful  winds  and  darkness 
that  come  there ; 

The  little  brooks  that  seem  all  pastime  and 
all  play, 

When  they  are  angry,  roar  like  Lions  for 
their  prey. 

“  Here  thou  needest  not  dread  the  raven  in 
the  sky ; 

Night  and  day  thou  art  safe, — our  cottage 
is  hard  by. 

Why  bleat  so  after  me  ?  Why  pull  so  at 
thy  chain? 

Sleep — and  at  break  of  day  I  will  come  to 
thee  again !” 

— As  homeward  through  the  lane  I  went 
with  lazy  feet, 

This  song  to  myself  did  I  oftentimes  re¬ 
peat  ; 

And  it  seem’d,  as  I  retraced  the  ballad 
line  by  line, 

That  but  half  of  it  was  hers,  and  one  half 
of  it  was  mine. 

Again,  and  once  again,  did  I  repeat  the 
song; 

“  Nay,”  said  I,  “  more  than  half  to  the 
Damsel  must  belong, 

For  she  look’d  with  such  a  look,  and  she 
spake  with  such  a  tone, 

That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  my 
own.” 

William  Wordsworth. 


The  Blood  Horse. 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed, 

Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed, 

Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone, 

With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known ; 

Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin, 

But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within  ! 
His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing, 

And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 
In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look, — how  round  his  straining  throat 
Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float; 

Sinewy  strength  is  in  his  reins, 

And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  hi? 
veins, — 

Richer,  redder,  never  ran 
Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 
Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire, — 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 

Or  O’Brien’s  blood  itself! 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  born 
Here,  upon  a  red  March  morn ; 

But  his  famous  fathers  dead 
Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab-bred, 

And  the  last  of  that  great  line 
Trod  like  one  of  a  race  divine ! 

And  yet,  he  was  but  friend  to  one, 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green  ; 

With  him,  a  roving  Bedouin, 

He  lived  (none  else  would  he  obey 
Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day), 

And  died  untamed  upon  the  sands 
Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands ! 

Bryan  Waller  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall). 

- »o» - 

The  High-mettled  Racer. 

See  the  course  throng’d  with  gazers,  the 
sports  are  begun ; 

The  confusion  but  hear :  “  I’ll  bet  you, 
sir.”  “  Done,  done !” 

Ten  thousand  strange  murmurs  resound 
far  and  near, 

Lords,  hawkers,  and  jockeys  assail  the 
tired  ear, 


-•O*- 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


489 


While  with  neck  like  a  rainbow,  erecting 
his  crest, 

Pamper’d,  prancing,  and  pleased,  his  head 
touching  his  breast, 

Scarcely  snuffing  the  air,  he’s  so  proud  and 
elate, 

The  high-mettled  racer  first  starts  for  the 
plate. 

Now  Reynard’s  turn’d  out,  and  o’er  hedge 
and  ditch  rush 

Hounds,  horses,  and  huntsmen,  all  hard  at 
his  brush ; 

They  run  him  at  length,  and  they  have 
him  at  bay, 

And  by  scent  and  by  view  cheat  a  long, 
tedious  way, 

While,  alike  born  for  sports  of  the  field 
and  the  course, 

Always  sure  to  come  thorough  a  stanch  and 
fleet  horse, 

When  fairly  run  down  the  fox  yields  up 
his  breath, 

The  high-mettled  racer  is  in  at  the 
death. 

Grown  aged,  used  up,  and  turn’d  out  of 
the  stud, 

Lame,  spavin’d,  and  windgall’d,  but  yet 
with  some  blood ; 

While  knowing  postilions  his  pedigree 
trace, 

Tell  his  dam  won  that  sweepstakes,  his 
sire  gain’d  that  race, 

And  what  matches  he  won  to  the  ostlers 
count  o’er, 

As  they  loiter  their  time  at  some  hedge 
ale-house  door, 

While  the  harness  sore  galls,  and  the 
spurs  his  sides  goad, 

The  high-mettled  racer’s  a  hack  on  the 
road. 

Till  at  last,  having  labor’d,  drudged  early 
and  late, 

Bow’d  down  by  degrees,  he  bends  on  to 
his  fate ! 

Blind,  old,  lean  and  feeble,  he  tugs  round 
a  mill, 

Or  draws  sand  till  the  sand  of  his  hour¬ 
glass  stands  still ; 


And  now,  cold  and  lifeless,  exposed  to  the 
view 

In  the  very  same  cart  which  he  yesterday 
drew, 

While  a  pitying  crowd  his  sad  relics  sur¬ 
rounds, 

The  high-mettled  racer  is  sold  for  the 
hounds ! 

Charles  Dibdin. 

- »o«  ■ 

The  Horseback  Ride. 

When  troubled  in  spirit,  when  weary  of 
life, 

When  I  faint  ’neath  its  burdens,  and  shrink 
from  its  strife, 

When  its  fruits,  turn’d  to  ashes,  are  mock¬ 
ing  my  taste, 

And  its  fairest  scene  seems  but  a  desolate 
waste, 

Then  come  ye  not  near  me,  my  sad  heart 
to  cheer 

With  friendship’s  soft  accents  or  sympa¬ 
thy’s  tear. 

No  pity  I  ask,  and  no  counsel  I  need, 

But  bring  me,  oh,  bring  me  my  gallant 
young  steed, 

With  his  high  arched  neck,  and  his  nostril 
spread  wide, 

His  eye  full  of  fire,  and  his  step  full  of 
pride ! 

As  I  spring  to  his  back,  as  I  seize  the 
strong  rein, 

The  strength  to  my  spirit  returneth 
again ! 

The  bonds  are  all  broken  that  fetter’d  my 
mind, 

And  my  cares  borne  away  on  the  wings  of 
the  wind ; 

My  pride  lifts  its  head,  for  a  season  bow’d 
down, 

And  the  queen  in  my  nature  now  puts  on 
her  crown ! 

Now  we’re  off — like  the  winds  to  the  plains 
whence  they  came; 

And  the  rapture  of  motion  is  thrilling  my 
frame ! 

On,  on  speeds  my  courser,  scarce  printing 
the  sod, 

Scarce  crushing  a  daisy  to  mark  where  he 
trod  ! 


490 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


On,  on  like  a  deer,  when  the  hound’s  early 
bay 

Awakes  the  wild  echoes,  away,  and  away ! 

Still  faster,  still  farther,  he  leaps  at  my 
cheer, 

Till  the  rush  of  the  startled  air  whirs  in 
my  ear ! 

Now  ’long  a  clear  rivulet  lieth  his  track, — 

See  his  glancing  hoofs  tossing  the  white 
pebbles  back ! 

Now  a  glen  dark  as  midnight — what 
matter? — we’ll  down 

Though  shadows  are  round  us,  and  rocks 
o’er  us  frown ; 

The  thick  branches  shake  as  we’re  hurry¬ 
ing  through, 

And  deck  us  with  spangles  of  silvery  dew ! 

What  a  wild  thought  of  triumph,  that  this 
girlish  hand 

Such  a  steed  in  the  might  of  his  strength 
may  command ! 

What  a  glorious  creature  !  Ah  !  glance  at 
him  now, 

As  I  check  him  a  while  on  this  green  hil¬ 
lock’s  brow  ; 

How  he  tosses  his  mane,  with  a  shrill  joy¬ 
ous  neigh, 

And  paws  the  firm  earth  in  his  proud, 
stately  play ! 

Hurrah !  off.  again,  dashing  on  as  in  ire, 

Till  the  long,  flinty  pathway  is  flashing 
with  fire! 

Ho!  a  ditch! — Shall  we  pause?  No;  the 
bold  leap  we  dare, 

Like  a  swift-winged  arrow  we  rush  through 
the  air ! 

Oh,  not  all  the  pleasures  that  poets  may 
praise, 

Not  the  ’wildering  waltz  in  the  ball-room’s 

blaze, 

Nor  the  chivalrous  joust,  nor  the  daring 

race, 

Nor  the  swift  regatta,  nor  merry  chase, 

Nor  the  sail,  high  heaving  waters  o’er, 

Nor  the  rural  dance  on  the  moonlight 
shore, 

Can  the  wild  and  thrilling  joy  exceed 

Of  a  fearless  leap  on  a  fiery  steed ! 

Sara  Jane  Lippincott 
(Grace  Greenwood). 


Afar  in  the  Desert. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my 
side, 

When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o’ercast, 
And,  sick  of  the  present,  I  cling  to  the 
past  ; 

When  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful 
tears, 

From  the  fond  recollections  of  former 
years  ; 

And  shadows  of  things  that  have  long 
since  fled 

Flit  over  the  brain,  like  the  ghosts  of  the 
dead : 

Bright  visions  of^  glory  that  vanish’d  too 

soon  ; 

Day-dreams,  that  departed  ere  manhood’s 
noon  ; 

Attachments  by  fate  or  falsehood  reft ; 
Companions  of  early  days  lost  or  left — 
And  my  native  land — whose  magical  name 
Thrills  to  the  heart  like  electric  flame ; 

The  home  of  my  childhood ;  the  haunts 
of  my  prime ; 

All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rap¬ 
turous  time 

When  the  feelings  were  young  and  the 
world  was  new, 

Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  unfolding 
to  view ; 

All — all  now  forsaken — forgotten — fore¬ 
gone  ! 

And  I — a  lone  exile  remember’d  of  none — 
My  high  aims  abandon’d, — my  good  acts 
undone — 

Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun — 
With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no 
stranger  may  scan, 

I  fly  to  the  desert  afar  from  man. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my 
side. 

When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome 
life, 

With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption, 
and  strife — 

The  proud  man’s  frown  and  the  base  man’s 
fear — 

The  scorner’s  laugh,  and  the  sufferer’s 
tear — 


o 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


491 


And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood, 
and  folly, 

Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melan¬ 
choly  ; 

When  my  bosom  is  full  and  my  thoughts 
are  high, 

And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman’s 
sigh — 

Oh  !  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and 
pride, 

Afar  in  the  desert  alone  to  ride ! 

There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing 
steed, 

And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle’s  speed, 
With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my 
hand — 

The  only  law  of  the  Desert  Land  ! 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side. 
Away — away  from  the  dwellings  of  men, 
By  the  wild  deer’s  haunt,  by  the  buffalo’s 
glen; 

By  valleys  remote  where  the  oribi  plays, 
Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartk- 
beest  graze, 

And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted  recline 
By  the  skirts  of  gray  forest  o’erhung  with 
wild  vine ; 

Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in 
his  wood, 

And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in 
the  flood, 

And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 
In  the  fen  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking 
his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-bov  alone  by  my  side. 
O’er  the  brown  karroo,  where  the  bleating 
cry 

Of  the  springbok’s  fawn  sounds  plain¬ 
tively  ; 

And  the  timorous  quagga’s  shrill  whistling 
neigh 

Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight  gray  ; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his 
mane, 

With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate 
plain  ; 

And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels  in 
haste, 


Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest, 
Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scoop’d 
their  nest, 

Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer’s 
view 

In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  parch’d 
karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-bov  alone  by  my 
side. 

Away — away — in  the  wilderness  vast 
Where  the  white  man’s  foot  hath  never 
pass’d, 

And  the  quiver’d  Coranna  or  Bechuan 
Hath  rarely  cross’d  with  his  roving  clan  : 
A  region  of  emptiness  howling  and  drear, 
Which  man  hath  abandon’d  from  famine 
and  fear ; 

Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit 
alone, 

With  the  twilight  bat  from  the  yawning 
stone  ; 

Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes 
root, 

Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the 
foot  ; 

And  the  bitter  melon  for  food  and  drink, 

Is  the  pilgrim’s  fare  by  the  salt  lake’s 
brink  ; 

A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides, 
Nor  rippling  brook  with  osier’d  sides ; 
Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 

Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 
Appears  to  refresh  the  aching  eye  ; 

But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning 
sky, 

And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round, 
Spread — void  of  living  sight  or  sound. 

And  here,  while  the  night-winds  round  me 
sigh, 

And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight 
skv, 

As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone, 

Like  Elijah  at  Horeb’s  cave,  alone, 

“  A  still  small  voice  ”  comes  through  the 
wild 

(Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child), 
Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and 
fear, 

Saying — Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near  ! 

Thomas  Pkingle. 


492 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Arab's  Farewell  to  his 
Horse. 

My  beautiful !  my  beautiful !  that  standest 
meekly  by, 

With  thy  proudly  arch’d  and  glossy  neck, 
and  dark  and  fiery  eye, 

Fret  not  to  roam  the  desert  now,  with  all 
thy  winged  speed  ; 

I  may  not  mount  on  thee  again, — thou’rt 
sold,  my  Arab  steed  ! 

Fret  not  with  that  impatient  hoof, — snuff 
not  the  breezy  wind, — 

The  farther  that  thou  fliest  now,  so  far  am 
I  behind : 

The  stranger  hath  thy  bridle-rein, — thy 
master  hath  his  gold, — 

Fleet-limb’d  and  beautiful,  farewell; 
thou’rt  sold,  my  steed,  thou’rt  sold. 

Farewell!  those  free,  untired  limbs  full 
many  a  mile  must  roam, 

To  reach  the  chill  and  wintry  sky  which 
clouds  the  stranger’s  home  ; 

Some  other  hand,  less  fond,  must  now  thy 
corn  and  bread  prepare, 

The  silky  mane,  I  braided  once,  must  be 
another’s  care! 

The  morning  sun  shall  dawn  again,  but 
never  more  with  thee 

Shall  I  gallop  through  the  desert  paths, 
where  we  were  wont  to  be  ; 

Evening  shall  darken  on  the  earth,  and  o’er 
the  sandy  plain 

Some  other  steed,  with  slower  step,  shall 
bear  me  home  again. 

Yes,  thou  must  go!  the  wild,  free  breeze, 
the  brilliant  sun  and  sky, 

Thy  master’s  home, — from  all  of  these  my 
exiled  one  must  fly  ; 

Thy  proud  dark  eye  will  grow  less  proud, 
thy  step  become  less  fleet, 

And  vainly  shalt  thou  arch  thy  neck,  thy 
master’s  hand  to  meet. 

Only  in  sleep  shall  I  behold  that  dark  eye, 
glancing  bright ; — 

Only  in  sleep  shall  hear  again  that  step  so 
firm  and  light ; 

And  when  I  raise  my  dreaming  arm  to 
check  or  cheer  thy  speed, 

Then  must  I,  starting,  wake  to  feel — 
thou’rt  sold,  my  Arab  steed! 


Ah !  rudely,  then,  unseen  by  me,  some 
cruel  hand  may  chide, 

Till  foam-wreaths  lie,  like  crested  waves, 
along  thy  panting  side  : 

And  the  rich  blood  that’s  in  thee  swells,  in 
thy  indignant  pain, 

Till  careless  eyes,  which  rest  on  thee,  may 
count  each  started  vein. 

Will  they  ill  use  thee  ?  If  I  thought — but 
no,  it  cannot  be, — 

Thou  art  so  swift,  yet  easy  curb’d;  so  gen¬ 
tle,  yet  so  free  ; 

And  yet,  if  haply,  when  thou’rt  gone,  my 
lonely  heart  should  yearn, — 

Can  the  hand  which  casts  thee  from  it  now 
command  thee  to  return  ? 

Return  !  alas  !  my  Arab  steed  !  what  shall 
thy  master  do, 

When  thou,  wrho  wast  his  all  of  joy,  hast 
vanish’d  from  his  view  ? 

When  the  dim  distance  cheats  mine  eye, 
and  through  the  gathering  tears, 

Thy  bright  form,  for  a  moment,  like  the 
false  mirage  appears ; 

Slow  and  unmounted  shall  I  roam,  with 
weary  step  alone, 

Where,  with  fleet  step  and  joyous  bound, 
thou  oft  hast  borne  me  on  ; 

And  sitting  down  by  that  green  well,  I’ll 
pause  and  sadly  think, 

“  It  was  here  he  bow’d  his  glossy  neck 
when  last  I  saw  him  drink !” 

When  last  I  saw  thee  drink! — Away!  the 
fever’d  dream  is  o’er, —  ' 

I  could  not  live  a  day,  and  know  that  we 
should  meet  no  more ! 

They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful ! — for 
hunger’s  power  is  strong, — 

They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful !  but  I 
have  loved  too  long. 

Who  said  that  I  had  given  thee  up  ?  who 
said  that  thou  wast  sold? 

’Tis  false, — ’tis  false !  my  Arab  steed !  I 
fling  them  back  their  gold  ! 

Thus,  thus,  I  leap  upon  thy  back,  and  scour 
the  distant  plains ; 

Away !  who  overtakes  us  now  shall  claim 
thee  for  his  pains  ! 

Caroline  Norton. 

- - 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


493 


The  Trooper  to  his  Mare. 

Old  girl  that  has  borne  me  far  and  fast 
On  pawing  hoofs  that  were  never  loath, 

Our  gallop  to-day  may  be  the  last 

For  thee,  or  for  me,  or  perhaps  for  both ! 

As  I  tighten  your  girth  do  you  nothing 
daunt  ? 

Do  you  catch  the  hint  of  our  forming  line  ? 

And  now  the  artillery  move  to  the  front, 
Have  you  never  a  qualm,  Bay  Bess  of 
mine? 

It  is  dainty  to  see  you  sidle  and  start 
As  you  move  to  the  battle’s  cloudy 
marge, 

And  to  feel  the  swells  of  your  wakening 
heart 

When  our  sonorous  bugles  sound  a 
charge ; 

At  the  scream  of  the  shell  and  the  roar  of 
the  drum 

You  feign  to  be  frighten’d  with  roguish 
glance ; 

But  up  the  green  slopes  where  the  bullets 
hum, 

Coquettishly,  darling,  I’ve  known  you 
dance. 

Your  skin  is  satin,  your  nostrils  red, 

Your  eyes  are  a  bird’s,  or  a  loving 
girl’s; 

And  from  delicate  fetlock  to  stately  head 
A  throbbing  vein-cordage  around  you 
curls ; 

0  joy  of  my  heart!  if  you  they  slay, 

For  triumph  or  rout  I  little  care, 

For  there  isn’t  in  all  the  wide  valley  to-day 
Such  a  dear  little  bridle- wise,  thorough¬ 
bred  mare  !  Charles  G.  Halpine. 
- - 

A- Hunting  we  will  Go. 

The  dusky  night  rides  down  the  sky, 
And  ushers  in  the  morn : 

The  hounds  all  join  in  glorious  cry, 

The  huntsman  winds  his  horn. 

And  a-hunting  we  will  go. 

The  wife  around  her  husband  throws 
Her  arms,  and  begs  his  stay: 

‘My  dear,  it  rains,  and  hails,  and  snows, 
You  will  not  hunt  to-day.’’ 

But  a-hunting  we  will  go. 


Away  they  fly  to  ’scape  the  rout, 

Their  steeds  they  soundly  switch  ; 
Some  are  thrown  in  and  some  thrown  out, 
And  some  thrown  in  the  ditch. 

Yet  a-hunting  we  will  go. 

Sly  Reynard  now  like  lightning  flies, 
And  sweeps  across  the  vale ; 

And  when  the  hounds  too  near  he  spies, 
He  drops  his  bushy  tail. 

Then  a-hunting  we  will  go. 

Fond  Echo  seems  to  like  the  sport, 

And  join  the  jovial  cry  ; 

The  woods,  the  hills,  the  sound  retort, 
And  music  fills  the  sky 

When  a-hunting  we  do  go. 

At  last  his  strength  to  faintness  worn, 
Poor  Reynard  ceases  flight ; 

Then  hungry,  homeward  we  return, 

To  feast  away  the  night. 

And  a-drinking  we  do  go. 

Ye  jovial  hunters,  in  the  morn 
Prepare  them  for  the  chase ; 

Rise  at  the  sounding  of  the  horn, 

And  health  with  sport  embrace 

When  a-hunting  we  do  go. 

Author  Unknown. 

- ♦<>• - 

To  my  Horse. 

With  a  glancing  eye  and  curving  mane 
He  neighs  and  champs  on  the  bridle-rein ; 
One  spring,  and  his  saddled  back  I  press, 
And  ours  is  a  common  happiness  .! 

’Tis  the  rapture  of  motion  !  a  hurrying 
cloud 

When  the  loosen’d  winds  are  breathing 
loud : — 

A  shaft  from  the  painted  Indian’s  bow, 

A  bird — in  the  pride  of  speed  we  go. 

Dark  thoughts  that  haunt  me,  where  are 
ye  now? 

While  the  cleft  air  gratefully  cools  my 
brow, 

And  the  dizzy  earth  seems  reeling  by, 

And  naught  is  at  rest  but  the  arching  sky  • 
And  the  tramp  of  my  steed,  so  swift  and 
strong, 

Is  dearer  than  fame  and  sweeter  than  song! 


494 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


There  is  life  in  the  breeze  as  we  hasten 
on; 

With  each  bound  some  care  of  earth  has 
gone, 

And  the  languid  pulse  begins  to  play, 

And  the  night  of  my  soul  is  turn’d  to  day; 
A  richer  verdure  the  earth  o’erspreads, 
Sparkles  the  streamlet  more  bright  in  the 
meads ; 

And  its  voice  to  the  flowers  that  bend 
above 

Is  soft  as  the  whisper  of  early  love  ; 

With  fragrance  spring  flowers  have  bur¬ 
den’d  the  air, 

And  the  blue-bird  and  robin  are  twittering 
clear. 

Lovely  tokens  of  gladness,  I  mark’d  ye 
not 

W7hen  last  I  roam’d  o’er  this  self-same 
spot. 

Ah!  then  the  deep  shadows  of  sorrow’s 
mien 

Fell,  like  a  blight,  on  the  happy  scene ; 
And  Nature,  with  all  her  love  and  grace, 
In  the  depths  of  the  spirit  could  find  no 
place. 

So  the  vex’d  breast  of  the  mountain-lake, 
W7hen  wind  and  rain  mad  revelry  make, 
Turbid  and  gloomy,  and  wildly  tost, 
Retain  no  trace  of  the  beauty  lost. 

But  when  through  the  moist  air,  bright 
and  warm, 

The  sun  looks  down  with  his  golden 
charm, 

And  clouds  have  fled,  and  the  wind  is 
lull, 

Oh  !  then  the  changed  lake,  how  beautiful ! 

The  glistening  trees,  in  their  shady  ranks, 
And  the  ewe  with  its  lamb  along  the 
banks, 

And  the  kingfisher  perch’d  on  the  with¬ 
er’d  bough, 

And  the  pure  blue  heaven  all  pictured 
below ! 

Bound  proudly,  my  steed,  nor  bound  proud¬ 
ly  in  vain, 

Since  thy  master  is  now  himself  again. 
And  thine  be  the  praise  when  the  leech’s 
power 

Is  idle,  to  conquer  the  darken’d  hour, 


By  the  might  of  the  sounding  hoof  to  win 
Beauty  without  and  joy  within  ; 

Beauty  else  to  my  eyes  unseen, 

And  joy,  that  then  had  a  stranger  been. 

Author  Unknown. 


The  Tiger. 

Tiger  !  tiger !  burning  bright, 

In  the  forest  of  the  night, 

What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burn’d  the  ardor  of  thine  eyes  ? 

On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 

What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 

Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  forged  thy  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain? 

In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 

WThat  the  anvil ;  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  water’d  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 

Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ? 

Tiger  !  tiger  !  burning  bright, 

In  the  forest  of  the  night, 

What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

William  Blake. 


The  Hunter  of  the  Prairies. 

Ay,  this  is  freedom  ! — these  pure  skies 
Were  never  stain’d  with  village  smoke  ; 
The  fragrant  wind,  that  through  them 
flies, 

Is  breathed  from  wastes  by  plough  un¬ 
broke. 

Here,  with  my  rifle  and  my  steed, 

And  her  who  left  the  world  for  me, 

I  plant  me,  where  the  red-deer  feed 
In  the  green  desert — and  am  free. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE . 


495 


For  here  the  fair  savannas  know 
No  barriers  in  the  bloomy  grass ; 
Wherever  breeze  of  heaven  may  blow, 

Or  beam  of  heaven  may  glance,  I  pass. 
In  pastures,  measureless  as  air, 

The  bison  is  my  noble  game ; 

The  bounding  elk,  whose  antlers  tear 
The  branches,  falls  before  my  aim. 

Mine  are  the  river-fowl  that  scream 
From  the  long  stripe  of  waving  sedge  ; 
The  bear  that  marks  my  weapon’s  gleam 
Hides  vainly  in  the  forest’s  edge ; 

In  vain  the  she-wolf  stands  at  bay ; 

The  brinded  catamount,  that  lies 
High  in  the  boughs  to  watch  his  prey, 
Even  in  the  act  of  springing  dies. 

With  what  free  growth  the  elm  and  plane 
Fling  their  huge  arms  across  my  way, 
Gray,  old,  and  cumber’d  with  a  train 
Of  vines,  as  huge,  and  old,  and  gray ! 
Free  stray  the  lucid  streams,  and  find 
No  taint  in  these  fresh  lawns  and 
shades ; 

Free  spring  the  flowers  that  scent  the 
wind 

Where  never  scythe  has  swept  the 
glades. 

Alone  the  Fire,  when  frost-winds  sere 
The  heavy  herbage  of  the  ground, 
Gathers  his  annual  harvest  here, 

With  roaring  like  the  battle’s  sound, 
And  hurrying  flames  that  sweep  the 
plain, 

And  smoke-streams  gushing  up  the  sky. 
I  meet  the  flames  with  flames  again, 

And  at  my  door  they  cower  and  die. 

Here,  from  dim  woods,  the  aged  Past 
Speaks  solemnly  ;  and  I  behold 
The  boundless  Future  in  the  vast 
And  lonely  river,  seaward  roll’d. 

Who  feeds  its  founts  with  rain  and  dew  ? 

Who  moves,  I  ask,  its  gliding  mass, 

And  trains  the  bordering  vines  whose  blue 
Bright  clusters  tempt  me  as  I  pass  ? 

Broad  are  these  streams — my  steed  obeys, 
Plunges,  and  bears  me  through  the  tide  : 
Wide  are  these  woods — I  thread  the  maze 
Of  giant  stems,  nor  ask  a  guide. 


I  hunt  till  day’s  last  glimmer  dies 
O’er  woody  vale  and  grassy  height; 
And  kind  the  voice  and  glad  the  eyes 
That  welcome  my  return  at  night. 

William  Cullen  Bryant  . 


Folding  the  Flocks . 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair, 

Fold  your  flocks  up  ;  for  the  air 
’Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 

See  the  dewdrops,  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  flower  that  is ; 

Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 

Like  a  string  of  crystal  beads. 

See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  night  from  under  ground  ; 

At  whose  rising,  mists  unsound, 

Damps  and  vapors,  fly  apace, 

And  hover  o’er  the  smiling  face 
Of  these  pastures  ;  where  they  come. 
Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom. 
Therefore  from  such  danger  lock 
Every  one  his  lov&d  flock  ; 

And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 

Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout 
From  the  mountain  and,  ere  day, 

Bear  a  lamb  or  kid  away  ; 

Or  the  crafty,  thievish  fox 
Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 

To  secure  yourself  from  these, 

Be  not  too  secure  in  ease  ; 

So  shall  you  good  shepherds  prove, 

And  deserve  your  master’s  love. 

Now,  good-night !  may  sweetest  slumbers 
And  soft  silence  fall  in  numbers 
On  your  eyelids.  So  farewell : 

Thus  I  end  my  evening  knell. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

•O* 

The  Retirement. 

Farewell,  thou  busy  world,  and  may 
We  never  meet  again  ; 

Here  I  can  eat,  and  sleep,  and  pray, 

And  do  more  good  in  one  short  day 
Than  he  who  his  whole  age  out-wears 
Upon  the  most  conspicuous  theatres, 
Where  naught  but  vanity  and  vice  appears. 


496 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Good  God  !  how  sweet  are  all  things  here  ! 
How  beautiful  the  fields  appear  ! 

How  cleanly  do  we  feed  and  lie  ! 

Lord  !  what  good  hours  do  we  keep  ! 

How  quietly  we  sleep  ! 

What  peace,  what  unanimity  ! 

How  innocent  from  the  lewd  fashion 
Is  all  our  business,  all  our  recreation  ! 

Oh,  how  happy  here’s  our  leisure  ! 

Oh,  how  innocent  our  pleasure  ! 

O  ye  valleys  !  O  ye  mountains  ! 

O  ye  groves,  and  crystal  fountains  ! 

How  I  love  at  liberty 
By  turns  to  come  and  visit  ye ! 

Dear  solitude,  the  soul’s  best  friend, 

That  man  acquainted  with  himself  dost 
make, 

And  all  his  Maker’s  wonders  to  intend, 
With  thee  I  here  converse  at  will 
And  would  be  glad  to  do  so  still, 

For  it  is  thou  alone  that  keep’st  the  soul 
awake. 

How  calm  and  quiet  a  delight 
Is  it,  alone 

To  read,  and  meditate,  and  write, 

By  none  offended,  and  offending  none  ! 
To  walk,  ride,  sit,  or  sleep  at  one’s  own 
ease ; 

And,  pleasing  a  man’s  self,  none  other  to 
displease. 

0  my  beloved  nymph,  fair  Dove, 
Princess  of  rivers,  how  I  love 
Upon  thy  flowery  banks  to  lie, 

And  view  thy  silver  stream, 

When  gilded  by  a  Summer’s  beam  ! 

And  in  it  all  thy  wanton  fry 
Playing  at  liberty, 

And  with  my  angle  upon  them 
The  all  of  treachery 
I  ever  learn’d  industriously  to  try  ! 

Such  streams  Pome’s  yellow  Tiber  cannot 
show, 

The  Iberian  Tagus,  or  Ligurian  Po  ; 

The  Maese,  the  Danube,  and  the  Rhine, 
Are  puddle  -  water,  all,  compared  with 
thine ; 

And  Loire’s  pure  streams  yet  too  polluted 
are 

With  thine,  much  purer,  to  compare; 


The  rapid  Garonne  and  the  winding 
Seine 

Are  both  too  mean, 

Beloved  Dove,  with  thee 
To  vie  priority ; 

Nay,  Tame  and  Isis,  when  conjoined,  sub¬ 
mit, 

And  lay  their  trophies  at  thy  silver  feet. 

O  my  beloved  rocks  that  rise 
To  awe  the  earth  and  brave  the  skies, 
From  some  aspiring  mountain’s  crown 
How  dearly  do  I  love, 

Giddy  with  pleasure,  to  look  down, 

And,  from  the  vales,  to  view  the  noble 
heights  above ! 

0  my  beloved  caves !  from  dog-star’s 
heat, 

And  all  anxieties,  my  safe  retreat ; 

What  safety,  privacy,  what  true  delight, 

In  the  artificial  night 

Your  gloomy  entrails  make, 

Have  I  taken,  do  I  take  ! 

How  oft,  when  grief  has  made  me  fly, 

To  hide  me  from  society 

E’en  of  my  dearest  friends,  have  I, 

In  your  recesses’  friendly  shade, 

All  my  sorrows  open  laid, 

And  my  most  secret  woes  entrusted  to  your 
privacy ! 

Lord  !  would  men  let  me  alone, 

What  an  over-happy  one 
Should  I  think  myself  to  be, 

Might  I  in  this  desert  place 
(Which  most  men  in  discourse  disgrace) 
Live  but  undisturb’d  and  free  ! 

Here,  in  this  despised  recess, 

Would  I,  maugre  Winter’s  cold, 

And  the  Summer’s  worst  excess, 

Try  to  live  out  to  sixty  full  years  old ; 
And,  all  the  while, 

Without  an  envious  eye 
On  any  thriving  under  Fortune’s  smile, 

Contented  live,  and  then  contented  die. 

Charles  Cotton. 


The  Praise  of  a  Countryman’s 

Life. 

Oh,  the  sweet  contentment 
The  countryman  doth  find, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


497 


High  trolollie,  lollie,  lol ;  high  trolollie, 
lee ; 

That  quiet  contemplation 
Possesseth  all  my  mind  : 

Then  care  away,  and  wend  along  with  me. 

For  courts  are  full  of  flattery, 

As  hath  too  oft  been  tried, 

High  trolollie,  lollie,  lol ;  high  trolollie, 
lee ; 

The  city  full  of  wantonness, 

And  both  are  full  of  pride ; 

Then  care  away,  and  wend  along  with  me. 

But,  oh  !  the  honest  countryman 
Speaks  truly  from  his  heart, 

High  trolollie,  lollie,  lol ;  high  trolollie, 
lee ; 

His  pride  is  in  his  tillage, 

His  horses  and  his  cart : 

Then  care  away,  and  wend  along  with  me. 

Our  clothing  is  good  sheep-skins, 

Gray  russet  for  our  wives, 

High  trolollie,  lollie,  lol ;  high  trolollie, 
lee; 

’Tis  warmth  and  not  gay  clothing 
That  doth  prolong  our  lives  : 

Then  care  away,  and  wend  along  with  me. 

The  ploughman,  though  he  labor 
hard, 

Yet  on  the  holy  day, 

High  trolollie,  lollie,  lol ;  high  trolollie, 
lee ; 

No  emperor  so  merrily 
Does  pass  his  time  away : 

Then  care  away,  and  wend  along  with  me. 

To  recompense  our  tillage 
The  heavens  afford  us  showers, 

High  trolollie,  lollie,  lol ;  high  trolollie, 
lee; 

And  for  our  sweet  refreshments 
The  earth  affords  us  bowers  ; 

Then  care  away,  and  wend  along  with  me. 

The  cuckoo  and  the  nightingale 
Full  merrily  do  sing, 

High  trolollie,  lollie,  lol ;  high  trolollie, 
lee ; 

And  with  their  pleasant  roundelays 

Bid  welcome  to  the  spring  : 

Then  care  away,  and  wend  along  with  me. 
32 


This  is  not  half  the  happiness 
The  countryman  enjoys, 

High  trolollie,  lollie,  lol;  high  trolollie, 

lee ; 

Though  others  think  they  have  as 
much, 

Yet  he  that  says  so  lies  : 

Then  care  away,  and  wend  along  with  me. 

John  Chalkhill. 


Thoughts  in  a  Garden. 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays, 

And  their  incessant  labors  see 
Crown’d  from  some  single  herb  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow  verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid  ; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  Repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 

And  Innocence  thy  sister  dear  ? 

Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men  : 

Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 

Only  among  the  plants  will  grow : 

Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 

Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 

Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress’  name : 
Little,  alas,  they  know  or  heed 
How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed  ! 

Fair  trees  !  where’er  your  barks  I  wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passion’s  heat 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat : 

The  gods,  who  mortal  beauty  chase, 

Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race : 

Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow  ; 

And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead ! 

Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head ; 

The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 


498 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 

Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness — 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find  ; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 

Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas  ; 

Annihilating  all  that’s  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain’s  sliding  foot 
Or  at  some  fruit  tree’s  mossy  root, 

Casting  the  body’s  vest  aside 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide  ; 

There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 

Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 

And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 

Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  Garden  state 
While  man  there  walk’d  without  a  mate  : 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 

What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet  ? 

But  ’twas  beyond  a  mortal’s  share 
To  wander  solitary  there  : 

Two  paradises  are  in  one, 

To  live  in  Paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new ! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run : 

And,  as  it  works,  tli’  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 

How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome 
hours 

Be  reckon’d,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers ! 

Andrew  Marvell. 


The  Braes  O’  Balquhither. 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go, 

To  the  Braes  o’  Balquhither, 

Where  the  blae-berries  grow 

’Mang  the  bonnie  Highland  heather  ; 
Where  the  deer  and  the  rae, 

Lightly  bounding  together, 

Sport  the  lang  summer  day 
On  the  braes  o’  Balquhither. 


I  will  twine  thee  a  bower 
By  the  clear  siller  fountain, 

And  I’ll  cover  it  o’er 

Wi’  the  flowers  o’  the  mountain  ; 

I  will  range  through  the  wilds, 

And  the  deep  glens  sae  drearie, 

And  return  wi’  their  spoils 
To  the  bower  o’  my  dearie. 

When  the  rude  wintry  win’ 

Idly  raves  round  our  dwelling, 

And  the  roar  of  the  linn 

On  the  night-breeze  is  swelling, 

So  merrily  we’ll  sing, 

As  the  storm  rattles  o’er  us, 

Till  the  dear  shieling  ring 
Wi’  the  light  lilting  chorus. 

Now  the  simmer’s  in  prime 

Wi’  the  flowers  richly  blooming, 

And  the  wild  mountain-thyme 
A’  the  moorlands  perfuming  ; 

To  our  dear  native  scenes 
Let  us  journey  together, 

Where  glad  innocence  reigns 

’Mang  the  braes  o’  Balquhither. 

Robert  Tannahill. 

- ■  - 

An  Italian  Song. 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale, 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there ; 
Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 
To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange-groves  and  myrtle  bowers, 

That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 

With  my  loved  lute’s  romantic  sound  ; 
Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd’s  horn  at  break  of  day, 

The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 

The  canzonet  and  roundelay 

Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade, — 
These  simple  joys  that  never  fail 
Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 

Samuel  Rogers. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


499 


Sonnet. 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
’Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a 
prayer 

Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 
Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart 
content, 

Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant 
lair 

Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languish- 
ment? 

Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 
Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet’s  bright 
career, 

He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided 
by: 

E’en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel’s  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 

John  Keats. 

»o* - 

Morning  Song. 

Up  !  quit  thy  bower  ;  late  wears  the  hour ; 
Long  have  the  rooks  caw’d  round  thy 
tower  ; 

On  flower  and  tree  loud  hums  the  bee ; 
The  wilding  kid  sports  merrily : 

A  day  so  bright,  so  fresh,  so  clear, 

Showetli  when  good  fortune’s  near. 

Up  !  lady  fair,  and  braid  thy  hair, 

And  rouse  thee  in  the  breezy  air  ; 

The  lulling  stream  that  soothed  thy  dream 
Is  dancing  in  the  sunny  beam  ; 

And  hours  so  sweet,  so  bright,  so  gay, 

Will  waft  good  fortune  on  its  way. 

Up  !  time  will  tell :  the  friar’s  bell 
Its  service  sound  hath  chimed  well; 

The  aged  crone  keeps  house  alone, 

And  reapers  to  the  fields  are  gone  ; 

The  active  day,  so  boon  and  bright, 

May  bring  good  fortune  ere  the  night. 

Joanna  Baillie. 


The  Invitation. 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away ! 
Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 


Which,  like  thee,  to  those  in  sorrow 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  Year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 

The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring 
Through  the  winter  wandering, 

Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  Morn 
To  hoar  February  born ; 

Bending  from  heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 

It  kiss’d  the  forehead  of  the  Earth, 

And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 

And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free, 

And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 
And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountain^ 
And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 
Strew’d  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 
Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns 

To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs — 

To  the  silent  wilderness 

Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 

Its  music,  lest  it  should  not  find 

An  echo  in  another’s  mind, 

While  the  touch  of  Nature’s  art 

Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

I  leave  this  notice  on  mv  door 

%) 

For  each  accustom’d  visitor: — 

“  I  am  gone  into  the  fields 

To  take  what  this  sweet  hour  yields. 

Reflection,  you  may  come  to-morrow ; 

Sit  by  the  fireside  with  Sorrow. 

You  with  the  unpaid  bill,  Despair, — 

You  tiresome  verse-reciter,  Care, — 

I  will  pay  you  in  the  grave, — 

Death  will  listen  to  your  stave. 
Expectation  too,  be  off! 

To-day  is  for  itself  enough. 

Hope,  in  pity,  mock  not  Woe 
With  smiles,  nor  follow  where  I  go; 

Long  having  lived  on  your  sweet  food, 

At  length  I  find  one  moment’s  good 
After  long  pain  :  with  all  your  love, 

This  you  never  told  me  of.” 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 

Awake  !  arise !  and  come  away  ! 

To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 

And  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 

Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 


500 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


Of  sapless  green,  and  ivy  dun, 

Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun, 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be 
And  the  sand-hills  of  the  sea, 

Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 
The  daisy-star  that  never  sets, 

And  wind-flowers  and  violets 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue 
Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new; 
When  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east,  dun  and  blind, 

And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 

And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 

Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 

And  all  things  seem  only  one 

In  the  universal  Sun. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

•o* - 

Fancy. 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth  ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 
Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond 
her : 

Open  wide  the  mind’s  cage-door, 

She’ll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 

O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 

Summer’s  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 
Fades  as  does  its  blossoming  : 

Autumn’s  red-lipp’d  fruitage  too, 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 

Cloys  with  tasting.  What  do  then? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 
The  sere  fagot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter’s  night ; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 
From  the  ploughbov’s  heavy  slioon  ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 
In  a  dark  conspiracy 
To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

— Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad 
With  a  mind  self-overawed 
Fancy,  higli-commission’d  : — send  her  ! 
She  has  vassals  to  attend  her  ; 


She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather  ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May 
From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray  ; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn’s  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth  ; 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 
Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it ; — thou  shaft 
hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear ; 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  ; 

And  in  the  same  moment — hark  ! 

’Tis  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 
Wrhite-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 
Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 
Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May ; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 
Pearled  with  the  selfsame  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep  ; 

And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 
Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ; 

Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn  tree, 

When  the  hen-bird’s  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 

Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm  ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 

Everything  is  spoilt  by  use  : 

Where’s  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 

Too  much  gazed  at  ?  Where’s  the  maid 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 

Where’s  the  eye,  however  blue, 

Doth  not  weary  ?  Where’s  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place? 

Where’s  the  voice,  however  soft, 

One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


501 


Let  then  winged  Fancy  find 
Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind: 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres’  daughter, 

Ere  the  god  of  torment  taught  her 
How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide ; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 
White  as  Hebe’s,  when  her  zone 
Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 
Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet 
While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 
Of  the  Fancy’s  silken  leash  ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she’ll  bring  : 

— Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 

John  Keats. 

- *o+ - 

The  Nymph  Complaining  of  the 
Death  of  her  Fawn. 

The  wanton  troopers,  riding  by, 

Have  shot  my  fawn,  and  it  will  die. 
Ungentle  men  !  they  cannot  thrive 
Who  kill’d  thee.  Thou  ne’er  didst,  alive, 
Them  any  harm  ;  alas  !  nor  could 
Thy  death  yet  do  them  any  good. 

I’m  sure  I  never  wish’d  them  ill, 

Nor  do  I  for  all  this,  nor  will  ; 

But,  if  my  simple  prayers  may  yet 
Prevail  with  Heaven  to  forget 
Thy  murder,  I  will  join  my  tears, 

Rather  than  fail.  But,  oh  my  fears ! 

It  cannot  die  so.  Heaven’s  king 
Keeps  register  of  everything ; 

And  nothing  may  we  use  in  vain ; 

Even  beasts  must  be  with  justice  slain, 
Else  men  are  made  their  deodands. 

Though  they  should  wash  their  guilty 
hands 

In  this  warm  life-blood,  which  doth  part 
From  thine  and  wound  me  to  the  heart, 
Yet  could  they  not  be  clean — their  stain 
Is  dyed  in  such  a  purple  grain ; 

There  is  not  such  another  in 
The  world  to  offer  for  their  sin. 

Inconstant  Sylvio,  when  yet 
I  had  not  found  him  counterfeit, 

One  morning  (I  remember  well) 

Tied  in  this  silver  chain  and  bell, 

Gave  it  to  me ;  nay,  and  I  know 
What  he  said  then — I’m  sure  I  do ; 


Said  he,  “  Look  how  your  huntsman  here 
Hath  taught  a  fawn  to  hunt  his  deer !” 
But  Sylvio  soon  had  me  beguiled — 

This  waxed  tame,  while  he  grew  wild, 
And,  quite  regardless  of  my  smart, 

Left  me  his  fawn,  but  took  his  heart. 

Thenceforth,  I  set  myself  to  play 
My  solitary  time  away, 

With  this,  and,  very  well  content, 

Could  so  mine  idle  life  have  spent. 

For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 
Of  foot  and  heart,  and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  game.  It  seem’d  to  bless 
Itself  in  me.  How  could  I  less 
Than  love  it?  Oh,  I  cannot  be 
Unkind  to  a  beast  that  loveth  me. 

Had  it  lived  long,  I  do  not  know 
Whether  it,  too,  might  have  done  so 
As  Sylvio  did — his  gifts  might  be 
Perhaps  as  false,  or  more,  than  he. 

For  I  am  sure,  for  aught  that  I 
Could  in  so  short  a  time  espy, 

Thy  love  was  far  more  better  than 
The  love  of  false  and  cruel  man. 

With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first 
I  it  at  mine  own  fingers  nursed  ; 

And  as  it  grew,  so  every  day 

It  wax’d  more  white  and  sweet  than  they. 

It  had  so  sweet  a  breath  !  and  oft 

I  blush’d  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 

And  white — shall  I  say  than  my  hand  ? 

Nay,  any  lady’s  of  the  land. 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
’Twas  on  those  little  silver  feet ! 

With  what  a  pretty,  skipping  grace 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race  ! 

And  when ’t  had  left  me  far  away, 
’Twould  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay  ; 
For  it  was  nimbler,  much,  than  hinds, 
And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own— 

But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 

And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 
To  be  a  little  wilderness  ; 

And  all  the  spring-time  of  the  year 
It  loved  only  to  be  there. 

Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 

Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie; 

Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 

Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes ; 

For  in  the  flaxen  lilies’  shade 
It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 


502 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed, 

Until  its  lips  ev’n  seem’d  to  bleed  ; 

And  then  to  me  ’twould  boldly  trip, 

And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 

But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 
On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill ; 

And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold. 

Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 
Lilies  without,  roses  within. 

Oh  help  !  oh  help  !  I  see  it  faint, 

And  die  as  calmly  as  a  saint, 

See  how  it  weeps  !  the  tears  do  come, 
Sadly,  slowly,  dropping  like  a  gum. 

So  weeps  the  wounded  balsam  ;  so 
The  holv  frankincense  doth  flow  ; 

The  brotherless  Heliades 

Melt  in  such  amber  tears  as  these. 

I  in  a  golden  vial  will 
Keep  these  two  crystal  tears  ;  and  fill 
It,  till  it  do  o’erflow,  with  mine ; 

Then  place  it  in  Diana’s  shrine. 

Now  my  sweet  fawn  is  vanish’d  to 
Whither  the  swans  and  turtles  go  ; 

In  fair  Elysium  to  endure, 

With  milk-white  lambs,  and  ermines  pure 

Oh  do  not  run  too  fast !  for  I 

Will  but  bespeak  thy  grave,  and  die. 

First  my  unhappy  statue  shall 
Be  cut  in  marble  ;  and  withal, 

Let  it  be  weeping  too  !  But  there 
TIT  engraver  sure  his  art  may  spare, 

For  I  so  truly  thee  bemoan 
That  I  shall  weep  though  I  be  stone  ; 
Lentil  my  tears,  still  drooping,  wear 
My  breast,  themselves  engraving  there. 
There  at  my  feet  shalt  thou  be  laid, 

Of  purest  alabaster  made  ; 

For  I  would  have  thine  image  be 

White  as  I  can,  though  not  as  thee. 

Andrew  Marvell. 


Two  sleeping  nymphs  with  wonder  mute  1 
spy ! 

And,  lo,  she’s  gone  ! — In  robe  of  dark- 
green  hue 

’Twas  Echo  from  her  sister  Silence 
flew, 

For  quick  the  hunter’s  horn  resounded  te 
the  sky  ! 

In  shade  affrighted  Silence  melts  away. 

Not  so  her  sister. — Hark !  for  onward 
still, 

With  far-heard  step,  she  takes  her  listen¬ 
ing  way, 

Bounding  from  rock  to  rock,  and  hill  to 
hill. 

Ah,  mark  the  merry  maid  in  mockful 
play, 

With  thousand  mimic  tones  the  laughing 
forest  fill ! 

Sir  Egerton  Brydges. 


Bugle  Song. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle-walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  fly¬ 
ing, 

Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

Oh  hark  !  oh  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear. 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 

Oh  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintlv  blowing! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  reply¬ 
ing : 

Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 


- ♦<>+ - 

Echo  and  Silence. 

In  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to 

fly, 

And  Autumn  in  her  lap  the  store  to 
strew, 

As  ’mid  wild  scenes  I  chanced  the  muse 
to  woo, 

Through  glens  untrod,  and  woods  that 
frown'd  on  high, 


0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  fly¬ 
ing, 

And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


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O/V/nAa.^'Y^V 


Poems  of  Places. 


The  Chimes  of  England. 

The  chimes,  the  chimes  of  Motherland, 
Of  England  green  and  old, 

That  out.  from  fane  and  ivied  tower 
A  thousand  years  have  toll’d — 

How  glorious  must  their  music  be 
As  breaks  the  hallow’d  day, 

And  calleth  with  a  seraph’s  voice 
A  nation  up  to  pray  ! 

Those  chimes  that  tell  a  thousand  tales — 
Sweet  tales  of  olden  time  ! — 

And  ring  a  thousand  memories 
At  vesper,  and  at  prime : 

At  bridal  and  at  burial, 

For  cottager  and  king — 

Those  chimes — those  glorious  Christian 
chimes, 

How  blessedly  they  ring ! 

Those  chimes,  those  chimes  of  Motherland, 
Upon  a  Christmas  morn, 

Outbreaking,  as  the  angels  did, 

For  a  Redeemer  born, — • 

How  merrily  they  call  afar, 

To  cot  and  baron’s  hall, 

With  holly  deck’d  and  misletoe, 

To  keep  the  festival ! 

The  chimes  of  England,  how  they  peal 
From  tower  and  Gothic  pile, 

Where  hvmn  and  swelling  anthem  fill 
The  dim  cathedral  aisle  ; 

Where  windows  bathe  the  holy  light 
On  priestly  heads  that  falls, 

And  stain  the  florid  tracery 
And  banner-dighted  walls ! 

And  then,  those  Easter  bells,  in  Spring, 
Those  glorious  Easter  chimes, — 

How  loyally  they  hail  thee  round, 

Old  queen  of  holy  times ! 


From  hill  to  hill,  like  sentinels, 
Responsively  they  cry, 

And  sing  the  rising  of  the  Lord, 
From  vale  to  mountain  high. 

I  love  ye,  chimes  of  Motherland, 
With  all  this  soul  of  mine, 

And  bless  the  Lord  that  I  am  sprung 
Of  good  old  English  line ! 

And,  like  a  son,  I  sing  the  lay 
That  England’s  glory  tells ; 

For  she  is  lovely  to  the  Lord, 

For  you,  ye  Christian  bells  ! 


And  heir  of  her  ancestral  fame, 

And  happy  in  my  birth, 

Thee,  too,  I  love,  my  forest-land, 

The  joy  of  all  the  earth  ; 

For  thine  thy  mother’s  voice  shall  be, 

And  here,  where  God  is  King, 

With  English  chimes,  from  Christian 
spires, 

The  wilderness  shall  ring. 

Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe. 


Sonnet. 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more 
fair ; 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could 
pass  by 

A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 

This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning  ;  silent,  bare, 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  tem¬ 
ples  lie 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky ; 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless 
air. 

503 


504 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
N  e’er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will ; 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep, 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still. 

William  Wordsworth. 

- - 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear 
What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here ! 

Think  how  many  royal  bones 
Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones ! 

Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands, 

Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their 
hands, 

Where  from  their  pulpits  seal’d  with  dust 
They  preach,  “  In  greatness  is  no  trust.” 
Here’s  an  acre  sown  indeed 
With  the  richest,  royallest  seed 
That  the  earth  did  e’er  suck  in 
Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin  ; 

Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried, 

“  Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they 
died !” 

Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 

Dropt  from  the  ruin’d  sides  of  kings ; 
Here’s  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 

Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 

Francis  Beaumont. 

-  -  »o> - 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern. 

Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone, 

What  Elysium  have  ye  known — 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern — 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host’s  Canary  wine  ? 

Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison  ?  O  generous  food  ! 

Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 

Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host’s  signboard  flew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer’s  old  quill 


To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story  : 

Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory 
Underneath  a  new  old-sign, 

Sipping  beverage  divine, 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  mermaid  in  the  Zodiac ! 

Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone, 

What  Elysium  have  ye  known— 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern — 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 

John  Keats. 

- - - 

Sonnet. 

Written  after  seeing  Windsor  Castle, 

From  beauteous  Windsor’s  high  and  stor¬ 
ied  halls 

Where  Edward’s  chiefs  start  from  the 
glowing  walls, 

To  my  low  cot  from  ivory  beds  of  state, 
Pleased  I  return  un envious  of  the  great. 
So  the  bee  ranges  o’er  the  varied  scenes 
Of  corn,  of  heaths,  of  fallows,  and  of 
greens, 

Pervades  the  thicket,  soars  above  the  hill, 
Or  murmurs  to  the  meadow’s  murmuring 
rill : 

Now  haunts  old  hollow’d  oaks,  deserted 
cells, 

Now  seeks  the  low  vale  lily’s  silver  bells ; 
Sips  the  warm  fragrance  of  the  greenhouse 
bowers, 

And  tastes  the  myrtle  and  the  citron’s 
flowers ; 

At  length  returning  to  the  wonted  comb, 

Prefers  to  all  his  little  straw-built  home. 

Thomas  Warton. 

•<>•■  — 

On  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton 
College. 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  wat’ry  glade, 

Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 
Her  Henry’s  holy  shade ; 

And  ye  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor’s  heights  th’  expanse  below 
Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers 
among 

Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 
His  silver  winding  way  : 


POEMS  OF  PLACES. 


505 


Ah,  happy  hills  !  ah,  pleasing  shade  ! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! — 

Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray’d, 
A  stranger  yet  to  pain  ! 

I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 

As,  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 

And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

Say,  Father  Thames — for  thou  hast  seen 
Full  many  a  sprightly  race, 

Disporting  on  thy  margent  green, 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace — 

Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave, 

With  pliant  arm,  thy  glassy  wave? 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthrall  ? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle’s  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ? 

While  some,  on  urgent  business  bent, 
Their  murmuring  labors  ply 
’Gainst  graver  hours  that  bring  constraint 
To  sweeten  liberty ; 

Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  -little  reign, 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry ; 

Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 

They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  Fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possest; 

The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast : 

Theirs  buxom  health,  of  rosy  hue, 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new, 

And  lively  cheer,  of  vigor  born ; 

The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 

The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 

That  fly  tli’  approach  of  morn. 

Alas!  regardless  of  their  doom, 

The  little  victims  play  ; 

No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day  ; 

Yet  see,  how  all  around  them  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune’s  baleful  train  ! 
Ah,  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand, 

To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band! 
Ah,  tell  them,  they  are  men  ! 


These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 

Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  skulks  behind ; 

Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth, 

Or  Jealousy,  with  rankling  tooth, 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart : 

And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visaged,  comfortless  Despair, 

And  Sorrow’s  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high, 

To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice, 

And  grinning  Infamy. 

The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try, 
And  hard  Unkindness’  alter’d  eye, 

That  mocks  the  tears  it  forced  to  flow 
And  keen  Remorse,  with  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  Madness,  laughing  wild 
Amid  severest  woe. 

Lo !  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 
A  grisly  troop  are  seen, 

The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen  ; 

This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 
That  every  laboring  sinew  strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage : 

Lo  !  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 

That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 

And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  sufferings  :  all  are  men, 
Condemn’d  alike  to  groan  ; 

The  tender  for  another’s  pain, 

Th’  unfeeling  for  his  own. 

Yet,  ah !  why  should  they  know  their  fate, 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  ? 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 

No  more : — where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

’Tis  folly  to  be  wise ! 

Thomas  Gray. 

- •<>• - 

Elegiac  Stanzas. 

Suggested  by  a  Picture  of  Peele  Cas¬ 
tle  in  a  Storm,  painted  by  Si  r  George 
Beaumont. 

I  was  thy  Neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  Pile  ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of 
thee : 


506 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  saw  thee  every  day  ;  and  all  the  while 

Thy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air  ! 

So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day  ! 

Whene’er  I  look’d,  thy  Image  still  was 
there  ; 

It  trembled,  but  it  never  pass’d  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm  !  it  seem’d  no 
sleep  ; 

No  mood,  which  season  takes  away  or 
brings  : 

I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty 
Deep 

Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle 
Things. 

Ah  !  then,  if  mine  had  been  the  Painter’s 
hand, 

To  express  what  then  I  saw  ;  and  add 
the  gleam, 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 

The  consecration,  and  the  Poet’s  dream ; 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  Hoary 
Pile  ! 

Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this  ! 

Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile ; 

On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

A  Picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 

Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife  ; 

No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 

Or  merely  silent  Nature’s  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 

Such  Picture  would  I  at  that  time  have 
made, 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part ; 

A  faith,  a  trust,  that  could  not  be  be¬ 
tray’d. 

So  once  it  would  have  been, — ’tis  so  no  more; 

I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control : 

A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  re¬ 
store  ; 

A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my 
Soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 

A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been  : 

The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne’er  be  old ; 

This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind 
serene. 


Then,  Beaumont,  Friend  !  who  would  have 
been  the  Friend, 

If  he  had  liv’d,  of  him  whom  I  deplore, 

This  Work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  com¬ 
mend  ; 

This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

Oh  ’tis  a  passionate  Work  ! — yet  wise  and 
well ; 

Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here  ; 

That  Hulk  which  labors  in  the  deadly 
swell, 

This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear  ! 

And  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sub¬ 
lime, 

I  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it 
braves, 

Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armor  of  old  time, 
The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and 
trampling  waves. 

Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives 
alone, 

Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from 
the  Kind  ! 

Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 

Is  to  be  pitied  ;  for  ’tis  surely  blind. 

But  welcome,  fortitude  and  patient  cheer, 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be 
borne ! 

Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me 
here, — 

Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we 
mourn. 

William  Wordsworth. 

- »o» 

Grongar  Rill. 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye  1 
Who,  the  purple  eve,  dost  lie 
On  the  mountain’s  lonely  van, 

Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man, 

Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 

While  the  yellow  linnet  sings, 

Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 
Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale, — 

Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues, 

Come  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse. 

Now,  while  Phoebus,  riding  high, 

Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky, 
Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song, — 

Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong ; 


POEMS  OF  PLACES. 


507 


Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells 
Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells  ; 

Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade, 

For  the  modest  Muses  made, 

So  oft  I  have,  the  evening  still, 

At  the  fountain  of  a  rill, 

Sat  upon  a  flowery  bed, 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head, 

While  stray’d  my  eyes  o’er  Towy’s  flood, 
Over  mead  and  over  wood, 

From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill, 
Till  Contemplation  had  her  fill. 

About  his  checker’d  sides  I  wind, 

And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind, 
And  groves  and  grottos  where  I  lay, 

And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day. 

Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale, 

As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal. 

The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate  ! 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height. 

Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies, 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise. 

Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 

Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads ; 

Still  it  widens,  widens  still, 

And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill. 

Now  I  gain  the  mountain’s  brow  ; 
What  a  landscape  lies  below  ! 

No  clouds,  no  vapors  intervene  ; 

But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  Nature  show, 

In  all  the  hues  of  heaven’s  bow ; 

And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 

Proudly  towering  in  the  skies  ; 

Pushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires  ; 

Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow*  mountain-heads, 

Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 

And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumber’d  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes  : 

The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 

The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew, 

The  slender  fir  that  taper  grows, 

The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs ; 
And,  beyond  the  purple  grove, 

Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love  ! 

Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn, 

Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 


On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye. 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy’s  flood  : 

His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving 
wood, 

And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below  ; 

Whose  ragged  wall  the  ivy  creeps, 

And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps ; 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
In  mutual  dependence  find. 

’Tis  now  the  raven’s  bleak  abode  ; 

’Tis  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad  ; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds  ; 

And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds, 
Conceal’d  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds  ; 
While,  ever  and  anon,  there  fall 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary  moulder’d  wall. 
Yet  Time  has  seen, — that  lifts  the  low 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow, — 

Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 

Big  with  the  vanity  of  state. 

But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate  ! 

A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 

A  sunbeam  in  a  winter’s  day, 

Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers,  how  they  run 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and 
.  sun, 

Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow, — 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep, 

Like  human  life  to  endless  sleep  ! 

Thus  is  Nature’s  vesture  wrought, 

To  instruct  our  wandering  thought : 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay, 

To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new, 

When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view  ? 
The  fountain’s  fall,  the  river’s  flow ; 

The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low  ; 

The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high, 
Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky  ; 

The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruin’d  tower, 

The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower ; 

The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm — 
Each  gives  each  a  double  charm, 

As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop’s  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain’s  southern  side 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide, 

Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide  ; 


508 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie  ! 
What  streaks  of  meadow  cross  the  eye ! 
A  step,  methinks,  may  pass  the  stream, 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem  ; 

So  we  mistake  the  Future’s  face, 

Eyed  through  Hope’s  deluding  glass  ; 

As  yon  summits,  soft  and  fair, 

Clad  in  colors  of  the  air, 

Which,  to  those  who  journey  near, 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear  ; 

Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way, 

The  present’s  still  a  cloudy  day. 

Oh,  may  I  with  myself  agree, 

And  never  covet  what  I  see  ; 

Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 

My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid  ; 

For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll, 

We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul : 

’Tis  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air, 

And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high, 

As  on  the  mountain-turf  I  lie  ; 

While  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings, 

And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings ; 
While  the  waters  murmur  deep  ; 

While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep , 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly, 

And  with  music  fill  the  skv, 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts :  be  great  who  will ; 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill : 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 

Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor. 

In  vain  you  search  ;  she  is  not  there ! 

In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  Care  ! 
Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads, 

On  the  meads  and  mountain-heads, 
Along  with  Pleasure,  close  allied, 

Ever  by  each  other’s  side  ; 

And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill, 

Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 

John  Dyer. 

- K>« - 

On  Revisiting  the  River 

L  OD  DON. 

Ah  !  what  a  weary  race  my  feet  have  run 
Since  first  I  trod  thy  banks  with  alders 
crown’d, 

And  thought  my  way  was  all  through 
fairy  ground, 

Beneath  the  azure  sky  and  golden  sun — 


When  first  my  Muse  to  lisp  her  notes  be¬ 
gun. 

While  pensive  memory  traces  back  the 
round 

Which  fills  the  varied  interval  between  ; 
Much  pleasure,  more  of  sorrow,  marks  the 
scene. 

Sweet  native  stream  !  those  skies  and  suns 
so  pure, 

No  more  return  to  cheer  my  evening 
road  : 

Yet  still  one  joy  remains,  that  not  ob 
scure 

Nor  useless,  all  my  vacant  days  have 
flow’d 

From  youth’s  gay  dawn  to  manhood’s 
prime  mature, 

Nor  with  the  Muse’s  laurel  unbestow’d. 

Thomas  Warton. 

-  -  •<>«  ■ 

The  Cataract  of  lodore. 

“  How  does  the  water 
Come  down  at  Lodore?” 

My  little  boy  ask’d  me 
Thus,  once  on  a  time ; 

And  moreover  he  task’d  me 
To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 

Anon  at  the  word, 

There  first  came  one  daughter, 

And  then  came  another, 

To  second  and  third 
The  request  of  their  brother, 

And  to  hear  how  the  water 
Comes  down  at  Lodore, 

With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

As  many  a  time 
They  had  seen  it  before. 

So  I  told  them  in  j’hyme, 

For  of  rhymes  I  had  store: 

And  ’twas  in  my  vocation 
For  their  recreation 
That  so  I  should  sing ; 

Because  I  was  Laureate 
To  them  and  the  King. 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell ; 

From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains, 

Its  rills  and  its  gills; 


POEMS  OF  PLACES . 


509 


Through  moss  and  through  brake 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  a  while,  till  it  sleeps 
In  its  own  little  lake. 

And  thence  at  departing, 
Awakening  and  starting, 

It  runs  through  the  reeds, 

And  away  it  proceeds, 

Through  meadow  and  glade, 

In  sun  and  in  shade, 

And  through  the  wood-shelter, 

Among  crags  in  its  flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 

Hurry-skurry. 

Here  it  comes  sparkling, 

And  there  it  lies  darkling, 

Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in, 

Till  in  this  rapid  race 
On  which  it  is  bent, 

It  reaches  the  place 
Of  its  steep  descent. 

The  cataract  strong 
Then  plunges  along, 

Striking  and  raging 
As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among; 

Rising  and  leaping, 

Sinking  and  creeping, 

Swelling  and  sweeping, 

Showering  and  springing, 

Flying  and  flinging, 

Writhing  and  ringing, 

Eddying  and  whisking, 

Spouting  and  frisking, 

Turning  and  twisting, 

Around  and  around 
With  endless  rebound ; 

Smiting  and  fighting, 

A  sight  to  delight  in  ; 
Confounding,  astounding, 

Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its 
sound. 

Collecting,  projecting, 

Receding  and  speeding, 

And  shocking  and  rocking, 

And  darting  and  parting, 

And  threading  and  spreading, 

And  whizzing  and  hissing, 

And  dripping  and  skipping, 

And  hitting  and  splitting, 


And  shining  and  twining, 

And  rattling  and  battling, 

And  shaking  and  quaking, 

And  pouring  and  roaring, 

And  waving  and  raving, 

And  tossing  and  crossing, 

And  flowing  and  going, 

And  running  and  stunning, 

And  foaming  and  roaming, 

And  dinning  and  spinning, 

And  dropping  and  hopping, 

And  working  and  jerking, 

And  guggling  and  struggling, 

And  heaving  and  cleaving, 

And  moaning  and  groaning; 

And  glittering  and  frittering, 

And  gathering  and  feathering, 

And  whitening  and  brightening, 
And  quivering  and  shivering, 

And  hurrying  and  skurrying, 

And  thundering  and  floundering ; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding, 

And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawling, 

And  driving  and  riving  and  striving, 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrink¬ 
ling, 

And  sounding  and  bounding  and  round¬ 
ing, 

And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doub¬ 
ling, 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumb¬ 
ling, 

And  clattering  and  battering  and  shat¬ 
tering  ; 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and 
sheeting, 

Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and 
spraying, 

Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing  and 
dancing, 

Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and 
boiling, 

And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming 
and  beaming, 

And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing 
and  gushing, 

And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping 
and  slapping, 

And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  and 
twirling, 


510 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping 
and  jumping, 

And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing 
and  clashing ; 

And  so  never  ending,  but  always  descend¬ 
ing, 

Sounds  and  motions  for  ever  and  ever  are 
blending, 

All  at  once  and  all  o’er,  with  a  mighty 
uproar, 

And  this  way  the  water  comes  down  at 
Lodore. 

Robert  Southey. 


Y A  RR  0  W  UN  VISITED. 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravell’d; 

Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay, 

And  with  the  Tweed  had  travell’d ; 

And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 

Then  said  my  “ winsome  Marrow” 

“  Wliate’er  betide,  we’ll  turn  aside, 

And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.” 

“  Let  Yarrow  Folk,  frae  Selkirk  Town, 
Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 

Go  back  to  Yarrow,  ’tis  their  own; 

Each  Maiden  to  her  Dwelling ! 

On  Yarrow’s  banks  let  herons  feed, 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow  ! 

But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

t  7 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

“  There’s  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 
Both  lying  right  before  us ; 

And  Dryborough,  where  with  the  chiming 
Tweed 

The  Lintwhites  sing  in  chorus  ; 

There’s  pleasant  Tiviotdale,  a  land 
Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow  : 
Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 
To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow? 

“  What’s  Yarrow  but  a  River  bare, 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 

There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 
As  worthy  of  your  wonder.” 

— Strange  words  they  seem’d  of  slight  and 
scorn  : 

My  true-love  sigh’d  for  sorrow ; 

And  look’d  me  in  the  face,  to  think 
I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow ! 


“  Oh !  green,”  said  I,  “  are  Yarrow’s 
Holms 

And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing! 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 

O’er  hilly  path,  and  open  Strath, 

We’ll  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 

But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  Dale  of  Yarrow. 

“  Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow  ;  . 

The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary’s  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow ! 

We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go, 

To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow  ; 

Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There’s  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

“  Be  Yarrow  Stream  unseen,  unknown  ! 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it : 

We  have  a  vision  of  our  own  ; 

Ah,  why  should  we  undo  it? 

The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 
We’ll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow  ! 

For  when  we’re  there,  although  ’tis  fair, 
’Twill  be  another  Yarrow! 

“  If  Care  with  freezing  years  should  come. 

And  wandering  seem  but  folly, — 

Should  we  be  loath  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy  ; 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

’Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow, 

That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 

The  bonny  Holms  of  Yarrow!” 

William  Wordsworth. 

- »o« 

Yarrow  Visited. 

And  is  this — Yarrow? — This  the  Stream 
Of  which  my  fancv  cherish’d, 

So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream? 

An  image  that  hath  perish’d  ! 

Oh  that  some  Minstrel’s  harp  were  near. 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness, 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness ! 

Yet  why  ? — a  silvery  current  flows 
With  uncontroll’d  meanderings; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 
Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 


POEMS  OF  PLACES. 


511 


And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Mary’s 
Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted ; 

For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 
Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  skv  bends  o’er  Yarrow  Vale, 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 

Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness ; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise  !  that  excludes 
All  profitless  dejection ; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 
A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 
Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 
On  which  the  herd  is  feeding  : 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 

The  Water- wraith  ascended  thrice, — 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  Lay  that  sings 
The  haunts  of  happy  Lovers, 

The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers : 

And  Pity  sanctifies  the  verse 
That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 

The  unconquerable  strength  of  love ; 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow  ! 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 
To  fond  Imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 
Her  delicate  creation : 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  sjiread, 

A  softness  still  and  holy  ; 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decay’d, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  Vale  unfolds 
Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 
Of  cultivated  Nature; 

And,  rising  from  those  lofty  groves, 

Behold  a  ruin  hoary ! 

The  shatter’d  front  of  Newark’s  Towers, 
Renown’d  in  Border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood’s  opening  bloom, 
For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in  ; 


For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength  ; 

And  age  to  wear  away  in ! 

Yon  Cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 

Of  tender  thoughts  that  nestle  there, 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day, 

The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 

And  on  my  True-love’s  forehead  plant 
A  crest  of  blooming  heather ! 

And  what  if  I  enwreathed  my  own? 

’Twere  no  offence  to  reason ; 

The  sober  Hills  thus  deck  their  brows 
To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see — but  not  by  sight  alone, 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee; 

A  ray  of  Fancy  still  survives — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 
A  course  of  lively  pleasure ; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe, 
Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapors  linger  round  the  Heights, 

They  melt — and  soon  must  vanish ; 

One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine— 

Sad  thought,  which  I  would  banish, 

But  that  I  know,  where’er  I  go, 

Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow! 

Will  dwell  with  me — to  heighten  joy, 

And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 

William  Wordsworth. 

- +o* - 

Yarrow  Revisited. 

The  gallant  Youth  ivho  may  have  gain’d, 
Or  seeks,  a  “  Winsome  Marrow,” 

Was  but  an  Infant  in  the  lap 
When  first  I  look’d  on  Yarrow ; 

Once  more,  by  Newark’s  Castle-gate 
Long  left  without  a  Warder, 

I  stood,  look’d,  listen’d,  and  with  Thee, 
Great  Minstrel  of  the  Border  ! 

Grave  thoughts  ruled  wide  on  that  sweet  day, 
Their  dignity  installing 

In  gentle  bosoms,  while  sere  leaves 
Were  on  the  bough,  or  falling  ; 

But  breezes  play’d,  and  sunshine  gleam’d  -* 
The  forest  to  embolden  ; 

Redden’d  the  fiery  hues,  and  shot 
Transparence  through  the  golden. 


512 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


For  busy  thoughts  the  Stream  flow’d  on 
In  foamy  agitation  ; 

And  slept  in  many  a  crystal  pool 
For  quiet  contemplation  : 

No  public  and  no  private  care 
The  freeborn  mind  enthralling, 

We  made  a  day  of  happy  hours, 

Our  happy  days  recalling. 

Brisk  Youth  appear’d,  the  Morn  of  youth, 
With  freaks  of  graceful  folly, — 

Life’s  temperate  Noon,  her  sober  Eve, 

Her  Night  not  melancholy, 

Past,  present,  future,  all  appear’d 
In  harmony  united, 

Like  guests  that  meet,  and  some  from  far, 
By  cordial  love  invited. 

And  if,  as  Yarrow,  through  the  woods 
And  down  the  meadow  ranging, 

Did  meet  us  with  unalter’d  face, 

Though  we  were  changed  and  changing  ; 
If,  then ,  some  natural  shadows  spread 
Our  inward  prospect  over, 

The  soul’s  deep  valley  was  not  slow 
Its  brightness  to  recover. 

Eternal  blessings  on  the  Muse, 

And  her  divine  employment ! 

The  blameless  Muse,  who  trains  her  Sons 
For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment ; 

Albeit  sickness  lingering  yet 
Has  o’er  their  pillow  brooded, 

And  Care  waylay  their  stej)s — a  sprite 
Not  easily  eluded. 

For  thee,  O  Scott !  compell’d  to  change 
Green  Eildon-hill  and  Cheviot 
For  warm  Vesuvio’s  vine-clad  slopes  ; 

And  leave  thy  Tweed  and  Teviot 
For  mild  Sorrento’s  breezv  waves  : 

May  classic  Fancy,  linking 
With  native  Fancy  her  fresh  aid, 

Preserve  thy  heart  from  sinking  ! 

Oh  !  while  they  minister  to  thee, 

Each  vying  with  the  other, 

May  Health  return  to  mellow  Age, 

With  Strength,  her  venturous  brother ; 
And  Tiber,  and  each  brook  and  rill 
Renown’d  in  song  and  story, 

With  unimagined  beauty  shine, 

Nor  lose  one  ray  of  glory ! 


For  Thou,  upon  a  hundred  streams, 

By  tales  of  love  and  sorrow, 

Of  faithful  love,  undaunted  truth, 

Hast  shed  the  power  of  Yarrow ; 

And  streams  unknown,  hills  yet  unseen, 
Where’er  thy  path  invite  thee, 

At  parent  Nature’s  grateful  call, 

With  gladness  must  requite  Thee. 

A  gracious  welcome  shall  be  thine, 

Such  looks  of  love  and  honor 
As  thy  own  Yarrow  gave  to  me 
When  first  I  gazed  upon  her  ; 

Beheld  what  I  had  fear’d  to  see, 

Unwilling  to  surrender 
Dreams  treasured  up  from  early  days, 

The  holy  and  the  tender. 

And  what,  for  this  frail  world,  were  all 
That  mortals  do  or  suffer 
Did  no  responsive  harp,  no  pen, 

Memorial  tribute  offer  ? 

Yea,  what  were  mighty  Nature’s  self, 

Her  features,  could  they  win  us, 
Unhelp’d  by  the  poetic  voice 
That  hourly  speaks  within  us  ? 

Nor  deem  that  localized  Romance 
Plavs  false  with  our  affections  : 
Unsanctifies  our  tears — made  sport 
For  fanciful  dejections : 

Ah,  no  !  the  visions  of  the  past 
Sustain  the  heart  in  feeling 
Life  as  she  is — our  changeful  Life, 

With  friends  and  kindred  dealing. 

Bear  witness,  Ye,  whose  thoughts  that  day 
In  Yarrow’s  groves  were  centred  ; 

Who  through  the  silent  portal  arch 
Of  mouldering  Newark  enter’d, 

And  clomb  the  winding  stair  that  once 
Too  timidly  was  mounted 
By  the  “  Last  Minstrel  ”  (not  the  last), 

Ere  he  his  Tale  recounted. 

Flow  on  for  ever,  Yarrow  Stream  ! 

Fulfil  thy  pensive  duty, 

Well  pleased  that  future  Bards  should 
chant 

For  simple  hearts  thy  beauty, 

To  dreamlight  dear  while  yet  unseen, 

Dear  to  the  common  sunshine, 

And  dearer  still,  as  now  I  feel, 

To  memorv’s  shadowv  moonshine  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


POEMS  OF  PLACES. 


513 


Alnwick  Castle. 

Home  of  the  Percy’s  high-born  race, 
Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth-  and  burial-place, 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave  ! 

Still  sternly  o’er  the  castle-gate 
Their  house’s  Lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours, 

And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 

And  feudal  banners  “  flout  the  sky  ” 

Above  his  princely  towers. 

A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  in  England’s  fadeless  green, 

To  meet  the  quiet  stream  which  winds 
Through  this  romantic  scene 
As  silently  and  sweetly  still, 

As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill, 

While  summer’s  wind  blew  soft  and 
low, 

Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur’s  side, 

His  Katherine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey’s  ruin’d  pile : 

Does  not  the  succoring  ivy,  keeping 
Her  watch  around  it,  seem  to  smile, 

As  o’er  a  loved  one  sleeping? 

One  solitary  turret  gray 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 

The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day, 

The  Percy’s  proudest  border-story. 

That  day  its  roof  was  triumph’s  arch ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier’s  march, 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum ; 

And  babe  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk’s  hymn,  and  minstrel’s 
song, 

And  woman’s  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 
Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 

Wild  roses  by  the  Abbey  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloom ; 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral  flowers 
That  garlanded,  in  long-gone  hours, 

A  templar’s  knightly  tomb. 

He  died,  his  sword  in  his  mailed  hand, 

On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  Land, 
Where  the  Cross  was  damp’d  with  his 
dying  breath, 

When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  wine, 

33 


And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 
Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries, 

What  tales,  if  there  be  “  tongues  in  trees." 

Tftose  giant  oaks  could  tell 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here ; 

Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 

Tales  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier, 

The  welcome  and  farewell, 

Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 
The  Norman’s  curfew-bell ! 

I  wander’d  through  the  lofty  halls 
Trod  by  the  Percys  of  old  fame, 

And  traced  upon  the  chapel  walls 
Each  high,  heroic  name, 

From  him  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o’er  mosque  and  minaret, 
Glitter  the  Sultan’s  crescent  moons, 

To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son, 

Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  major  of  dragoons. 

That  last  half  stanza — it  has  dash’d 
From  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup  : 
The  light  that  o’er  my  eyebeam  flash’d, 
The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 
Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone ; 
And  Alnwick’s  but  a  market-town, 

And  this,  alas  !  its  market-day, 

And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way 
Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 
Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line  ; 

From  Teviot’s  bard  and  hero  land, 

From  royal  Berwick’s  beach  of  sand, 

From  Wooller,  Morpeth,  Hexham,  and 
Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spenser’s  rhymes, 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy  : 

Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,  not  fable, 

Of  knights,  but  not  of  the  Round  Table, 
Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  Roy : 

’Tis  what  “  our  President,”  Monroe, 

Has  called  “  the  era  of  good  feeling  •*' 
The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow, 
Consented  to  be  tax’d,  and  vote, 

And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat, 

And  leave  off  cattle-stealing : 


514 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 

The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt, 

The  Douglass  in  red  herrings; 

And  noble  name  and  cultured  land, 
Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal-band, 

Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 
Of  Rothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 

Has  come  :  to-day  the  turban’d  Turk 
(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart ! 

Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start) 

Is  England’s  friend  and  fast  ally  ; 

The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 

And  on  the  Cross  and  altar-stone, 

And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on, 

And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 
And  sees  the  Christian  father  die ; 

And  not  a  sabre-blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heav¬ 
en, 

By  Europe’s  craven  chivalry. 

You’ll  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 
In  the  arm’d  pomp  of  feudal  state? 

The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  “  gentle  Kate  ” 

Are  some  half  dozen  serving-men 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn ; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye, 

And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and 
curling 

Spoke  Nature’s  aristocracy ; 

And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal, 

Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and 
hall, 

From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 

For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck. 

- *0* - 

Hellvellyn. 

I  climb’d  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty 
Hellvellyn. 

Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleam’d 
misty  and  wide; 

All  was  still,  save  by  fits,  when  the  eagle 
was  yelling, 

And  starting  around  me  the  echoes  re¬ 
plied. 


On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the  Red- 
tarn  was  bending, 

And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defend¬ 
ing, 

One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was 
ascending, 

When  I  mark’d  the  sad  spot  where  the 
wanderer  had  died. 

Dark  green  was  that  spot  ’mid  the  brown 
mountain-heather, 

Where  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  lay 
stretch’d  in  decay, 

Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandon’d 
to  weather, 

Till  the  mountain-winds  wasted  the 
tenantless  clav. 

Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  ex¬ 
tended, 

For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favorite 
attended, 

The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  de¬ 
fended, 

And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven 
away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence 
was  slumber? 

When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how 
oft  didst  thou  start? 

How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks  didst 
thou  number, 

Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of 
thy  heart? 

And,  oh,  was  it  meet,  that — no  requiem 
read  o’er  him, 

No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  de¬ 
plore  him, 

And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretch’d 
before  him, — 

Unhonor’d  the  Pilgrim  from  life  should 
depart? 

When  a  Prince  to  the  fate  of  the  Peasant 
has  yielded, 

The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim- 
lighted  hall ; 

With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is 
shielded, 

And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied 
pall : 


POEMS  OF  PLACES. 


515 


Through  the  courts  at  deep  midnight  the 
torches  are  gleaming ; 

In  the  proudly-arch’d  chapel  the  banners 
are  beaming ; 

Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is 
streaming, 

Lamenting  a  Chief  of  the  People  should 
fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  Nature, 

To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek 
mountain-lamb, 

When,  ’wilder’d,  he  drops  from  some  cliff 
huge  in  stature, 

And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his 
dam. 

And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert 
lake  lying, 

Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover 
flying, 

With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy 
dying, 

In  the  arms  of  Hellvellyn  and  Catche- 
dicam. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

. »o« - 

Ode  to  Leven  Water. 

On  Leven’s  banks,  while  free  to  rove, 

And  tune  the  rural  pipe  to  love, 

I  envied  not  the  happiest  swain 
That  ever  trod  the  Arcadian  plain. 

Pure  stream,  in  whose  transparent  wave 
My  youthful  limbs  I  wont  to  lave  ; 

No  torrents  stain  thy  limpid  source, 

No  rocks  impede  thy  dimpling  course, 
That  sweetly  warbles  o’er  its  bed, 

With  white  round  polish’d  pebbles  spread; 
While,  lightly  poised,  the  scaly  brood 
In  myriads  cleave  thy  crystal  flood ; 

The  springing  trout  in  speckled  pride, 

The  salmon,  monarch  of  the  tide  ; 

The  ruthless  pike,  intent  on  war, 

The  silver  eel,  and  mottled  par. 

Devolving  from  thy  parent  lake, 

A  charming  maze  thy  waters  make, 

By  bowers  of  birch  and  groves  of  pine, 
And  hedges  flower’d  with  eglantine. 

Still  on  thy  banks,  so  gayly  green, 

May  numerous  flocks  and  herds  be  seen  : 
And  lasses  chanting  o’er  the  pail, 

And  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale  ; 


And  ancient  faith  that  knows  no  guile, 

And  industry  embrown’d  with  toil ; 

And  hearts  resolved  and  hands  prepared 

The  blessings  they  enjoy  to  guard  ! 

Tobias  Smollett. 

—•O*  ■  — 

Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Aft  on. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy 
green  braes, 

Flow  gently,  I’ll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy 
praise ; 

My  Mary’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring 
stream, 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her 
dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds 
through  the  glen, 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny 
den, 

Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  scream¬ 
ing  forbear, 

I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering 
fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring 
hills, 

Far  mark’d  with  the  courses  of  clear 
winding  rills  ; 

There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 

My  flocks  and  my  Mary’s  sweet  cot  in  my 
eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys 
below, 

Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  prim¬ 
roses  blow  ; 

There  oft,  as  mild  Evening  weeps  over  the 
lea, 

The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary 
and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it 
glides, 

And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  re¬ 
sides  ; 

How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 

As,  gathering  sweet  flow’rets,  she  stems 
thy  clear  wave  ! 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 
braes, 

Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my 
lays; 


516 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


My  Mary’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring 
stream, 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her 
dream. 

Robert  Burns. 


The  Bells  of  Shandon. 

Sabbata  pango ; 

Funera  plango  ; 

Solemnia  clango. 

Inscription  on  an  Old  Bell. 

With  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 

Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 

In  the  days  of  childhood, 

Fling  round  my  cradle 
Their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder 
Where’er  I  wander, 

And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee — 

With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I’ve  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 

Tolling  sublime  in 
Cathedral  shrine, 

While  at  a  glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate  ; 

But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 

For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry  knelling 
Its  bold  notes  free, 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I’ve  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian’s  Mole  in, 

Their  thunder  rolling 
From  the  Vatican — 

And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 


In  the  gorgeous  turrets 
Of  Notre  Dame ; 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o’er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 

Oh  !  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

There’s  a  bell  in  Moscow  ; 

While  on  tower  and  kiosk,  oh, 

In  Saint  Sophia 
The  Turkman  gets, 

And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summit 
Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them  ; 

But  there’s  an  anthem 
More  dear  to  me — 

’Tis  the  Bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

Francis  Mahony  (“  Father  Prout  ”). 

— *o* - 

The  Groves  of  Blarney. 

The  groves  of  Blarney  they  look  so  charm¬ 
ing, 

Down  by  the  purlings  of  sweet  silent 
brooks — 

All  deck’d  by  posies,  that  spontaneous 
grow  there, 

Planted  in  order  in  the  rocky  nooks. 

’Tis  there  the  daisy,  and  the  sweet  carna¬ 
tion, 

The  blooming  pink,  and  the  rose  so 
fair ; 

Likewise  the  lily,  and  the  daffodilly — 

All  flowers  that  scent  the  sweet,  open 
air. 

’Tis  Lady  Jeffers  owns  this  plantation; 

Like  Alexander,  or  like  Helen  fair, 
There’s  no  commander  in  all  the  nation 
For  regulation  can  with  her  compare. 


POEMS  OF  PLACES. 


517 


Such  walls  surround  her,  that  no  nine- 
pounder 

Could  ever  plunder  her  place  of  strength ; 

But  Oliver  Cromwell,  he  did  her  pommel, 
And  made  a  breach  in  her  battlement. 

There’s  gravel-walks  there  for  speculation, 
And  conversation  in  sweet  solitude ; 

’Tis  there  the  lover  may  hear  the  dove,  or 
The  gentle  plover,  in  the  afternoon. 

And  if  a  young  lady  should  be  so  engaging 
As  to  walk  alone  in  those  shady  bowers, 

’Tis  there  her  courtier  he  may  transport 
her 

In  some  dark  fort,  or  under  the  ground. 

For  ’tis  there’s  the  cave  where  no  daylight 
enters, 

But  bats  and  badgers  are  for  ever  bred  ; 

Being  moss’d  by  Natur’,  that  makes  it 
sweeter 

Than  a  coach  and  six,  or  a  feather  bed. 

’Tis  there’s  the  lake  that  is  stored  with 
perches, 

And  comely  eels  in  the  verdant  mud ; 

Besides  the  leeches,  and  the  groves  of 
beeches, 

All  standing  in  order  for  to  guard  the 
flood. 

’Tis  there’s  the  kitchen  hangs  many  a  flitch 
in, 

With  the  maids  a-stitching  upon  the  stair ; 

The  bread  and  biske’,  the  beer  and  whis¬ 
key, 

Would  make  you  frisky  if  you  were 
there. 

’Tis  there  you’d  see  Peg  Murphy’s  daugh¬ 
ter 

A-washing  praties  forenent  the  door, 

With  Roger  Cleary,  and  Father  Healy, 

All  blood  relations  to  my  Lord  Donough- 
more. 

There’s  statues  gracing  this  noble  place  in, 
All  heathen  goddesses  so  fair — 

Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch,  and  Nicodemus, 
All  standing  naked  in  the  open  air. 

So  now  to  finish  this  brave  narration, 
Which  my  poor  geni’  could  not  entwine; 

But  were  I  Homer,  or  Nebuchadnezzar, 
’Tis  in  every  feature  I  would  make  it 
shine. 

Richard  Alfred  Millikin. 


Sweet  Innisfallen. 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well, 

May  calm  and  sunshine  long  be  thine  ! 
How  fair  thou  art  let  others  tell — 

To  feel  how  fair  shall  long  be  mine. 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  long  shall  dwell 
In  memory’s  dream  that  sunny  smile, 
Which  o’er  thee  on  that  evening  fell 
When  first  I  saw  thy  fairy  isle. 

’Twas  light,  indeed,  too  blest  for  one, 

Who  had  to  turn  to  paths  of  care — 
Through  crowded  haunts  again  to  run, 
And  leave  thee  bright  and  silent  there  ; 

No  more  unto  thy  shores  to  come, 

But,  on  the  world’s  rude  ocean  tost, 
Dream  of  thee  sometimes  as  a  home 
Of  sunshine  he  had  seen  and  lost. 

Far  better  in  thy  weeping  hours 
To  part  from  thee,  as  I  do  now, 

When  mist  is  o’er  thy  blooming  bowers, 
Like  sorrow’s  veil  on  beauty’s  brow. 

For,  though  unrivall’d  still  thy  grace, 
Thou  dost  not  look,  as  then,  too  blest, 
But  thus  in  shadow,  seem’st  a  place 
Where  erring  man  might  hope  to  rest — 

Might  hope  to  rest,  and  find  in  thee 
A  gloom  like  Eden’s,  on  the  day 
He  left  its  shade,  when  every  tree, 

Like  thine,  hung  weeping  o’er  his  way. 

Weeping  or  smiling,  lovely  isle  ! 

And  all  the  lovelier  for  thy  tears — 

For  tho’  but  rare  thy  sunny  «smile, 

’Tis  heaven’s  own  glance  when  it  ap¬ 
pears. 

Like  feeling  hearts,  whose  joys  are  few, 
But,  when  indeed  they  come,  divine — 
The  brightest  life  the  sun  e’er  threw 

Is  lifeless  to  one  gleam  of  thine  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

«o« 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters. 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley 
so  sweet 

As  that  vale,  in  whose  bosom  the  bright 
waters  meet ; 


518 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Oh,  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must 
depart 

Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade 
from  my  heart ! 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o’er 
the  scene 

Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of 
green  ; 

’Twas  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or 
hill  — 

Oh,  no  !  it  was  something  more  exquisite 
still. 

’Twas  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my 
bosom,  were  near, 

Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchant¬ 
ment  more  dear, 

And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of 
Nature  improve 

When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks 
that  we  love. 

Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca !  how  calm  could  I 
rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I 
love  best : 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold 
world  should  cease, 

And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  min¬ 
gled  in  peace. 

Thomas  Moore. 

-  — 40* - 

At  Dieppe. 

The  shivering  column  of  the  moonlight 
lies 

Upon  the  crumbling  sea  ; 

Down  the  lone  shore  the  flying  curlew 
cries 

Half  humanly. 

With  hoarse,  dull  wash  the  backward  drag¬ 
ging  surge 

Its  rancid  pebbles  rakes, 

Or  swelling  dark  runs  down  with  toppling 
verge, 

And  flashing  breaks. 

The  lighthouse  flares  and  darkens  from 
the  cliff, 

And  stares  with  lurid  eye 

Fiercely  along  the  sea  and  shore,  as  if 

Some  foe  to  spy. 


What  knowing  thought,  0  ever-moaning 

sea, 

Haunts  thy  perturbed  breast, 

What  dark  crime  weighs  upon  thy  memory 

And  spoils  thy  rest? 

Thy  soft  swell  lifts  and  swings  the  new- 
launch’d  yacht 

With  polish’d  spars  and  deck, 

But  crawls  and  grovels  where  the  bare  ribs 
rot 

Of  the  old  wreck. 

O  treacherous  courtier !  thy  deceitful  lie 

To  youth  is  gayly  told, 

But  in  remorse  I  see  thee  cringingly 

Crouch  to  the  old. 

William  Wetmore  Story. 

■—  •<>♦■■  -  - 
The  Rhine. 

’Twas  morn,  and  beauteous  on  the  moun¬ 
tain’s  brow 

(Hung  with  the  clusters  of  the  bending 
vine) 

Shone  in  the  early  light,  when  on  the 
Rhine 

We  bounded,  and  the  white  waves  round 
the  prow 

In  murmurs  parted : — varying  as  we  go, 

Lo!  the  woods  open,  and  the  rocks  retire, 

As  some  gray  convent-wall  or  glistening 
spire 

Mid  the  bright  landscape’s  track  unfolding 
slow ! 

Here  dark,  with  furrowed  aspect,  like  De¬ 
spair, 

Frowns  the  bleak  cliff!  There  on  the 
woodland’s  side 

The  shadowy  sunshine  pours  its  stream¬ 
ing  tide ; 

Whilst  Hope,  enchanted  with  the  scene  so 
fair, 

Counts  not  the  hours  of  a  long  summer’s  day, 

Nor  heeds  how  fast  the  prospect  winds  away. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 

- K>»  — 

HYMN. 

Before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of 
Chamouni. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 

In  his  steep  course  ?  So  long  he  seems  to 
pause 


POEMS  OF  PLACES. 


519 


On  thy  bald  awful  head,  0  sovran  Blanc! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful 
Form, 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently  !  Around  thee  and  above, 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark ;  substantial, 
black, 

An  ebon  mass :  methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge !  But,  when  I  look 
again, 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal 
shrine, 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !  I  gazed  upon 
thee, 

Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 
Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced 
in  prayer, 

I  worshipp’d  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 

So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to 
it, 

Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with 
my  thought, 

Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life’s  own  secret 

joy: 

Till  the  dilating  Soul,  enwrapt,  trans¬ 
fused, 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there, 

As  in  her  natural  form,  swell’d  vast  to 
Heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  Not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling 
tears, 

Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy  !  Awake, 
Y oice  of  sweet  song !  Awake,  my  Heart, 
awake, 

Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my 
Hymn. 

Thou,  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the 
Vale! 

Oh  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the 
night, 

And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 

Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they 
sink  : 

Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth’s  rosy  star,  and  of  the 
dawn 


Co-herald :  wake !  oh  wake !  and  utter 
praise  ! 

Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in 
Earth? 

Who  fill’d  thy  countenance  with  rosv 
light? 

Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual 
streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 

Who  call’d  you  forth  from  night  and  utter 
death, 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  call’d  you 
forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged 
Rocks, 

For  ever  shatter’d,  and  the  same  for  ever? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and 
your  joy, 

Unceasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam? 

And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence 
came), 

Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 

Ye  ice-falls!  ye  that  from  the  mountain’s 
brow 

Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 

Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty 
voice. 

And  stopp’d  at  once  amid  their  maddest 
plunge ! 

Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts! 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of 
Heaven 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?  Who  bade 
the  sun 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows?  Who  with 
living  flowers 

Of  loveliest  blue  spread  garlands  at  your 
feet? 

God !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of 
nations, 

Answer:  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God! 

God!  sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  glad¬ 
some  voice ! 

Ye  pine  groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul¬ 
like  sounds ! 

And  they,  too,  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of 
snow, 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder, 
God! 


520 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal 
frost ! 

Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle’s 
nest! 

Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain- 
storm  ! 

Y"e  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the 
clouds ! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 

Utter  forth  God!  and  fill  the  hills  with 
praise ! 

Thou,  too,  hoar  Mount!  with  thy  sky- 
pointing  peaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  un¬ 
heard, 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the 
pure  serene 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil  thy 
breast — 

Thou,  too,  again,  stupendous  Mountain ! 
thou 

That  as  I  raise  my  head,  a  while  bow’d 
low 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 

Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with 
tears, 

Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 

To  rise  before  me — Rise,  oh  ever  rise, 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the 
Earth ! 

Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the 
hills, 

Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to 
Heaven, 

Great  hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 

Earth  with  her  thousand  voices  praises 
God. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

- - •<>+ - 

Indian  Names. 

Ye  say  they  all  have  pass’d  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave, 

That  their  light  canoes  have  vanish’d 
From  off  the  crested  wave; 

That,  ’mid  the  forests  where  they  roam’d, 
There  rings  no  hunter’s  shout ; 

But  their  name  is  on  your  waters, 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 


’Tis  where  Ontario’s  billow 
Like  ocean’s  surge  is  curl’d  ; 

Where  strong  Niagara’s  thunders  wake 
The  echo  of  the  world  ; 

Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 
Rich  tribute  from  the  West, 

And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 
On  green  Virginia’s  breast. 

Ye  say  their  conelike  cabins, 

That  cluster’d  o’er  the  vale, 

Have  fled  away  like  wither’d  leaves 
Before  the  autumn’s  gale : 

But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 
Their  baptism  on  your  shore ; 

Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 
Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 
Within  her  lordly  crown, 

And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 
’Mid  all  her  young  renown  ; 

Connecticut  hath  wreathed  it 
Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves, 

And  bold  Kentucky  breathes  it  hoarse 
Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wacliuset  hides  its  lingering  voice 
Within  his  rocky  heart, 

And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 
Throughout  his  lofty  chart; 

Monadnock  on  his  forehead  hoar 
Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust  : 

Your  mountains  build  their  monument, 
Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 

Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney. 

- »o* - 

Niagara. 

The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into 
my  brain 

While  I  look  upward  to  thee!  It  would 

seem 

As  if  God  pour’d  thee  from  his  hollow  hand. 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front, 
And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice  which  seem’d 
to  him 

Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour’s  sake 
“  The  sound  of  many  waters,”  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 

And  notch  His  centuries  in  the  eternal 
rocks. 


THAT  NOBLE  RACE 


POEMS  OF  PLACES. 


521 


Deep  calletli  unto  deep — and  what  are  we 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sub¬ 
lime? 

Oh,  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war’s  vain  trumpet  by  thy  thundering 
side? 

Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make, 

In  his  short  life,  to  thine  unceasing  roar? 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to 
Him 

Who  drown’d  the  world  and  heap’d  the 
waters  far 

Above  its  loftiest  mountains? — A  light 
wave, 

That  breaks  and  whispers  of  his  Maker’s 
might ! 

John  G.  C.  Brainard. 
- •<>• - 

To  Seneca  Lake. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 
And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 

As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 

The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 

And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 

And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  north  wind,  heave  their 
foam 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar, 

As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain’s  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 

A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 

And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 

Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

Oh  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar, — 

When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 

And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o’er. 

James  Gates  Percival. 


Tiie  Arsenal  at  Springfield. 

« 

This  is  the  Arsenal.  From  floor  to  ceil¬ 
ing, 

Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnish’d 
arms, 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem 
pealing 

Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah !  what  a  sound  will  rise — how  wild 
and  dreary — 

When  the  death-angel  touches  those 
swift  keys  !4 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  sympho¬ 
nies  ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone 
before  us, 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon 
hammer, 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norse¬ 
man’s  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O’er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar 
gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  pal¬ 
ace 

Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful 
din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 
Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  ser¬ 
pent’s  skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sack’d  and  burning 
village, 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy 
drowns, 

The  soldiers’  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage, 
The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguer’d  towns; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrench’d 
asunder, 

The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing 
blade, 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tone  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 


522 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Thou  drownest  Nature’s  sweet  and  kindly 
voices, 

And  j arrest  the  celestial  harmonies? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world 
with  terror, 

Were  half  the  wealth  bestow’d  on  camps 
and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from 
error, 

There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or 
forts : 

The  warrior’s  name  would  be  a  name  ab¬ 
horred, 

And  every  nation  that  should  lift  again 

Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  for  evermore  the  curse  of 
Cain ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  gene¬ 
rations, 

The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and 
then  cease ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibra¬ 
tions, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ 
say,  “  Peace !” 

Peace ! — and  no  longer  from  its  brazen 
portals 

The  blast  of  War’s  great  organ  shakes 
the  skies, 

But,  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 

The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Lonofellow. 

- K» 

Old  St.  David’s  at  Radnor. 

What  an  image  of  peace  and  rest 

Is  this  little  church  among  its  graves ! 


All  is  so  quiet ;  the  troubled  breast, 

The  wounded  spirit,  the  heart  oppressed, 
Here  may  find  the  repose  it  craves. 

See,  how  the  ivy  climbs  and  expands 
Over  this  humble  hermitage, 

And  seems  to  caress  with  its  little  hands 
The  rough,  gray  stones,  as  a  child  that 
stands 

Caressing  the  wrinkled  cheeks  of  age ! 

You  cross  the  threshold;  and  dim  and 
small 

Is  the  space  that  serves  for  the  Shep¬ 
herd’s  Fold; 

The  narrow  aisle,  the  bare,  white  wall, 

The  pews,  and  the  pulpit  quaint  and  tall, 
Whisper  and  say :  “Alas!  we  are  old.” 

Herbert’s  chapel  at  Bemerton 

Hardly  more  spacious  is  than  this  ; 

But  Poet  and  Pastor,  blent  in  one, 

Clothed  with  a  splendor,  as  of  the  sun, 
That  lowly  and  holy  edifice. 

It  is  not  the  wall  of  stone  without 

That  makes  the  building  small  or  great, 
But  the  soul’s  light  shining  round  about, 
And  the  faith  that  overcometh  doubt, 

And  the  love  that  stronger  is  than  hate. 

Were  I  a  pilgrim  in  search  of  peace, 

Were  I  a  pastor  of  Holy  Church, 

More  than  a  bishop’s  diocese 
Should  I  prize  this  place  of  rest,  and  re¬ 
lease 

From  farther  longing  and  farther  search. 

Here  would  I  stay,  and  let  the  world 
With  its  distant  thunder  roar  and  roll; 
Storms  do  not  rend  the  sail  that  is  furled; 
Nor  like  a  dead  leaf,  tossed  and  whirled 

In  an  eddy  of  wind,  is  the  anchored  souh 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


“Psalms  and  Hymns  and  Spiritual  Songs.” 


Eph.  y.  19. 


Watchman,  Tell  us  of  the  Nlght. 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night — 
What  its  signs  of  promise  are  ! 

Traveller,  o’er  yon  mountain’s  height 
See  that  glory-beaming  star  ! 

Watchman,  does  its  beauteous  ray 
Aught  of  hope  or  joy  foretell  ? 

Traveller,  yes  ;  it  brings  the  day — 
Promised  day  of  Israel. 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night — - 
Higher  yet  that  star  ascends  ! 

Traveller,  blessedness  and  light, 

Peace  and  truth,  its  course  portends. 

Watchman,  will  its  beams  alone 
Gild  the  spot  that  gave  them  birth  ? 

Traveller,  ages  are  its  own — 

See,  it  bursts  o’er  all  the  earth  ! 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night, 

For  the  morning  seems  to  dawn. 

Traveller,  darkness  takes  its  flight — 
Doubt  and  terror  are  withdrawn. 

Watchman,  let  thy  wandering  cease  ; 
Hie  thee  to  thy  quiet  home. 

Traveller,  lo !  the  Prince  of  Peace — 

Lo  !  the  Son  of  God,  is  come. 

Sir  Joiik  Bowking. 

•o»  — - 

On  the  Morning  of  Christs 
Nativity. 

i. 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy 
morn, 

Wherein  the  Son  of  heav’n’s  eternal  King, 

Of  wedded  Maid,  and  Virgin  Mother  born, 

Our  great  redemption  from  above  did 
bring  ; 

For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing, 


That  He  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 
And  with  His  Father  work  us  a  perpetual 
peace. 

II. 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  unsufferable, 
And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty, 
Wherewith  He  wont  at  heav’n’s  high  coun¬ 
cil-table 

To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 

He  laid  aside  ;  and  here  with  us  to  be, 
Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 

And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of 
mortal  clav. 

V 

III. 

Say,  heav’nly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred 
vein 

Afford  a  present  to  the  Infant  God  ? 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn 
strain, 

To  welcome  Him  to  this  His  new  abode, 
Now  while  the  heav’n,  by  the  sun’s  team 
untrod, 

Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching 
light, 

And  all  the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in 
squadrons  bright  ? 

IV. 

See  how  from  far  upon  the  eastern  road 
The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odors 
sweet : 

Oh  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode, 
And  lay  it  lowly  at  His  blessed  feet ; 

Have  thou  the  honor  first  thy  Lord  to 
greet, 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  Angel  quire, 
From  out  His  secret  altar  touch’d  with  hal¬ 
low’d  fire. 

* 


523 


524 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


THE  HYMN. 

I. 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 

While  the  heav’n-born  Child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger 
lies ; 

Nature  in  awe  to  Him 
Had  dofft  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize  : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  para¬ 
mour. 

II. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent 
snow, 

And  on  her  naked  shame, 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to 
throw ;  • 

Confounded  that  her  Maker’s  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  de¬ 
formities. 

hi. 

But  He  her  fears  to  cease, 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace  ; 

She,  crown’d  with  olive  green,  came 
softly  sliding 

Down  through  the  turning  sphere 
His  ready  harbinger, 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds 
dividing  ; 

And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 

She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea 
and  land. 

IY. 

No  war  or  battle’s  sound 
Was  heard  the  world  around  : 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up 
hung, 

Hie  hooked  chariot  stood 
Unstain’d  with  hostile  blood, 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armbd 
throng, 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 

As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sov’reign  Lord 
was  by.  » 


But  peaceful  was  the  night, 

Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  be¬ 
gan : 

The  winds  with  wonder  whist 
Smoothly  the  waters  kist, 

Whisp’ring  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 

While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the 
charmed  wave. 

yi  . 

The  stars  with  deep  amaze 
Stand  fix’d  in  steadfast  gaze, 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influ¬ 
ence, 

And  will  not  take  their  flight, 

For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warn’d  them 
thence ; 

But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow, 
Until  their  Lord  Himself  bespake,  and  bid 
them  go. 

VII. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted 
speed, 

And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 

As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new  enlighten’d  world  no  more 
should  need ; 

He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axle- 
tree  could  bear. 


VIII. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 

Or  e’er  the  point  of  dawn, 

Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row ; 

Full  little  thought  they  then 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  be¬ 
low  ; 

Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so 
busy  keep. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


52  f> 


IX. 

When  such  music  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet, 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook, 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture 
took ; 

The  air  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose, 

With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each 
heavenly  close. 

x. 

Nature  that  heard  such  sound, 

Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia’s  seat,  the  airy  region  thrill¬ 
ing, 

Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done, 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last 
fulfilling ; 

She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  heav’n  and  earth  in  happier 
union. 

XI. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light, 

That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced 
night  array’d; 

The  helmed  Cherubim, 

And  sworded  Seraphim, 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings 
display’d, 

Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire, 

With  unexpressive  notes  to  Heaven’s  new¬ 
born  Heir. 

XII. 

Such  music  (as  ’tis  said) 

Before  was  never  made, 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning 
sung, 

While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set, 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges 
hung  ; 

And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 

And  bid  the  welt’ring  waves  their  oozy 
channel  keep. 


XIII. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres, 

Once  bless  our  human  ears, 

If  ye  have  pow’r  to  touch  our  senses 
so ; 

And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time, 

And  let  the  base  of  heav’n’s  deep  or¬ 
gan  blow ; 

And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 
Make  up  full  consort  to  tlT  angelic  sym¬ 
phony. 

XIV. 

For  if  such  holy  song 
Inwrap  our  fancy  long, 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age 
of  gold; 

And  speckled  Vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly 
mould ; 

And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 

And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the 
peering  day. 

xv. 

Yea  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 

Orb’d  in  a  rainbow ;  and,  like  glories 
wearing, 

Mercy  will  sit  between, 

Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds 
down  steering : 

And  heav’n,  as  at  some  festival, 

Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high 
palace  hall. 

XVI. 

But  wisest  Fate  says,  no, 

This  must  not  vet  be  so, 

The  Babe  lies  yet  in  smiling  infancy, 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss ; 

So  both  Himself  and  us  to  glorify; 

Yet  first  to  those  ychain’d  in  sleep, 

The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder 
through  the  deep, 


526 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


XVII. 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 

While  the  red  tire,  and  smouldering 
clouds  out  brake : 

The  aged  earth  aghast, 

With  terror  of  that  blast, 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre 
shake ; 

When  at  the  world’s  last  session, 

The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall 
sj)read  His  throne. 

XVIII. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is, 

But  now  begins ;  for  from  this  happy 
day 

The  old  Dragon  under  ground 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway, 
And  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

XIX. 

The  oracles  are  dumb, 

No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Runs  thro’  the  arched  roof  in  words 
deceiving. 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos 
leaving. 

No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  pro¬ 
phetic  cell. 

xx. 

The  lonely  mountains  o’er, 

And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  la¬ 
ment  ; 

From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  genius  is  with  sighing 
sent ; 

With  flow’r-in woven  tresses  torn 
The  Nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled 
thickets  mourn. 


XXI. 

In  consecrated  earth, 

And  on  the  holy  hearth, 

The  Lars,  and  Lemures  moan  with  mid¬ 
night  plaint ; 

In  urns,  and  altars  round, 

A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the  Flamens  at  their  service 
quaint : 

And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  Pow’r  foregoes  his 
wonted  seat. 

XXII. 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 

With  that  twice-batter’d  god  of  Pales¬ 
tine  ; 

And  moonfed  Ashtaroth, 

Heav’n’s  queen  and  mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers’  holy 
shine ; 

The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn, 

In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded 
Thammuz  mourn. 

XXIII. 

And  sullen  Moloch  fled, 

Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue ; 

In  vain  with  cymbals’  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace 
blue : 

The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 

Isis  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis  haste. 

XXIV. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 
In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 

Trampling  the  unshow’r’d  grass  with 
lowings  loud : 

Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest ; 

Naught  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his 
shroud : 

In  vain  with  timbrell’d  anthems  dark 
The  sable-stolfed  sorcerers  bear  his  wor* 
shipp’d  ark. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


527 


XXY. 

He  feels  from  Juda’s  land 
The  dreaded  Infant’s  hand, 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky 
eyn: 

Nor  all  the  gods  beside, 

Longer  dare  abide, 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine  : 
Our  Babe,  to  show  His  Godhead  true, 

Can  in  His  swaddling  bands  control  the 
damned  crew. 

XXVI. 

So  when  the  sun  in  bed, 

Curtain’d  with  cloudy  red, 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  th’  infernal  jail, 

Each  fetter’d  ghost  slips  to  his  several 
grave ; 

And  the  yellow-skirted  Fayes 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their 
moon-loved  maze. 

XXVII. 

But  see  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest, 

Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here 
have  ending  ; 

Heav’n’s  youngest  teemed  star 
Hath  fix’d  her  polish’d  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp 
attending ;  ® 

And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harness’d  Angels  sit  in  order  ser¬ 
viceable. 

John  Milton. 

■  -  •<>♦■-  ■ 

Messiah. 

A  Sacred  Eclogue. 

Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma!  begin  the  song  : 
To  heavenly  themes  sublimer  strains  be¬ 
long. 

The  mossy  fountains  and  the  sylvan 
shades, 

The  dreams  of  Pindus  and  th’  Aonian 
maids, 

Delight  no  more — O  Thou  my  voice  in¬ 
spire 

Who  touch’d  Isaiah’s  hallow’d  lips  with  fire ! 


Rapt  into  future  times  the  bard  begun : 

A  Virgin  shall  conceive — a  Virgin  bear  a 
Son ! 

From  Jesse’s  root  behold  a  Branch  arise 

Whose  sacred  flower  with  fragrance  fills 
the  skies : 

Th’  Ethereal  Spirit  o’er  its  leaves  shall 
move, 

And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  Dove. 

Ye  heavens!  from  high  the  dewy  nectar 
pour, 

And  in  soft  silence  shed  the  kindly 
shower ! 

The  sick  and  weak  the  healing  plant  shall 
aid — 

From  storms  a  shelter,  and  from  heat  a 
shade. 

All  crimes  shall  cease,  and  ancient  fraud 
shall  fail ; 

Returning  Justice  lift  aloft  her  scale, 

Peace  o’er  the  world  her  olive  wand  ex¬ 
tend, 

And  white-robed  Innocence  from  heaven 
descend. 

Swift  fly  the  years,  and  rise  th’  expected 
morn  ! 

Oh  spring  to  light,  auspicious  Babe,  be 
born ! 

See,  Nature  hastes  her  earliest  wreaths  to 
bring, 

With  all  the  incense  of  the  breathing 
spring : 

See  lofty  Lebanon  his  head  advance; 

See  nodding  forests  on  the  mountains 
dance ; 

See  spicy  clouds  from  lowly  Sharon  rise, 

And  Carmel’s  flowery  top  perfumes  the 
skies ! 

Hark !  a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert 
cheers : 

Prepare  the  way !  a  God,  a  God  appears ! 

A  God,  a  God!  the  vocal  hills  reply — 

The  rocks  proclaim  the  approaching 
Deity. 

Lo,  earth  receives  Him  from  the  bending 
skies ! 

Sink  down,  ye  mountains ;  and  ye  valleys, 
rise ! 

With  heads  declined,  ye  cedars,  homage 
pay! 

Be  smooth,  ye  rocks;  ye  rapid  floods,  give 
way ! 


528 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Saviour  comes !  by  ancient  bards  fore¬ 
told — 

Hear  Him,  ye  deaf ;  and  all  ye  blind,  be¬ 
hold  ! 

He  from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visual 
ray, 

And  on  the  sightless  eyeball  pour  the 
day: 

’Tis  He  th’  obstructed  paths  of  sound  shall 
clear, 

And  bid  new  music  charm  th’  unfolding 
ear; 

The  dumb  shall  sing ;  the  lame  his  crutch 
forego, 

And  leap  exulting  like  the  bounding  roe. 

No  sigh,  no  murmur,  the  wide  world  shall 
hear — 

From  every  face  He  wipes  off  every  tear. 

In  adamantine  claims  shall  Death  be 
bound, 

And  Hell’s  grim  tyrant  feel  the  eternal 
wound. 

As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy 
care, 

Seeks  freshest  pasture,  and  the  purest  air, 

Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  di¬ 
rects, 

By  day  o’ersees  them,  and  by  night  pro¬ 
tects  ; 

The  tender  lambs  he  raises  in  his  arms — 

Feeds  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  bosom 
warms  : 

Thus  shall  mankind  His  guardian  care  en¬ 
gage— 

The  promised  Father  of  the  future  age. 

No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 

Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful 
eyes ; 

Nor  fields  with  gleaming  steel  be  cover’d 
o’er, 

The  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no 
more ; 

But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 

And  the  broad  falchion  in  a  ploughshare 
end. 

Then  palaces  shall  rise ;  the  joyful  son 

Shall  finish  what  his  short-lived  sire  be¬ 
gun ; 

Their  vines  a  shadow  to  their  race  shall 
yield, 

And  the  same  hand  that  sow’d  shall  reap 
the  field. 


The  swain  in  barren  deserts  with  surprise 
Sees  lilies  spring  and  sudden  verdure  rise ; 
And  starts,  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds,  to 
hear 

New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 
On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon’s  late  abodes, 
The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush 
nods ; 

Waste  sandy  valleys,  once  perplex’d  with 
thorn, 

The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn  ; 

To  leafless  shrubs  the  flow’ring  palms  suc¬ 
ceed, 

And  od’rous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed  ; 
The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  ver¬ 
dant  mead, 

And  boys  in  flowery  bands  the  tiger  lead  ; 
The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet, 
And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim’s 
feet. 

smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 
The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake — 
Pleased,  the  green  lustre  of  the  scales 
survey, 

And  with  their  forky  tongue  shall  inno¬ 
cently  play. 

Rise,  crown’d  with  light,  imperial  Salem, 
rise! 

Exalt  thy  tow’ry  head,  and  lift  thy  eyes ! 
See  a  long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn ; 
See  future  sons  and  daughters,  yet  un¬ 
born, 

In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise, 
Denuding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies ! 
See  barb’rous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend, 
Walk  in  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple 
bend ; 

See  thy  bright  altars  throng’d  with  pros¬ 
trate  kings, 

And  heap’d  with  products  of  Sabsean 
springs ! 

For  thee  Idume’s  spicy  forests  blow, 

And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir’s  mountains 
glow. 

See  Heaven  its  sparkling  portals  wide  dis¬ 
play, 

And  break  upon  thee  in  a  flood  of  day ! 
No  more  the  rising  Sun  shall  gild  the 
morn, 

Nor  ev’ning  Cynthia  fill  her  silver  horn  ; 
But  lost,  dissolved  in  thy  superior  rays, 
i  One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  blaze, 


11  PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


529 


O’erflow  thy  courts ;  the  Light  Himself 
shall  shine 

Reveal’d,  and  God’s  eternal  day  be  thine ! 
The  seas  shall  waste,  the  skies  in  smoke 
decay, 

Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt 
away ; 

But  fix’d  His  word,  His  saving  power  re¬ 
mains  ; 

Thy  realm  for  ever  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah 
reigns ! 

Alexander  Pope. 

- - 

A  Christ 3i as  HY3IN. 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea. 

No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars — 
Peace  brooded  o’er  the  hush’d  domain  : 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars 
Held  undisturb’d  their  ancient  reign, 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago. 

’Twas  in  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome, 
Impatient,  urged  his  chariot’s  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home  ; 
Triumphal  arches,  gleaming,  swell 
His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless 
sway ; 

What  reck’d  the  Roman  what  befell 
A  paltry  province  far  away, 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago  ? 

Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor  ; 

A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a  half-shut  stable-door 
Across  his  path.  He  pass’d — for  naught 
Told  what  was  going  on  within  ; 

How  keen  the  stars,  his  only  thought — 
The  air  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin, 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago ! 

0  strange  indifference  !  low  and  high 

Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares  ; 

The  earth  was  still — but  knew  not  why 

The  world  was  listening,  unawares. 

34 


How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 
One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  for  ever  ! 
To  that  still  moment,  none  would  heed, 
Man’s  doom  was  link’d  no  more  to 
sever — 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago  ! 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night ! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 
The  darkness — charm’d  and  holy  now  ! 
The  night  that  erst  no  name  had  worn, 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given  ; 

For  in  that  stable  lay,  new-born, 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago ! 

Alfred  Domett. 

- - 

Christmas. 

While  shepherds  watch’d  their  flocks  by 
night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 

The  angel  of  the  Lord  came  down, 

And  glory  shone  around. 

“  Fear  not,”  said  he  (for  mighty  dread 
Had  seized  their  troubled  mind) ; 

“Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring 
To  you  and  all  mankind. 

“  To  you,  in  David’s  town,  this  day 
Is  born  of  David’s  line 
The  Saviour  who  is  Christ  the  Lord ; 

And  this  shall  be  the  sign : 

“  The  heavenly  Babe  you  there  shall  find 
To  human  view  display’d, 

All  meanly  wrapt  in  swathing  bands, 

And  in  a  manger  laid.” 

Thus  spake  the  Seraph  ;  and  forthwith 
Appear’d  a  shining  throng 
Of  angels,  praising  God,  and  thus 
Address’d  their  joyful  song  : 

“  All  glory  be  to  God  on  high, 

And  to  the  earth  be  peace  ; 

Good-will  henceforth  from  heaven  to  men 
Begin,  and  never  cease  !” 

Nahum  Tate. 


o 


530 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Christmas  Carol. 

Carol,  carol,  Christians, 

Carol  joyfully ; 

Carol  for  the  coming 
Of  Christ’s  Nativity ; 

And  pray  a  gladsome  Christmas 
For  all  good  Christian  men. 

Carol,  carol,  Christians, 

For  Christmas  come  again. 

Carol,  carol. 

Go  ye  to  the  forest, 

Where  the  myrtles  grow  ; 

Where  the  pine  and  laurel 
Bend  beneath  the  snow. 

Gather  them  for  Jesus; 

Wreath  them  for  His  shrine  ; 

Make  His  temple  glorious 
With  the  box  and  pine. 

Carol,  carol. 

Wreath  your  Christmas  garland 
Where  to  Christ  we  pray ; 

It  shall  smell  like  Carmel 
On  our  festal  day  ; 

Libanus  and  Sharon 
Shall  not  greener  be 

Than  our  holy  chancel 
On  Christ’s  Nativity. 

Carol,  carol. 

Carol,  carol,  Christians ! 

Like  the  Magi,  now 

Ye  must  lade  your  caskets 
With  a  grateful  vow : 

Ye  must  have  sweet  incense, 
Myrrh,  and  finest  gold, 

At  our  Christmas  altar 
Humbly  to  unfold. 

Carol,  carol. 

Blow,  blow  up  the  trumpet 
For  our  solemn  feast; 

Gird  thine  armor,  Christian, 

W ear  thy  surplice,  priest ! 

Go  ye  to  the  altar, 

Pray — with  fervor  pray — 

For  Jesus’  second  coming, 

And  the  Latter  Day. 

Carol,  carol. 

Give  us  grace,  0  Saviour, 

To  put  off  in  might 

Deeds  and  dreams  of  darkness, 
For  the  robes  of  light ! 


And  to  live  as  lowly 
As  Thyself  with  men  ; 

So  to  rise  in  glory 
When  Thou  com’st  again. 

Carol,  carol. 

Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe. 

—  »o« 

Come,  ye  Lofty. 

Come,  ye  lofty,  come,  ye  lowly, 

Let  your  songs  of  gladness  ring ; 

In  a  stable  lies  the  Holy, 

In  a  manger  rests  the  King. 

See,  in  Mary’s  arms  reposing, 

Christ  by  highest  heaven  adored  ; 

Come,  your  circle  round  Him  closing, 
Pious  hearts  that  love  the  Lord. 

Come,  ye  poor ;  no  pomp  of  station 
Robes  the  Child  your  hearts  adore, 

He,  the  Lord  of  all  salvation, 

Shares  your  want,  is  weak  and  poor ; 

Oxen,  round  about  behold  them  ; 

Rafters  naked,  cold  and  bare ; 

See  the  shepherds ;  God  has  told  them 
That  the  Prince  of  Life  lies  there. 

Come,  ye  children,  blithe  and  merry, 

This  one  Child  your  model  make ; 

Christmas-holly,  leaf  and  berry, 

All  be  prized  for  His  dear  sake : 

Come,  ye  gentle  hearts  and  tender, 

Come,  ye  spirits  keen  and  bold; 

All  in  all  your  homage  render, 

Weak  and  mighty,  young  and  old. 

High  above  a  star  is  shining, 

And  the  wise  men  haste  from  far ; 

Come,  glad  hearts,  and  spirits  pining — 
For  you  all  has  risen  the  star. 

Let  us  bring  our  poor  oblations, 

Thanks  and  love,  and  faith  and  praise  ; 

Come,  ye  people,  come,  ye  nations ; 

All  in  all  draw  nigh  to  gaze. 

Hark,  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  is  ringing  • 
Christ  the  Lord  to  man  is  born  ! 

Are  not  all  our  hearts,  too,  singing, 
Welcome,  welcome,  Christmas  morn? 

Still  the  Child  all  power  possessing 
Smiles  as  through  the  ages  past, 

And  the  song  of  Christmas  blessing 
Sweetly  sinks  to  rest  at  last. 

Archer  Gurney. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


531 


Christmas  Carol. 

Christians,  awake,  salute  the  happy  morn 
Whereon  the  Saviour  of  the  world  was  born ; 
Rise  to  adore  the  mystery  of  love 
Which  hosts  of  angels  chanted  from 
above ! 

With  them  the  joyful  tidings  first  begun 
Of  God  incarnate  and  the  Virgin’s  Son. 
Then  to  the  watchful  shepherds  it  was  told, 
Who  heard  the  angelic  herald’s  voice: 
“  Behold, 

I  bring  good  tidings  of  a  Saviour’s  birth 
To  you  and  all  the  nations  upon  earth : 
This  day  hath  God  fulfill’d  his  promised 
word, 

This  day  is  born  a  Saviour,  Christ  the  Lord. 
In  David’s  city,  shepherds,  ye  shall  find 
The  long-foretold  Redeemer  of  mankind. 
Wrapt  up  in  swaddling-clothes,  the  babe 
divine 

Lies  in  a  manger :  this  shall  be  your  sign.” 
He  spake ;  and  straightway  the  celestial 
choir 

In  hymns  of  joy,  unknown  before,  conspire : 
The  praises  of  redeeming  love  they  sung, 
And  heaven’s  whole  orb  with  alleluias 
rung : 

God’s  highest  glory  was  their  anthem  still, 
Peace  upon  earth,  and  mutual  good-will. 
To  Bethlehem  straight  the  enlightened 
shepherds  ran, 

To  see  the  wonder  God  had  wrought  for  man : 
And  found,  with  Joseph  and  the  blessed 
maid, 

Her  Son,  the  Saviour,  in  a  manger  laid ; 
Amazed  the  wondrous  story  they  proclaim, 
The  first  apostles  of  his  infant  fame. 

While  Mary  keeps  and  ponders  in  her  heart 
The  heavenly  vision  which  the  swains  im¬ 
part, 

They  to  their  flocks,  still  praising  God, 
return, 

And  their  glad  hearts  within  their  bosoms 
burn. 

Let  us,  like  these  good  shepherds,  then 
employ 

Our  grateful  voices  to  proclaim  the  joy ; 
Like  Mary,  let  us  ponder  in  our  mind 
God’s  wondrous  love  in  saving  lost  man¬ 
kind  ; 

Artless  and  watchful,  as  these  favored 
swains, 

While  virgin  meekness  in  the  heart  re¬ 
mains. 


Trace  we  the  Babe, who  has  retrieved  our  loss, 

From  His  poor  manger  to  His  bitter  cross; 

Treading  His  steps,  assisted  by  His  grace, 

Till  man’s  first  heavenly  state  again  takes 
place. 

Then  may  we  hope,  the  angelic  thrones 
among, 

To  sing,  redeem’d,  a  glad  triumphal  song ; 

He  that  was  born  upon  this  joyful  day 

Around  us  all  His  glory  shall  display ; 

Saved  by  His  love,  incessant  we  shall  sing 

Of  angels  and  of  angel-men  the  King. 

John  Byrom. 

- •<>• - 

Christmas  Carol. 

God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen, 

Let  nothing  you  dismay, 

For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
Was  born  upon  this  day, 

To  save  us  all  from  Satan’s  power, 
When  we  were  gone  astray. 

Oh  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was 
born  on  Christmas  Day  ! 

In  Bethlehem,  in  Jewry, 

This  blessed  babe  was  born, 

And  laid  within  a  manger, 

Upon  this  blessed  morn  ; 

The  which  his  mother  Mary 
Nothing  did  take  in  scorn. 

Oh  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was 
born  on  Christmas  Day ! 

From  God,  our  Heavenly  Father, 

A  blessed  angel  came, 

And  unto  certain  shepherds 
Brought  tidings  of  the  same, 

How  that  in  Bethlehem  was  born 
The  Son  of  God  by  name. 

Oh  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was 
born  on  Christmas  Day  ! 

Fear  not,  then  said  the  angel, 

Let  nothing  you  affright, 

This  day  is  born  a  Saviour, 

Of  virtue,  power,  and  might, 

So  frequently  to  vanquish  all 
The  friends  of  Satan  quite. 

Oh  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was 
born  on  Christmas  Day ! 

The  shepherds  at  those  tidings 
Rejoiced  much  in  mind, 


532 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  left  their  flocks  a-feeding 
In  tempest,  storm,  and  wind, 

And  went  to  Bethlehem  straightway 
This  blessed  babe  to  find. 

Oh  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was 
born  on  Christmas  Day ! 

But  when  to  Bethlehem  they  came, 
Whereat  this  infant  lay, 

They  found  him  in  a  manger 
Where  oxen  feed  on  hay  ; 

His  mother  Mary,  kneeling, 

Unto  the  Lord  did  pray. 

Oh  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was 
born  on  Christmas  Day  ! 

Now  to  the  Lord  sing  praises, 

All  you  within  this  place, 

And  with  true  love  and  brotherhood 
Each  other  now  embrace  ; 

This  holy  tide  of  Christmas 
All  others  doth  deface. 

Oh  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was 
born  on  Christmas  Day ! 

Author  Unknown. 


It  came  upon  the  Midnight 
Clear . 

It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear, 

That  glorious  song  of  old, 

From  angels  bending  near  the  earth 
To  touch  their  harps  of  gold  : 

“  Peace  on  the  earth,  good-will  to  men 
From  Heaven’s  all-gracious  King:” 

The  world  in  solemn  stillness  lay 
To  hear  the  angels  sing. 

Still  through  the  cloven  skies  they  come 
With  peaceful  wings  unfurl’d  ; 

And  still  their  heavenly  music  floats 
O’er  all  the  weary  world  : 

Above  its  sad  and  lowly  plains 
They  bend  on  hovering  wing, 

And  ever  o’er  its  Babel  sounds 
The  blessed  angels  sing. 

But  with  the  woes  of  sin  and  strife 
The  world  has  suffer’d  long ; 


Beneath  the  angel-strain  have  roll’d 
Two  thousand  years  of  wrong ; 

And  man,  at  war  with  man,  hears  not 
The  love-song  which  they  bring  : 

Oh !  hush  the  noise,  ye  men  of  strife, 
And  hear  the  angels  sing  ! 

And  ye,  beneath  life’s  crushing  load 
Whose  forms  are  bending  low, 

Who  toil  along  the  climbing  way 
With  painful  steps  and  slow, 

Look  now  !  for  glad  and  golden  hours 
Come  swiftly  on  the  wing : 

Oh !  rest  beside  the  weary  road, 

And  hear  the  angels  sing ! 

For  lo !  the  days  are  hastening  on. 

By  prophet-bards  foretold, 

When  with  the  ever-circling  years 
Comes  round  the  age  of  gold ; 

When  peace  shall  over  all  the  earth 
Its  ancient  splendors  fling, 

And  the  whole  world  send  back  the  song 
Which  now  the  angels  sing ! 

Edmund  H.  Sears. 

- K>» - 

Hark !  how  all  the  Welkin 
RINGS! 

Hark  !  how  all  the  welkin  rings  ! 
Glory  to  the  King  of  kings ! 

Peace  on  earth,  and  mercy  mild, 

God  and  sinners  reconciled ! 

Joyful,  all  ye  nations,  rise, 

Join  the  triumph  of  the  skies ; 
Universal  Nature  say, 

Christ  the  Lord  is  born  to-day ! 

Christ,  by  highest  Heaven  adored ; 
Christ,  the  Everlasting  Lord  ; 

Late  in  time  behold  Him  come, 
Offspring  of  a  Virgin’s  womb  : 

Veil’d  in  flesh  the  Godhead  see; 

Hail  the  Incarnate  Deity, 

Pleased  as  man  with  men  to  appear, 
Jesus,  our  Immanuel  here ! 

Hail!  the  heavenly  Prince  of  Peace! 
Hail !  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  ! 
Light  and  life  to  all  He  brings, 

Risen  with  healing  in  His  wings. 

Mild  He  lays  His  glory  by, 

Born  that  man  no  more  may  die, 

Born  to  raise  the  sons  of  earth, 

Born  to  give  them  second  birth. 


“  PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


533 


Come,  Desire  of  nations,  come, 

Fix  in  us  Thy  humble  home  ! 

Rise,  the  woman’s  conquering  Seed, 
Bruise  in  us  the  Serpent’s  head ! 

Now  display  Thy  saving  power, 

Ruin’d  nature  now  restore, 

Now  in  mystic  union  join 
Thine  to  ours,  and  ours  to  Thine ! 

Adam’s  likeness,  Lord,  efface ; 

Stamp  Thy  image  in  its  place ; 

Second  Adam  from  above, 

Reinstate  us  in  Thy  love ! 

Let  us  Thee,  though  lost,  regain, 

Thee,  the  Life,  the  Inner  Man : 

Oh,  to  all  Thyself  impart, 

Form’d  in  each  believing  heart! 

Charles  Wesley. 

•o»  -  — 

Shout  the  Glad  Tidings. 

Shout  the  glad  tidings,  exultingly  sing ; 
Jerusalem  triumphs,  Messiah  is  King! 

Sion,  the  marvellous  story  be  telling, 

The  Son  of  the  Highest,  how  lowly  His 
birth ! 

The  brightest  archangel  in  glory  excelling, 
He  stoops  to  redeem  thee,  He  reigns 
upon  earth : 

Shout  the  glad  tidings,  exultingly  sing ; 
Jerusalem  triumphs,  Messiah  is  King  ! 

Tell  how  He  cometh  ;  from  nation  to  na¬ 
tion, 

The  heart-cheering  news  let  the  earth 
echo  round : 

How  free  to  the  faithful  He  offers  salvation, 
How  His  people  with  joy  everlasting  are 
crown’d  : 

Shout  the  glad  tidings,  exultingly  sing; 
Jerusalem  triumphs,  Messiah  is  King ! 

Mortals,  your  homage  be  gratefully  bring¬ 
ing, 

And  sweet  let  the  gladsome  Hosanna 
arise ; 

Ye  angels,  the  full  Hallelujah  be  singing; 
One  chorus  resound  through  the  earth 
and  the  skies : 

Shout  the  glad  tidings,  exultingly 
sing; 

Jerusalem  triumphs,  Messiah  is  King  ! 
William  Augustus  Muhlenberg. 


A  Christmas  Carol. 

God  rest  ye,  merry  gentlemen  ;  let  nothing 
you  dismay, 

For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was  born 
on  Christmas-day. 

The  dawn  rose  red  o’er  Bethlehem,  the 
stars  shone  through  the  gray, 

When  Jesus  Christy,  our  Saviour,  was  born 
on  Christmas-day. 

God  rest  ye,  little  children  ;  let  nothing 
you  affright, 

For  Jesus  Christ,  your  Saviour,  was  born 
this  happy  night; 

Along  the  hills  of  Galilee  the  white  flocks 
sleeping  lay, 

When  Christ,  the  Child  of  Nazareth,  was 
born  on  Christmas-day. 

God  rest  ye,  all  good  Christians ;  upon 
this  blessed  morn 

The  Lord  of  all  good  Christians  was  of  a 
woman  born : 

Now  all  your  sorrows  He  doth  heal,  your 
sins  He  takes  away  ; 

For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour,  was  born 

on  Christmas-day. 

Dinah  Maria  Muloch  Craik. 
- - 

Hark,  the  Glad  Sound. 

Hark,  the  glad  sound !  the  Saviour  comes, 
The  Saviour  promised  long ; 

Let  every  heart  prepare  a  throne, 

And  every  voice  a  song ! 

On  him  the  Spirit,  largely  pour’d, 

Exerts  his  sacred  fire ; 

Wisdom  and  might,  and  zeal  and  love. 

His  holy  breast  inspire. 

He  comes,  the  prisoners  to  release 
In  Satan’s  bondage  held  ; 

The  gates  of  brass  before  Him  burst, 

The  iron  fetters  yield. 

He  comes,  from  thickest  films  of  vice 
To  clear  the  mental  ray, 

And  on  the  eyeballs  of  the  blind 
To  pour  celestial  day. 

He  comes,  the  broken  heart  to  bind, 

The  bleeding  soul  to  cure, 

And  with  the  treasures  of  His  grace 
To  enrich  the  humble  poor. 


534 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


His  silver  trumpets  publish  loud 
The  jubilee  of  the  Lord; 

Our  debts  are  all  remitted  now, 

Our  heritage  restored. 

Our  glad  Hosannas,  Prince  of  Peace, 
Thy  welcome  shall  proclaim, 

And  heaven’s  eternal  ^rches  ring 

With  thy  beloved  name. 

Philip  Doddridge. 

- KX - 

Epiphany. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the 
morning, 

Dawn  on  our  darkness,  and  lend  us  Thine 
aid ! 

Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is 
laid ! 

Cold  on  His  cradle  the  dewdrops  are  shin¬ 
ing  ; 

Low  lies  His  head  with  the  beasts  of  the 
stall ; 

Angels  adore  Him  in  slumber  reclining — 

Maker,  and  Monarch,  and  Saviour  of  all. 

Say,  shall  we  yield  Him,  in  costly  de¬ 
votion, 

Odors  of  Edom,  and  offerings  divine — 

Gems  of  the  mountain,  and  pearls  of  the 
ocean  ? 

Myrrh  from  the  forest,  or  gold  from 
the  mine  ? 

Vainly  we  offer  each  ample  oblation, 

Vainly  with  gifts  would  His  favor  se¬ 
cure  ; 

Richer  by  far  is  the  heart’s  adoration, 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the 
poor. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the 
morning, 

Dawn  on  our  darkness,  and  lend  us  Thine 
aid  ! 

Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is 
laid ! 

Reginald  Heber. 

-  ■  *o»— 


Gethsemane. 

Go  to  dark  Gethsemane, 

Ye  that  feel  the  tempter’s  power; 
Your  Redeemer’s  conflict  see, 

Watch  with  Him  one  bitter  hour ; 
Turn  not  from  His  griefs  away, 

Learn  of  Jesus  Christ  to  pray ! 

Follow  to  the  judgment-hall — 

View  the  Lord  of  life  arraign’d ; 

Oh,  the  wormwood  and  the  gall, 

Oh,  the  pangs  his  soul  sustain’d  ! 

Shun  not  suffering,  shame,  or  loss — • 
Learn  of  Him  to  bear  the  cross ! 

Calvary’s  mournful  mountain  climb ; 

There,  adoring  at  His  feet, 

Mark  that  miracle  of  time — 

God’s  own  sacrifice  complete ! 

“  It  is  finish’d !” — hear  the  cry ; 

Learn  of  Jesus  Christ  to  die. 

Early  hasten  to  the  tomb 

Where  they  laid  his  breathless  clay ; 
All  is  solitude  and  gloom ; 

Who  hath  taken  Him  away? 

Christ  is  risen  !  He  meets  our  eyes  ! 
Saviour,  teach  us  so  to  rise ! 

James  Montgomery. 

- •<>• - 

Christ  Crucified. 

“And  was  crucified  for  us  under  Pontius  Pilate; 
He  suffered,  and  was  buried.” 

Ride  on,  ride  on  in  majesty! 

Hark  !  all  the  tribes  Hosanna  cry ! 

Thine  humble  beast  pursues  his  road. 
With  palms  and  scatter’d  garments  strow’d. 

Ride  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty ! 

In  lowly  pomp  ride  on  to  die ! 

O  Christ !  Thy  triumphs  now  begin 
O’er  captive  Death  and  conquer’d  Sin. 

Ride  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty ! 

The  winged  squadrons  of  the  sky 
Look  down  with  sad  and  wondering  eyes 
To  see  the  approaching  Sacrifice. 

Ride  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty ! 

Thy  last  and  fiercest  strife  is  nigh  ; 

The  Father  on  His  sapphire  throne 
Expects  His  own  anointed  Son. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


535 


Ride  on !  ride  on  in  majesty ! 

In  lowly  pomp  ride  on  to  die ! 

Bow  Thy  meek  head  to  mortal  pain ; 

Then  take,  0  God,  Thy  power,  and  reign ! 

Henry  Hart  Milman. 

— . •<>•  - 

Bound  upon  tw  Accursed  Tree. 

Bound  upon  th’  accursed  tree, 

Faint  and  bleeding,  who  is  He? 

By  the  eyes  so  pale  and  dim, 

Streaming  blood,  and  writhing  limb, 

By  the  flesh,  with  scourges  torn, 

By  the  crown  of  twisted  thorn, 

By  the  side,  so  deeply  pierced, 

By  the  baffled  burning  thirst, 

By  the  drooping  death-dew’d  brow, 

Son  of  Man !  ’tis  Thou,  ’tis  Thou ! 

Bound  upon  th’  accursed  tree, 

Dread  and  awful,  who  is  He? 

By  the  sun  at  noonday  pale, 

Shivering  rocks,  and  rending  veil, 

By  earth,  that  trembles  at  His  doom, 

By  yonder  saints,  who  burst  their  tomb, 
By  Eden,  promised  ere  He  died 
To  the  felon  at  His  side, 

Lord,  our  suppliant  knees  we  bow  ; 

Son  of  God !  ’tis  Thou !  ’tis  Thou ! 

Bound  upon  th’  accursed  tree, 

Sad  and  dying,  who  is  He? 

By  the  last  and  bitter  cry, 

The  ghost  given  up  in  agony, 

By  the  lifeless  body  laid 
In  the  chamber  of  the  dead, 

By  the  mourners,  come  to  weep 
Where  the  bones  of  Jesus  sleep ; 
Crucified  !  we  know  Thee  now  ; 

Son  of  Man  !  ’tis  Thou !  ’tis  Thou ! 

Bound  upon  th’  accursed  tree, 

Dread  and  awful,  who  is  He? 

By  the  prayer  for  them  that  slew, 

“  Lord,  they  know  not  what  they  do  !” 
By  the  spoil’d  and  empty  grave, 

By  the  souls  He  died  to  save, 

By  the  conquest  He  hath  won, 

By  the  saints  before  His  throne, 

By  the  rainbow  round  His  brow, 

Son  of  God !  ’tis  Thou  !  ’tis  Thou  ! 

Henry  Hart  Milman. 


We  Sing  the  Praise  of  Him 
who  Died. 

We  sing  the  praise  of  Him  who  died, 
Of  Him  who  died  upon  the  cross ; 

The  sinner’s  hope  let  men  deride, 

For  this  we  count  the  world  but  loss. 

Inscribed  upon  the  cross  we  see, 

In  shining  letters,  God  is  Love; 

He  bears  our  sins  upon  the  tree, 

He  brings  us  mercy  from  above. 

The  Cross  !  it  takes  our  guilt  away ; 

It  holds  the  fainting  spirit  up  ; 

It  cheers  with  hope  the  gloomy  day, 

And  sweetens  every  bitter  cup  ; 

It  makes  the  coward  spirit  brave, 

And  nerves  the  feeble  arm  for  fight ; 
It  takes  its  terror  from  the  grave, 

And  gilds  the  bed  of  death  with  light ; 

The  balm  of  life,  the  cure  of  woe, 

The  measure  and  the  pledge  of  love, 
The  sinner’s  refuge  here  below, 

The  angels’  theme  in  heaven  above. 

Thomas  Kelly. 


Jesus  Wept. 

Did  Christ  o’er  sinners  weep  ? 

And  shall  our  cheeks  be  dry  ? 

Let  floods  of  penitential  grief 
Burst  forth  from  every  eye. 

The  Son  of  God  in  tears, 

The  wondering  angels  see ! 

Be  thou  astonish’d,  O  my  soul ! 

He  shed  those  tears  for  thee. 

He  wept,  that  we  might  weep ; 

Each  sin  demands  a  tear ; 

In  heaven  alone  no  sin  is  found ; 
There  is  no  weeping  there. 

Benjamin  Beddomk. 

The  Lord  is  Risen. 

“  Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day,” 

Sons  of  men  and  angels  say : 

Raise  your  joys  and  triumphs  high, 
Sing,  ye  heavens,  and  earth  reply. 

Love’s  redeeming  work  is  done, 

Fought  the  fight,  the  battle  won : 

Lo  !  our  Sun’s  eclipse  is  o’er; 

Lo !  He  sets  in  blood  no  more. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Vain  the  stone,  the  watch,  the  seal ; 
Christ  has  burst  the  gates  of  hell ! 
Death  in  vain  forbids  His  rise ; 

Christ  has  open’d  Paradise  ! 

Lives  again  our  glorious  King: 

Where,  O  Death,  is  now  thy  sting? 
Dying  once,  He  all  doth  save ; 

Where  thy  victory,  O  Grave? 

Soar  we  now  where  Christ  has  led, 
Following  our  exalted  Head  ; 

Made  like  Him,  like  Him  we  rise ; 

Ours  the  cross,  the  grave,  the  skies. 

What  though  once  we  perish’d  all, 
Partners  in  our  parents’  fall  ? 

Second  life  we  all  receive, 

In  our  Heavenly  Adam  live. 

Risen  with  Him,  we  upward  move ; 

Still  we  seek  the  things  above; 

Still  pursue,  and  kiss  the  Son 
Seated  on  His  Father’s  Throne. 

Scarce  on  earth  a  thought  bestow, 

Dead  to  all  we  leave  below ; 

Heaven  our  aim,  and  loved  abode, 

Hid  our  life  with  Christ  in  God : 

Hid,  till  Christ  our  Life  appear 
Glorious  in  His  members  here ; 

Join’d  to  Him,  we  then  shall  shine, 

All  immortal,  all  divine. 

Hail  the  Lord  of  Earth  and  Heaven ! 
Praise  to  Thee  by  both  be  given ! 

Thee  we  greet  triumphant  now  ! 

Hail,  the  Resurrection  Thou  ! 

King  of  glory,  Soul  of  bliss ! 
Everlasting  life  is  this, 

Thee  to  know,  Thy  power  to  prove, 
Thus  to  sing,  and  thus  to  love ! 

Charles  Wesley. 

- •<>♦  ■  — 

Christ  Risen. 

u  And  the  third  day  He  rose  again,  according  to  the 
Scriptures.” 

Again  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Light 
Awakes  the  kindling  ray, 

Unseals  the  eyelids  of  the  morn, 

And  pours  increasing  day. 

Oh  what  a  night  was  that  which  wrapt 
The  heathen  world  in  gloom  ! 


Oh  what  a  sun,  which  broke  this  day 
Triumphant  from  the  tomb  ! 

This  day  be  grateful  homage  paid, 

And  loud  hosannas  sung ; 

Let  gladness  dwell  in  every  heart, 

And  praise  on  every  tongue. 

Ten  thousand  differing  lips  shall  join 
To  hail  this  welcome  morn, 

Which  scatters  blessings  from  its  wings 
To  nations  yet  unborn. 

Jesus,  the  friend  of  human  kind, 

With  strong  compassion  moved, 
Descended  like  a  pitying  God 
To  save  the  souls  he  loved. 

The  powers  of  darkness  leagued  in  vain 
To  bind  His  soul  in  death ; 

He  shook  their  kingdom,  when  He  fell, 
With  His  expiring  breath. 

Not  long  the  toils  of  hell  could  keep 
The  hope  of  Judah’s  line; 

Corruption  never  could  take  hold 
Of  aught  so  much  divine. 

And  now  His  conquering  chariot-wheels 
Ascend  the  lofty  skies  ; 

While  broke  beneath  His  powerful  cross 
Death’s  iron  sceptre  lies. 

Exalted  high  at  God’s  right  hand, 

The  Lord  of  all  below, 

Through  Him  is  pardoning  love  dispensed, 
And  boundless  blessings  flow. 

And  still  for  erring,  guilty  man 
A  Brother’s  pity  flows  ; 

And  still  His  bleeding  heart  is  touch’d 
With  memory  of  our  woes. 

To  Thee,  my  Saviour  and  my  King, 

Glad  homage  let  me  give  ; 

And  stand  prepared  like  Thee  to  die, 

With  Thee  that  I  may  live  ! 

Anna  Lrtitia  Barbauld. 

- - *0* - 

Coronation. 

“All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus’  name! 

Let  angels  prostrate  fall  ; 

Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem, 

To  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 


11  PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


537 


“  Let  high-born  seraphs  tune  the  lyre, 
And,  as  they  tune  it,  fall 

Before  His  face  who  tunes  their  choir, 
And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

“  Crown  Him,  ye  morning  stars  of  light 
Who  fix’d  this  floating  ball ; 

Now  hail  the  Strength  of  Israel’s  might, 
And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

“Crown  Him,  ye  martyrs  of  your  God, 
Who  from  His  altar  call ; 

Extol  the  stem  of  Jesse’s  rod, 

And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

“Ye  seed  of  Israel’s  chosen  race, 

Ye  ransom’d  of  the  fall, 

Hail  Him  who  saves  you  by  His  grace, 
And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

“  Hail  Him,  ye  heirs  of  David’s  line, 
Whom  David  Lord  did  call, 

The  God  incarnate,  man  divine; 

And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

“  Sinners,  whose  love  can  ne’er  forget 
The  wormwood  and  the  gall, 

Go  spread  your  trophies  at  His  feet, 
And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

“  Let  every  tribe  and  every  tongue 
That  bound  creation’s  call, 

Now  shout,  in  universal  song, 

The  crowned  Lord  of  all  !” 

Edward  Perronet. 


Psalm  LXXII. 

Hail  to  the  Lord’s  Anointed, 

Great  David’s  greater  Son  ! 

Hail,  in  the  time  appointed, 

His  reign  on  earth  begun ! 

He  comes  to  break  oppression, 

To  let  the  captive  free, 

To  take  away  transgression, 

And  rule  in  equity. 

He  comes  with  succor  speedy 
To  those  who  suffer  wrong ; 

To  help  the  poor  and  needy, 

And  bid  the  weak  be  strong : 

To  give  them  songs  for  sighing, 
Their  darkness  turn  to  light, 

Whose  souls,  condemn’d  and  dying, 
Were  precious  in  His  sight. 


He  shall  come  down  like  showers 
Upon  the  fruitful  earth, 

And  love,  joy,  hope,  like  flowers, 
Spring  in  His  path  to  birth ; 

Before  Him,  on  the  mountains, 

Shall  Peace,  the  herald,  go, 

And  righteousness,  in  fountains, 

From  hill  to  valley  flow. 

Arabia’s  desert-ranger 

To  Him  shall  bow  the  knee ; 

The  Ethiopian  stranger 
His  glory  come  to  see  : 

With  offerings  of  devotion 
Ships  from  the  isles  shall  meet, 

To  pour  the  wealth  of  ocean 
In  tribute  at  His  feet. 

Kings  shall  fall  down  before  Him, 
And  golden  incense  bring ; 

All  nations  shall  adore  Him, 

His  praise  all  people  sing ; 

For  He  shall  have  dominion 
O’er  river,  sea,  and  shore ; 

Far  as  the  eagle’s  pinion, 

Or  dove’s  light  wing,  can  soar. 

For  Him  shall  prayer  unceasing, 

And  daily  vows  ascend, 

His  kingdom  still  increasing, 

A  kingdom  without  end  : 

The  mountain-dews  shall  nourish 
A  seed,  in  weakness  sown, 

Whose  fruit  shall  spread  and  flourish, 
And  shake  like  Lebanon. 

O’er  every  foe  victorious 
He  on  His  throne  shall  rest 

From  age  to  age  more  glorious, 

All  blessing  and  all-blest : 

The  tide  of  time  shall  never 
His  covenant  remove ; 

His  Name  shall  stand  for  ever, 

That  Name  to  us  is  Love. 

James  Montgomery. 


Per  Pacem  ad  Lucem. 

I  DO  not  ask,  0  Lord,  that  life  may  be 
A  pleasant  road ; 

I  do  not  ask  that  Thou  wouldst  take  from  me 
Aught  of  its  load ; 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should  always  spring 
Beneath  my  feet ; 

I  know  too  well  the  poison  and  the  sting 
Of  things  too  sweet. 

For  one  thing  only,  Lord,  dear  Lord,  I  plead, 
Lead  me  aright — 

Though  strength  should  falter,  and  though 
heart  should  bleed — 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 

I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  Thou  shouldst 
shed 

Full  radiance  here; 

Give  but  a  ray  of  peace,  that  I  may  tread 
Without  a  fear. 

I  do  not  ask  my  cross  to  understand, 

My  way  to  see ; 

Better  in  darkness  just  to  feel  Thy  hand 
And  follow  Thee. 

Joy  is  like  restless  day;  but  peace  divine 
Like  quiet  night : 

Lead  me,  O  Lord, — till  perfect  Day  shall 
shine, 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 

- K>« - 

Hail ,  Thou  once-despised  Jesus  / 

Hail,  Thou  once-despised  Jesus! 

Hail,  thou  Galilean  King  ! 

Thou  didst  suffer  to  release  us, 

Thou  didst  free  salvation  bring: 

Hail,  thou  agonizing  Saviour, 

Bearer  of  our  sin  and  shame  ; 

By  Thy  merits  we  find  favor  ; 

Life  is  given  through  Thy  Name ! 

Paschal  Lamb,  by  God  appointed, 

All  our  sins  were  on  Thee  laid  ; 

By  Almighty  Love  anointed, 

Thou  hast  full  atonement  made  : 

All  Thy  people  are  forgiven 

Through  the  virtue  of  Thy  Blood  ; 
Open’d  is  the  gate  of  heaven  ; 

Peace  is  made  ’twixt  man  and  God. 

J esus,  hail !  enthroned  in  glory, 

There  for  ever  to  abide  ; 

All  the  heavenly  hosts  adore  Thee, 
Seated  at  Thy  Father’s  side. 

There  for  sinners  Thou  art  pleading  ; 

There  Thou  dost  our  place  prepare  ; 
Ever  for  us  interceding 
Till  in  glory  we  appear. 


Worship,  honor,  power,  and  blessing, 
Thou  art  worthy  to  receive  ; 

Loudest  praises,  without  ceasing, 

Meet  it  is  for  us  to  give  ! 

Help,  ye  bright  angelic  spirits, 

Bring  your  sweetest,  noblest  lays  ; 
Help  to  sing  our  Saviour’s  merits, 
Help  to  chant  Immanuel’s  praise ! 

Soon  we  shall,  with  those  in  glory, 

His  transcendent  grace  relate  ; 
Gladly  sing  the  amazing  story 
Of  His  dying  love  so  great : 

In  that  blessed  contemplation 
We  for  evermore  shall  dwell, 
Crown’d  with  bliss  and  consolation, 
Such  as  none  below  can  tell. 

John  Bakewell. 

- K>« 

My  Faith  looks  up  to  Thee. 

My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee, 

Thou  Lamb  of  Calvary, 

Saviour  divine ! 

Now  hear  me  while  I  pray : 

Take  all  my  guilt  away  ; 

Oh  let  me  from  this  day 
Be  whollv  Thine ! 

May  Thy  rich  grace  impart 
Strength  to  my  fainting  heart, 

My  zeal  inspire! 

As  Thou  hast  died  for  me, 

Oh  may  my  love  to  Thee 
Pure,  warm,  and  changeless  be, 

A  living  fire ! 

While  life’s  dark  maze  I  tread, 
And  griefs  around  me  spread, 

Be  Thou  my  Guide  ! 

Bid  darkness  turn  to  day, 

Wipe  sorrow’s  tears  away, 

Nor  let  me  ever  stray 
From  Thee  aside. 

When  ends  life’s  transient  dream, 
When  death’s  cold  sullen  stream 
Shall  o’er  me  roll, 

Blest  Saviour !  then  in  love 
Fear  and  distrust  remove; 

Oh  bear  me  safe  above, 

A  ransom’d  soul ! 

Ray  Palmer. 


"•O*- 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


539 


Litany. 

Saviour,  when  in  dust  to  Thee 
Low  we  bend  th’  adoring  knee; 
When  repentant  to  the  skies 
Scarce  we  lift  our  streaming  eyes ; 
Oh !  by  all  Thy  pains  and  woe 
Suffer’d  once  for  man  below, 
Bending  from  Thy  throne  on  high, 
Hear  our  solemn  Litany  ! 

By  Thy  helpless  infant  years, 

By  Thy  life  of  want  and  tears, 

By  Thy  days  of  sore  distress 
In  the  savage  wilderness  ; 

By  the  dread  mysterious  hour 
Of  the  insulting  tempter’s  power; 
Turn,  oh  !  turn  a  favoring  eye, 

Hear  our  solemn  Litany ! 

By  the  sacred  griefs  that  wept 
O’er  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
By  the  boding  tears  that  flow’d 
Over  Salem’s  loved  abode ; 

By  the  anguish’d  sigh  that  told 
Treachery  lurk’d  within  Thy  fold: 
From  Thy  seat  above  the  sky, 

Hear  our  solemn  Litany  ! 

By  Thine  hour  of  dire  despair ; 

By  Thine  agony  of  prayer; 

By  the  cross,  the  nail,  the  thorn, 
Piercing  spear,  and  torturing  scorn ; 
By  the  gloom  that  veil’d  the  skies 
O’er  the  dreadful  sacrifice ; 

Listen  to  our  humble  cry, 

Hear  our  solemn  Litany  ! 

By  Thy  deep  expiring  groan ; 

By  the  sad  sepulchral  stone ; 

Bv  the  vault,  whose  dark  abode 
Held  in  vain  the  rising  God ; 

Oh  !  from  earth  to  heaven  restored, 
Mighty  reascended  Lord, 

Listen,  listen  to  the  cry 

Of  our  solemn  Litany  ! 

Sir  Robert  Grant. 


0  Thou,  the  Contrite  Sinners 
Friend. 

0  Tiiou,  the  contrite  sinners’  friend, 
Who,  loving,  lov’st  them  to  the  end, 


On  this  alone  my  hopes  depend, 

That  Thou  wilt  plead  for  me ! 

When,  weary  in  the  Christian  race, 

Far  off  appears  my  resting-place, 

And  fainting  I  mistrust  Thy  grace, 
Then,  Saviour,  plead  for  me ! 

When  I  have  err’d  and  gone  astray 
Afar  from  Thine  and  Wisdom’s  way, 
And  see  no  glimmering  guiding  ray, 
Still,  Saviour,  plead  for  me  ! 

When  Satan,  by  my  sins  made  bold, 
Strives  from  Thy  cross  to  loose  my  hold. 
Then  with  Thy  pitying  arms  enfold, 

And  plead,  oh  plead  for  me  ! 

And  when  my  dying  hour  draws  near, 
Darken’d  with  anguish,  guilt,  and  fear. 
Then  to  my  fainting  sight  appear, 
Pleading  in  Heaven  for  me  ! 

When  the  full  light  of  heavenly  day 
Reveals  my  sins  in  dread  array, 

Say  Thou  hast  wash’d  them  all  away ; 
Oh  say  Thou  plead’st  for  me  ! 

Charlotte  Elliott. 
— *o*— 

Jesus,  I  my  Cross  have  Taken. 

Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken, 

All  to  leave,  and  follow  Thee ; 

Destitute,  despised,  forsaken, 

Thou,  from  hence,  my  all  shalt  be: 
Perish  every  fond  ambition, 

All  I’ve  sought,  or  hoped,  or  known  ; 
Yet  how  rich  is  my  condition  ! 

God  and  Heaven  are  still  my  own  ! 

Let  the  world  despise  and  leave  me, 

They  have  left  my  Saviour  too  ; 

Human  hearts  and  looks  deceive  me ; 

Thou  art  not,  like  them,  untrue  : 

And,  while  Thou  shalt  smile  upon  me, 
God  of  wisdom,  love,  and  might, 

Foes  may  hate,  and  friends  may  shun  me ; 
Show  Thy  face,  and  all  is  bright ! 

Go,  then,  earthly  fame  and  treasure  I 
Come,  disaster,  scorn,  and  pain  I 
In  Thy  service,  pain  is  pleasure, 

With  Thy  favor,  loss  is  gain  ! 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  have  call’d  Thee,  Abba,  Father ! 

I  have  stay’d  my  heart  on  Thee  ! 

Storms  may  howl,  and  clouds  may  gather, 
All  must  work  for  good  to  me. 

Man  may  trouble  and  distress  me, 

’Twill  but  drive  me  to  Thy  breast ; 

Life  with  trials  hard  may  press  me, 
Heaven  will  bring  me  sweeter  rest ! 

Oh,  ’tis  not  in  grief  to  harm  me, 

While  Thy  love  is  left  to  me  ! 

Oh,  ’twere  not  in  joy  to  charm  me, 

Were  that  joy  unmix’d  with  Thee  ! 

Take,  my  soul,  thy  full  salvation ; 

Rise  o’er  sin,  and  fear,  and  care  ; 

Joy  to  find,  in  every  station, 

Something  still  to  do  or  bear  : 

Think  what  Spirit  dwells  within  thee ! 

What  a  Father’s  smile  is  thine  ! 

What  a  Saviour  died  to  win  thee  ! 

Child  of  Heaven,  shouldst  thou  repine  ? 

Haste,  then,  on  from  grace  to  glory, 

Arm’d  by  faith,  and  wing’d  by  prayer  ; 
Heaven’s  eternal  day’s  before  thee, 

God’s  own  hand  shall  guide  thee  there ! 
Soon  shall  close  thy  earthly  mission, 

Swift  shall  pass  thy  pilgrim  days  ; 

Hope  soon  change  to  glad  fruition, 

Faith  to  sight,  and  prayer  to  praise  ! 

Henry  Francis  Lyte. 

- »o«  —  ■ 

Saviour ,  who  Thy  Flock  art 
Feeding. 

Saviour,  who  Thy  flock  art  feeding 
With  the  Shepherd’s  kindest  care, 

All  the  feeble  gently  leading, 

While  the  lambs  Thy  bosom  share ; 

Now,  these  little  ones  receiving, 

Fold  them  in  Thy  gracious  arm  ; 
There,  we  know,  Thy  word  believing, 
Only  there,  secure  from  harm  ! 

Never,  from  Thy  pasture  roving, 

Let  them  be  the  lion’s  prey  ; 

Let  Thy  tenderness  so  loving 

Keep  them  all  life’s  dangerous  way  : 

Then,  within  Thy  fold  eternal, 

Let  them  find  a  resting-place, 


Feed  in  pastures  ever  vernal, 

Drink  the  rivers  of  Thy  grace  ! 

William  Augustus  Muhlenberg. 

- •<>•  —  ■■ 

Rock  of  Ages. 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee  ! 

Let  the  water  and  the  blood, 

From  Thy  riven  side  which  flow’d, 

Be  of  sin  the  double  cure, 

Cleanse  me  from  its  guilt  and  power. 

Not  the  labors  of  my  hands 
Can  fulfil  Thy  law’s  demands  ; 

Could  my  zeal  no  respite  know, 

Could  my  tears  for  ever  flow, 

All  for  sin  could  not  atone  ; 

Thou  must  save,  and  Thou  alone. 

Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring; 

Simply  to  Thy  Cross  I  cling ; 

Naked,  come  to  Thee  for  dress; 
Helpless,  look  to  Thee  for  grace  ; 

Foul,  I  to  the  Fountain  fly ; 

Wash  me,  Saviour,  or  I  die  ! 

While  I  draw  this  fleeting  breath, 
When  my  eyestrings  break  in  death, 
When  I  soar  through  tracts  unknown, 
See  Thee  on  Thy  judgment-throne  ; 
Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee  ! 

Augustus  Montague  Toplady. 


Jesu,  Lover  of  my  Soul. 

Jesu,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 

While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  high  ! 
Hide  me,  O  my  Saviour,  hide, 

Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past, 

Safe  into  the  haven  guide  ; 

Oh  receive  my  soul  at  last ! 

Other  refuge  have  I  none ; 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee ; 
Leave,  ah  !  leave  me  not  alone, 

Still  support  and  comfort  me ! 

All  my  trust  on  Thee  is  stay’d, 

All  my  help  from  Thee  I  bring : 
Cover  my  defenceless  head 

With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing  ! 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


541 


Wilt  Thou  not  regard  my  call? 

Wilt  Thou  not  accept  my  prayer? 
Lo !  I  sink,  I  faint,  I  fall ! 

Lo !  on  Thee  I  cast  my  care ! 

V 

Reach  me  out  Thy  gracious  hand ! 

While  I  of  Thy  strength  receive, 
Hoping  against  hope  I  stand, 

Dying,  and  behold  I  live ! 

Thou,  0  Christ,  art  all  I  want ; 

More  than  all  in  Thee  I  find : 

Raise  the  fallen,  cheer  the  faint, 

Heal  the  sick,  and  lead  the  blind ! 
Just  and  holy  is  Thy  Name; 

I  am  all  unrighteousness; 

False  and  full  of  sin  I  am, 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 

Plenteous  grace  with  Thee  is  found — 
Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin ; 

Let  the  healing  streams  abound  ; 

Make  and  keep  me  pure  within ! 
Thou  of  Life  the  Fountain  art, 

Freely  let  me  take  of  Thee; 

Spring  Thou  up  within  my  heart ! 

Rise  to  all  eternity ! 

Charles  Wesley. 


How  Sweet  the  Name  of  Jesus 
Sounds. 

How  sweet  the  Name  of  Jesus  sounds 
In  a  believer’s  ear ! 

It  soothes  his  sorrows,  heals  his  wounds, 
And  drives  away  his  fear ! 

It  makes  the  wounded  spirit  whole, 

And  calms  the  troubled  breast; 

’Tis  manna  to  the  hungry  soul, 

And  to  the  weary  rest. 

Dear  Name  !  the  rock  on  which  I  build, 
My  shield  and  hiding-place, 

My  never-failing  treasury,  fill’d 
With  boundless  stores  of  grace, 

By  Thee  my  prayers  acceptance  gain, 
Although  with  sin  defiled  ; 

Satan  accuses  me  in  vain, 

And  I  am  own’d  a  child. 

Jesus,  my  Shepherd,  Husband,  Friend, 
My  Prophet,  Priest,  and  King, 

My  Lord,  my  Life,  my  Way,  my  End, 
Accept  the  praise  I  bring. 


Weak  is  the  effort  of  my  heart, 

And  cold  my  warmest  thought ; 

But  when  I  see  Thee  as  Thou  art, 

I’ll  praise  Thee  as  I  ought. 

Till  then,  I  would  Thy  love  proclaim 
With  every  fleeting  breath  ; 

And  may  the  music  of  Thy  Name 
Refresh  my  soul  in  death  ! 

John  Newton. 

- - 

Lovest  thou  Me? 

John  xxi.  16. 

Hark,  mv  soul !  it  is  the  Lord, 

’Tis  thy  Saviour,  hear  His  word ; 

Jesus  speaks,  and  speaks  to  thee : 

“Say,  poor  sinner,  lov’st  thou  Me? 

“  I  deliver’d  thee  when  bound, 

And,  when  bleeding,  heal’d  thy  wound ; 
Sought  thee  wandering,  set  thee  right, 
Turn’d  thy  darkness  into  light. 

“  Can  a  woman’s  tender  care 
Cease  toward  the  child  she  bare  ? 

Yes,  she  may  forgetful  be  ; 

Yet  will  I  remember  thee ! 

“  Mine  is  an  unchanging  love, 

Higher  than  the  heights  above, 

Deeper  than  the  depths  beneath, 

Free  and  faithful,  strong  as  death. 

“  Thou  shalt  see  my  glory  soon, 

When  the  work  of  grace  is  done ; 
Partner  of  my  throne  shalt  be  ; 

Say,  poor  sinner,  lov’st  thou  Me  ?” 

Lord  !  it  is  my  chief  complaint, 

That  my  love  is  weak  and  faint ; 

Yet  I  love  Thee  and  adore ! 

Oh  !  for  grace  to  love  Thee  more  ! 

William  Cowper. 

•o»  -  — 

The  Stranger  and  his  Friend . 

A  poor  wayfaring  man  of  grief 
Hath  often  cross’d  me  on  my  way, 
Who  sued  so  humbly  for  relief, 

That  I  could  never  answer,  Nay. 

I  had  not  power  to  ask  his  name, 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came. 
Yet  there  was  something  in  his  eye 
That  won  my  love,  I  knew  not  why. 


542 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Once,  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread, 
He  enter’d  ;  not  a  word  he  spake ; 

Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread ; 

I  gave  him  all ;  he  bless’d  it,  brake, 

And  ate ;  but  gave  me  part  again  ; 

Mine  was  an  angel’s  portion  then ; 

For,  while  I  fed  with  eager  haste, 

That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 

I  spied  him,  where  a  fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock ;  his  strength  was 
gone ; 

The  heedless  water  mock’d  his  thirst, 

He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on  : 

I  ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up  ; 

Thrice  from  the  stream  he  drain’d  my  cup, 
Dipt,  and  return’d  it  running  o’er; 

I  drank,  and  never  thirsted  more. 

’Twas  night ;  the  floods  were  out ;  it 
blew 

A  winter  hurricane  aloof ; 

I  heard  his  voice  abroad,  and  flew 
To  bid  him  welcome  to  my  roof ; 

I  warm’d,  I  clothed,  I  cheer’d  my  guest, 
Laid  him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest ; 

Then  made  the  hearth  my  bed,  and  seem’d 
In  Eden’s  garden  while  I  dream’d. 

Stript,  wounded,  beaten,  nigh  to  death, 

I  found  him  by  the  high  way -side : 

I  roused  his  pulse,  brought  back  his 
breath, 

Revived  his  spirit,  and  supplied 
Wine,  oil,  refreshment ;  he  was  heal’d: 

I  had  myself  a  wound  conceal’d  ; 

But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart, 

And  peace  bound  up  my  broken  heart. 

In  prison  I  saw  him  next  condemn’d 
To  meet  a  traitor’s  death  at  morn  : 

The  tide  of  lying  tongues  I  stemm’d, 

And  honor’d  him  ’midst  shame  and 
scorn  ; 

My  friendship’s  utmost  zeal  to  try, 

He  ask’d  if  I  for  him  would  die ; 

The  flesh  was  weak,  my  blood  ran  chill ; 
But  the  free  spirit  cried,  “  I  will.” 

Then  in  a  moment  to  my  view 

The  Stranger  darted  from  disguise ; 

The  tokens  in  His  hands  I  knew, 

My  Saviour  stood  before  mine  eyes ! 


He  spake ;  and  my  poor  name  He  named 
“  Of  Me  thou  hast  not  been  ashamed  ; 
These  deeds  shall  thy  memorial  be  ; 

Fear  not;  thou  didst  them  unto  Me.” 

James  Montgomery. 

Come ,  Holy  Spirit ,  Heavenly 
Dove. 

Come,  Holy  Spirit,  heavenly  Dove, 
With  all  Thy  quickening  powers, 
Kindle  a  flame  of  sacred  love 
In  these  cold  hearts  of  ours. 

Look  how  we  grovel  here  below, 

Fond  of  these  trifling  toys; 

Our  souls  can  neither  fly  nor  go 
To  reach  eternal  joys! 

In  vain  we  tune  our  formal  songs, 

In  vain  we  strive  to  rise ; 

Hosannas  languish  on  our  tongues, 
And  our  devotion  dies. 

Dear  Lord,  and  shall  we  ever  lie 
At  this  poor  dying  rate  ? 

Our  love  so  faint,  so  cold  to  Thee, 

And  Thine  to  us  so  great ! 

Come,  Holy  Spirit,  heavenly  Dove, 
With  all  Thy  quickening  powers; 
Come,  shed  abroad  a  Saviour’s  love, 
And  that  shall  kindle  ours. 

Isaac  Watts. 

- +0* - 

Veni  Creator  Spiritus. 

Come,  Holy  Ghost,  our  souls  inspire, 
And  lighten  with  celestial  fire ; 

Thou  the  Anointing  Spirit  art, 

Who  dost  Thy  sevenfold  gifts  impart. 
Thy  blessed  unction  from  above 
Is  comfort,  life,  and  fire  of  love ; 
Enable  with  perpetual  light 
The  dulness  of  our  blinded  sight ; 
Anoint  and  cheer  our  soiled  face 
With  the  abundance  of  Thy  grace ; 
Keep  far  our  foes,  give  peace  at  home ; 
Where  Thou  art  guide,  no  ill  can  come 
Teach  us  to  know  the  Father,  Son, 

And  Thee  of  Both,  to  be  but  One, 

That,  through  the  ages  all  along, 

This  may  be  our  endless  song, 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


543 


“  Praise  to  thy  eternal  merit, 

Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Spirit !” 

Amen! 

Author  Unknown. 

.......  »<>»  — 

Veni  Creator. 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 
The  world’s  foundations  first  were  laid, 
Come,  visit  every  pious  mind ; 

Come,  pour  Thy  joys  on  human  kind; 
From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free, 

And  make  Thy  temples  worthy  Thee ! 

0  source  of  uncreated  light, 

The  Father’s  promised  Paraclete ! 

Thrice  holy  fount,  thrice  holy  fire, 

Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire, 
Come,  and  Thy  sacred  unction  bring, 

To  sanctify  us  while  we  sing ! 

Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high, 
Rich  in  Thy  sevenfold  energy ! 

Thou  strength  of  His  almighty  hand 
Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  com¬ 
mand! 

Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence, 

Who  dost  the  gifts  of  tongues  dispense, 
And  crown’st  Thy  gifts  with  eloquence ! 

Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts; 

But,  oh,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts ! 

Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control — 
Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul ; 

And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown, 

Then  lay  Thy  hand,  and  hold  them  down. 

Chase  from  our  minds  th’  infernal  foe, 

And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow ; 

And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 
Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 

Make  us  eternal  truths  receive, 

And  practise  all  that  we  believe; 

Give  us  Thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father,  and  the  Son,  by  Thee. 

Immortal  honor,  endless  fame, 

Attend  the  almighty  Father’s  name! 

The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified, 

Who  for  lost  man’s  redemption  died  ! 

And  equal  adoration  be, 

Eternal  Paraclete,  to  Thee ! 


In  Sorrow. 

Gently,  Lord,  oh,  gently  lead  us, 
Pilgrims  in  this  vale  of  tears, 
Through  the  trials  yet  decreed  us, 

Till  our  last  great  change  appears. 
When  temptation’s  darts  assail  us, 
When  in  devious  paths  we  stray. 

Let  Thy  goodness  never  fail  us, 

Lead  us  in  Thy  perfect  way. 

In  the  hour  of  pain  and  anguish, 

In  the  hour  when  death  draws  near, 
Suffer  not  our  hearts  to  languish, 

Suffer  not  our  souls  to  fear ; 

And,  when  mortal  life  is  ended, 

Bid  us  in  Thine  arms  to  rest, 

Till,  by  angel  bands  attended, 

We  awake  among  the  blest. 

Thomas  Hastings. 


Light  Shining  out  of  Darkness. 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform  ; 

He  plants  His  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 
Of  never-failing  skill, 

He  treasures  up  His  bright  designs, 

And  works  His  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take  ; 

The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 
In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 

But  trust  Him  for  His  grace  ; 

Behind  a  frowning  Providence 
He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 

Unfolding  every  hour ; 

The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err, 

And  scan  His  work  in  vain  ; 

God  is  His  own  interpreter, 

And  He  will  make  it  plain. 

William  Cowper. 


John  Dryden. 


544 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


God  is  Love. 

God  is  love !  His  mercy  brightens 
All  the  path  in  which  we  rove  ; 

Bliss  He  wakes,  and  woe  He  lightens : 
God  is  wisdom !  God  is  love ! 

Chance  and  change  are  busy  ever ; 

Man  decays  and  ages  move  ; 

But  His  mercy  waneth  never : 

God  is  wisdom !  God  is  love  ! 

E’en  the  hour  that  darkest  seemeth 
Will  His  changeless  goodness  prove ; 
From  the  gloom  His  brightness  stream- 
eth : 

God  is  wisdom  !  God  is  love  ! 

He  with  earthly  cares  entwineth 
Hope  and  comfort  from  above ; 
Everywhere  His  glory  shineth : 

God  is  wisdom !  God  is  love  ! 

God  is  love  !  His  mercy  brightens 
All  the  path  in  which  we  rove ; 

Bliss  He  wakes,  and  woe  He  lightens: 

God  is  wisdom  !  God  is  love ! 

Sir  John  Bowring. 

- ♦<>• - 

Father,  Thy  Will  be  Done. 

He  sendeth  sun,  He  sendetli  shower, — 
Alike  they’re  needful  for  the  flower ; 

And  joys  and  tears  alike  are  sent 
To  give  the  soul  fit  nourishment. 

As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun, 

Father !  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 

Can  loving  children  e’er  reprove 
With  murmurs  whom  they  trust  and  love? 
Creator,  I  would  ever  be 
A  trusting,  loving  child  to  Thee ; 

As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun, 

Father!  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 

Oh,  ne’er  will  I  at  life  repine; 

Enough  that  Thou  hast  made  it  mine. 
When  falls  the  shadow  cold  of  death, 

I  yet  will  sing  with  parting  breath, 

As  comes  to  me  or  shade  or  sun, 

Father!  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 

Sarah  Flower  Adams. 


The  Elixer. 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King, 

In  all  things  thee  to  see, 

And  what  I  do  in  anything, 

To  do  it  as  for  thee. 

Not  rudely,  as  a  beast, 

To  runne  into  an  action ; 

But  still  to  make  thee  prepossest, 

And  give  it  his  perfection. 

A  man  that  looks  on  glasse, 

On  it  may  stay  his  eye ; 

Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  passe, 

And  then  the  heaven  espie. 

All  may  of  thee  partake : 

Nothing  can  be  so  mean, 

Which  with  his  tincture  (for  thy  sake) 
Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 

A  servant  with  this  clause 
Makes  drudgerie  divine : 

Who  sweeps  a  room,  as  for  thy  laws, 
Makes  that  and  th’  action  fine. 

This  is  the  famous  stone 
That  turneth  all  to  gold  ; 

For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and  own 
Cannot  for  lesse  be  told. 

George  Herbert. 


A  Hymn. 

Drop,  drop,  slow  tears, 

And  bathe  those  beauteous  feet 
Which  brought  from  heaven 
The  news  and  Prince  of  Peace ! 
Cease  not,  wet  eyes, 

His  mercies  to  entreat ; 

To  cry  for  vengeance 
Sin  doth  never  cease ; 

In  your  deep  floods 

Drown  all  my  faults  and  fears; 

Nor  let  His  eye 

See  sin,  but  through  my  tears. 

Phineas  Fletcher. 


C  H  E  E  RF 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


An  Ode. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

The  unwearied  sun  from  day  to  day 
Does  his  Creator’s  power  display, 

And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  almighty  Hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 

The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly,  to  the  listening  earth, 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  ; 

Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball  ? 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 

In  reason’s  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 

For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 

The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine  !” 

Joseph  Addison. 


The  Universal  Prayer. 

Deo  Opt.  Max. 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored — 

By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage — 
Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord! 

Thou  Great  First  Cause,  least  under¬ 
stood, 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this :  that  Thou  art  good, 
And  that  myself  am  blind; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 

And,  binding  Nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 

This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

35 


545 


What  blessings  Thy  free  bounty  gives 
Let  me  not  cast  away — 

For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives  : 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth’s  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 

Or  think  Thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  Thy  bolts  to  throw, 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  judge  Thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  Thy  grace  impart 
Still  in  the  right  to  stay  ; 

If  I  am  wrong,  oh  teach  my  heart 
To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride 
Or  impious  discontent, 

At  aught  Thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  Thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another’s  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see  ; 

That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 

Since  quicken’d  by  Thy  breath  ; 

Oh  lead  me,  wheresoe’er  I  go, 

Through  this  day’s  life  or  death. 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot : 

All  else  beneath  the  sun 

Thou  know’st  if  best  bestow’d  or  not, 
And  let  Thy  will  be  done. 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space, 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies — 

One  chorus  let  all  being  raise ! 

All  Nature’s  incense  rise  ! 

Alexander  Pope. 
-  »o« - 

Psalm  C. 

With  one  consent  let  all  the  earth 
To  God  their  cheerful  voices  raise  ; 

Glad  homage  pay  with  awful  mirth, 

And  sing  before  Him  songs  of  praise. 

Convinced  that  He  is  God  alone, 

From  whom  both  we  and  all  proceed; 


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We,  whom  He  chooses  for  His  own, 

The  flock  that  He  vouchsafes  to  feed. 

Oh  enter,  then,  His  temple  gate, 

Thence  to  His  courts  devoutly  press ; 
And  still  your  grateful  hymns  repeat, 
And  still  His  name  with  praises  bless. 

For  He’s  the  Lord,  supremely  good, 

His  mercy  is  for  ever  sure  : 

His  truth,  which  always  firmly  stood, 

To  endless  ages  shall  endure. 

Tate  and  Brady. 

■ - »o« . . 

Psalm  C. 

Before  Jehovah’s  awful  throne, 

Ye  nations,  bow  with  sacred  joy; 

Know  that  the  Lord  is  God  alone, 

He  can  create  and  He  destroy. 

His  sovereign  power,  without  our  aid, 
Made  us  of  clay,  and  form’d  us  men  ; 
And  when  like  wandering  sheep  we  stray’d, 
He  brought  us  to  His  fold  again. 

We’ll  crowd  Thy  gates  with  thankful  songs, 
High  as  the  heavens  our  voices  raise  ; 
And  earth,  with  her  ten  thousand  tongues, 
Shall  fill  Thy  courts  with  sounding 
praise. 

Wide  as  the  world  is  Thy  command, 

Vast  as  eternity  Thy  love  ; 

Firm  as  a  rock  Thy  truth  must  stand, 
When  rolling  years  shall  cease  to  move. 

Isaac  Watts. 

(Varied  by  Charles  Wesley.) 
- - 

I  give  Immortal  Praise. 

I  give  immortal  praise 
To  God  the  Father’s  love, 

For  all  my  comforts  here 
And  better  hopes  above ; 

He  sent  His  own  eternal  Son 
To  die  for  sins  that  man  had  done. 

To  God  the  Son  belongs 
Immortal  glory  too, 

Who  bought  us  with  His  blood 
From  everlasting  woe  ; 

And  now  He  lives,  and  now  He  reigns, 
And  sees  the  fruit  of  all  His  pains. 


To  God  the  Spirit’s  name 
Immortal  worship  give, 

Whose  new-creating  power 
Makes  the  dead  sinner  live  ; 

His  work  completes  the  great  design, 

And  fills  the  soul  with  joy  divine. 

Almighty  God,  to  Thee 
Be  endless  honors  done  ; 

The  undivided  Three, 

And  the  mysterious  One  ! 

Where  reason  fails  with  all  her  powers, 

There  faith  prevails,  and  love  adores. 

Isaac  Watts. 

- - 

The  Holy  Trinity. 

Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  Almighty ! 

Early  in  the  morning  our  song  shall  rise 
to  Thee  ; 

Holy,  holy,  holy  !  Merciful  and  Mighty  ! 

God  in  Three  Persons,  blessed  Trinity  ! 

Holy,  holy,  holy !  all  the  saints  adore 
Thee, 

Casting  down  their  golden  crowns  around 
the  glassy  sea, 

Cherubim  and  Seraphim  falling  down  be¬ 
fore  Thee, 

Which  wert,  and  art,  and  evermore  shalt 
be. 

Holy,  holy,  holy  !  though  the  darkness  hide 
Thee, 

Though  the  eye  of  sinful  man  Thy  glory 
may  not  see, 

Only  Thou  art  holy,  there  is  none  beside 
Thee, 

Perfect  in  power,  in  love,  and  purity. 

Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  Almighty  ! 

All  Thy  works  shall  praise  Thy  Name 
in  earth  and  sky  and  sea  ; 

Holy,  holy,  holy  !  Merciful  and  Mighty  ! 

God  in  Three  Persons,  blessed  Trinity  ! 

Reginald  Heber. 

-  ■  •<>•  “ 

St.  Agnes’  Eve. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 

My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  : 

May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS." 


54? 


The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 
Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 

Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 
That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 

Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 
As  are  the  frosty  skies, 

Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 
That  in  mv  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil’d  and 
dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 

As  this  pale  taper’s  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 

So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee  ; 

So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 

Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord  !  and  far, 
Thro’  all  yon  starlight  keen, 

Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors  ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 

All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strews  her  lights  below, 

And  deepens  on  and  up  !  the  gates 
Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 
To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 

The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide — 

A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

• - »<>• - - 

Glorying  in  the  Cross. 

When  I  survey  the  wondrous  cross 
On  which  the  Prince  of  glory  died, 
My  richest  gain  I  count  but  loss, 

And  pour  contempt  on  all  my  pride. 

Forbid  it,  Lord,  that  I  should  boast 
Save  in  the  death  of  Christ,  my  God ; 
All  the  vain  things  that  charm  me  most 
I  sacrifice  them  to  His  blood. 

See  from  His  head,  His  hands,  His  feet, 
Sorrow  and  love  flow  mingled  down  ! 
Did  e’er  such  love  and  sorrow  meet, 

Or  thorns  compose  so  rich  a  crown  ? 


His  dying  crimson,  like  a  robe, 

Spreads  o’er  his  body  on  the  tree ; 
Then  am  I  dead  to  all  the  globe, 

And  all  the  globe  is  dead  to  me. 

Were  the  whole  realm  of  Nature  mine, 
That  were  a  present  far  too  small ; 
Love  so  amazing,  so  divine, 

Demands  my  soul,  my  life,  my  all. 

Isaac  Watts. 


When  all  Thy  Mercies ,  0  my 
God. 

When  all  Thy  mercies,  0  my  God, 

My  rising  soul  surveys, 

Transported  with  the  view,  I’m  lost 
In  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 

Oh,  how  shall  words  with  equal  warmth 
The  gratitude  declare 
That  glows  within  my  ravish’d  heart? 

But  Thou  canst  read  it  there. 

Thy  providence  my  life  sustain’d, 

And  all  my  wants  redress’d, 

When  in  the  silent  womb  I  lay, 

And  hung  upon  the  breast. 

To  all  my  weak  complaints  and  cries 
Thy  mercy  lent  an  ear, 

Ere  yet  my  feeble  thoughts  had  learnt 
To  form  themselves  in  prayer. 

Un number’d  comforts  to  my  soul 
Thy  tender  care  bestow’d, 

Before  my  infant  heart  conceived 
From  whence  these  comforts  flow’d. 

When  in  the  slippery  paths  of  youth 
With  heedless  steps  I  ran, 

Thine  arm,  unseen,  convey’d  me  safe, 

And  led  me  up  to  man. 

Through  hidden  dangers,  toils,  and  death, 
It  gently  clear’d  my  way, 

And  through  the  pleasing  snares  of  vice, 
More  to  be  fear’d  than  they. 

When  worn  with  sickness,  oft  hast  Thou 
With  health  renew’d  my  face, 

And,  when  in  sins  and  sorrows  sunk, 
Revived  my  soul  with  grace. 


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Thy  bounteous  hand  with  worldly  bliss 
Has  made  my  cup  run  o’e-r, 

And  in  a  kind  and  faithful  friend 
Has  doubled  all  my  store. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  precious  gifts 
My  daily  thanks  employ, 

Nor  is  the  least  a  cheerful  heart 
That  tastes  those  gifts  with  joy. 

Through  every  period  of  my  life 
Thy  goodness  I’ll  pursue, 

And  after  death,  in  distant  worlds, 

The  glorious  theme  renew. 

When  Nature  fails,  and  day  and  night 
Divide  thy  works  no  more, 

My  ever-grateful  heart,  O  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  shall  adore. 

Through  all  eternity  to  Thee 
A  joyful  song  I’ll  raise, 

But  oh,  eternity’s  too  short 
To  utter  all  Thy  praise  ! 

Joseph  Addison. 


Blest  be  Thy  love,  dear  Lord. 

Blest  be  Thy  love,  dear  Lord, 

That  taught  us  this  sweet  way, 

Only  to  love  Thee  for  Thyself, 

And  for  that  love  obey. 

O  Thou,  our  souls’  chief  hope ! 

W  e  to  Thy  mercy  fly ; 

Where’er  we  are,  Thou  canst  protect, 
Whate’er  we  need,  supply. 

Whether  we  sleep  or  wake, 

To  Thee  we  both  resign  ; 

By  night  we  see,  as  well  as  day, 

If  Thy  light  on  us  shine. 

Whether  we  live  or  die, 

Both  we  submit  to  Thee ; 

In  death  we  live,  as  well  as  life, 

If  Thine  in  death  we  be. 

John  Austin. 


Praise  to  God. 

Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise, 
For  the  love  that  crowns  our  days! 
Bounteous  source  of  every  joy, 

Let  Thy  praise  our  tongues  employ. 


For  the  blessings  of  the  field, 

For  the  stores  the  gardens  yield; 

For  the  vine’s  exalted  juice, 

For  the  generous  olive’s  use  : 

Flocks  that  whiten  all  the  plain; 

Yellow  sheaves  of  ripen’d  grain; 

Clouds  that  drop  their  fattening  dews  : 
Suns  that  temperate  warmth  diffuse. 

All  that  Spring  with  bounteous  hand 
Scatters  o’er  the  smiling  land ; 

All  that  liberal  Autumn  pours 
From  her  rich  o’erflowing  stores  : 

These  to  Thee,  my  God,  we  owe, 

Source  whence  all  our  blessings  flow 
And  for  these  my  soul  shall  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise. 

Yet,  should  rising  whirlwinds  tear 
From  its  stem  the  ripening  ear; 

Should  the  fig  tree’s  blasted  shoot 
Drop  her  green,  untimely  fruit ; 

Should  the  vine  put  forth  no  more, 

Nor  the  olive  yield  her  store; 

Though  the  sickening  flocks  should  fall, 
And  the  herds  desert  the  stall ; 

Should  Thine  alter’d  hand  restrain 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain ; 

Blast  each  opening  bud  of  joy, 

And  the  rising  year  destroy ; 

Yet  to  Thee  my  soul  should  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise ; 

And,  when  every  blessing’s  flown, 

Love  Thee  for  Thyself  alone  ! 

Anna  L^etitia  Barbauld. 


Hymn. 

Lord,  with  glowing  heart  I’d  praise  Thee 
For  the  bliss  Thy  love  bestows, 

For  the  pardoning  grace  that  saves  me, 
And  the  peace  that  from  it  flows. 

Help,  O  God  !  my  weak  endeavor, 

This  dull  soul  to  rapture  raise ; 

Thou  must  light  the  flame,  or  never 
Can  my  love  be  warm’d  to  praise. 

Praise,  my  soul,  the  God  that  sought  thee, 
Wretched  wanderer,  far  astray ; 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


549 


Found  thee  lost,  and  kindly  brought  thee 
From  the  paths  of  death  away. 

Praise,  with  love’s  devoutest  feeling, 

Him  who  saw  thy  guilt-born  fear, 

And,  the  light  of  hope  revealing, 

Bade  the  blood-stain’d  cross  appear. 

Lord!  this  bosom’s  ardent  feeling 
Vainly  would  my  lips  express ; 

Low  before  Thy  footstool  kneeling, 

Deign  Thy  suppliant’s  prayer  to  bless. 

Let  Thy  grace,  my  soul’s  chief  treasure, 
Love’s  pure  flame  within  me  raise ; 

And,  since  words  can  never  measure, 

Let  my  life  show  forth  Thy  praise. 

Francis  Scott  Key. 

- •<>« - 

PSALM  XC. 

Our  God,  our  help  in  ages  past, 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 

Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast, 

And  our  eternal  home : 

Under  the  shadow  of  Thy  throne 
Thy  saints  have  dwelt  secure ; 
Sufficient  is  Thine  arm  alone, 

And  our  defence  is  sure. 

Before  the  hills  in  order  stood, 

Or  earth  received  her  frame, 

From  everlasting  Thou  art  God, 

To  endless  years  the  same. 

A  thousand  ages  in  Thy  sight 
Are  like  an  evening  gone ; 

Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night 
Before  the  rising  sun. 

The  busy  tribes  of  flesh  and  blood, 
With  all  their  lives  and  cares, 

Are  carried  downward  by  Thy  flood, 
And  lost  in  following  years. 

Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream, 

Bears  all  its  sons  away ; 

They  fly  forgotten,  as  a  dream 
Dies  at  the  opening  day. 

Our  God,  our  help  in  ages  past ; 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come  ; 

Be  Thou  our  guard  while  troubles  last, 
And  our  eternal  home ! 

Isaac  Watts. 


PSALM  XCVIII. 

J oy  to  the  world  !  the  Lord  is  come  : 

Let  earth  receive  her  King : 

Let  every  heart  prepare  Him  room, 

And  heaven  and  nature  sing. 

Joy  to  the  earth  !  the  Saviour  reigns  : 

Let  men  their  songs  employ  ; 

While  fields  and  floods,  rocks,  hills,  and 
plains, 

Repeat  the  sounding  joy. 

No  more  let  sins  and  sorrows  grow, 

Nor  thorns  infest  the  ground: 

He  comes  to  make  His  blessings  flow 
Far  as  the  curse  is  found. 

He  rules  the  world  with  truth  and  grace, 
And  makes  the  nations  prove 
The  glories  of  His  righteousness, 

And  wonders  of  His  love. 

Isaac  Watts. 

- *0* - 

The  Emigrants  in  the  Ber¬ 
mudas. 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  th’  ocean’s  bosom,  unespied — 

From  a  small  boat,  that  row’d  along, 

The  list’ning  winds  received  this  song  : 

What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 

And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own? 

Where  He  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 

He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 

Safe  from  the  storms,  and  prelate’s  rage. 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  every  thing, 

And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care, 

On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 

He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright, 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 

And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows. 

He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet. 

But  apples — plants  of  such  a  price 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 

With  cedars,  chosen  by  His  hand 
From  Lebanon,  He  stores  the  land; 


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And  makes  the  hollow  seas,  that  roar, 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 

He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 

The  gospel’s  pearl  upon  our  coast ; 

And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple,  where  to  sound  His  name. 

Oh !  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt 
Till  it  arrive  at  heaven’s  vault ; 

Which,  then,  perhaps  rebounding,  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay. 

Thus  sang  they,  in  the  English  boat, 

A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note  ; 

And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

Andrew  Marvell. 

- »<>♦  ■  - 

Rebecca's  Hymn. 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 

Her  fathers’  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 

By  day,  along  the  astonish’d  lands 
The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow  ; 

By  night,  Arabia’s  crimson’d  sands 
Return’d  the  fiery  column’s  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answer’d  keen ; 
And  Zion’s  daughters  pour’d  their  lays, 
With  priest’s  and  warrior’s  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze — 
Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone; 

Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 
And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But,  present  still,  though  now  unseen, 
When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen, 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 

And  oh,  when  stoops  on  Judah’s  path 
In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 
Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel’s  streams — 
The  tyrant’s  jest,  the  Gentile’s  scorn; 

No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 


But  Thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of  goat, 
The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  prize — 

A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought, 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


Sound  the  Loud  Timbrel. 

Miriam’s  Song. 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o’er  Egypt’s  dark 
sea ! 

Jehovah  has  triumph’d, — his  people  are 
free ! 

Sing, — for  the  pride  of  the  tyrant  is  broken, 
His  chariots,  his  horsemen,  all  splendid 
and  brave, — 

How  vain  was  their  boast,  for  the  Lord 
hath  but  spoken, 

And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in 
the  wave. 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o’er  Egypt’s  dark 
sea ! 

Jehovah  has  triumph’d, — his  people  are 
free ! 

Praise  to  the  Conqueror,  praise  to  the 
Lord ! 

His  word  was  our  arrow,  his  breath  was 
our  sword. 

Who  shall  return  to  tell  Egypt  the  story 
Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of 
her  pride  ? 

For  the  Lord  hath  look’d  out  from  his 
pillar  of  glory, 

And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dash’d 
in  the  tide. 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o’er  Egypt’s  dark 
sea ! 

Jehovah  has  triumph’d, — his  people  are 
free ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


Behold,  I  Stand  at  the  Door 
and  Knock. 

O  Jesu,  Thou  art  standing 
Outside  the  fast-closed  door, 

In  lowly  patience  waiting 
To  pass  the  threshold  o’er : 

We  bear  the  name  of  Christians, 

His  name  and  sign  we  bear; 

Oh,  shame,  thrice  shame  upon  us, 

To  keep  Him  standing  there! 


'PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


551 


O  Jesu,  thou  art  knocking, 

And  lo  !  that  hand  is  scarr’d, 

And  thorns  Thy  brow  encircle, 

And  tears  Thy  face  have  rnarr’d : 
Oh,  love  that  passeth  knowledge, 

So  patiently  to  wait ! 

Oh,  sin  that  hath  no  equal, 

So  fast  to  bar  the  gate ! 

O  Jesu,  Thou  art  pleading 
In  accents  meek  and  low, 

“  I  died  for  you,  my  children, 

And  will  ye  treat  Me  so?” 

O  Lord,  with  shame  and  sorrow 
We  open  now  the  door: 

Dear  Saviour,  enter,  enter, 

And  leave  us  nevermore ! 

William  Walsham  How. 
- - 

Thou  art,  0  God  / 

Thou  art,  O  God !  the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we  see  ; 

Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night, 

Are  but  reflections  caught  from  Thee. 
Where’er  we  turn,  Thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  Thine. 

When  day,  with  farewell  beam,  delays 
Among  the  opening  clouds  of  even, 

And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 
Through  golden  vistas  into  heaven, — 
Those  hues  that  make  the  sun’s  decline 
So  soft,  so  radiant,  Lord !  are  Thine. 

When  night,  with  wings  of  starry  gloom, 
O’ershadows  all  the  earth  and  skies, 
Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bird,  whose 
plume 

Is  sparkling  with  unnumber’d  eyes, — 
That  sacred  gloom,  those  fires  divine, 

So  grand,  so  countless,  Lord !  are  Thine. 

When  youthful  Spring  around  us  breathes, 
Thy  spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh  ; 

And  every  flower  the  Summer  wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 
Where’er  we  turn,  Thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  Thine. 

Thomas  Moore. 

- •<>• - 

PS  AIM  CXLVIII. 

Come,  oh  come  !  in  pious  lays 
Sound  we  God  Almighty’s  praise; 


Hither  bring,  in  one  consent, 

Heart  and  voice  and  instrument : 
Music  add  of  every  kind, 

Sound  the  trump,  the  cornet  wind, 
Strike  the  viol,  touch  the  lute, 

Let  no  tongue  nor  string  be  mute ; 
Nor  a  creature  dumb  be  found 
That  hath  either  voice  or  sound. 

Let  those  things  which  do  not  live 
In  still  music  praises  give  ; 

Lowly  pipe,  ye  worms  that  creep 
On  the  earth  or  in  the  deep  : 

Loud  aloft  your  voices  strain, 

Beasts  and  monsters  of  the  main ; 
Birds,  your  warbling  treble  sing ; 
Clouds,  your  peals  of  thunders  ring ; 
Sun  and  moon,  exalted  higher, 

And  bright  stars,  augment  this  choir 

Come,  ye  sons  of  human  race, 

In  this  chorus  take  your  place, 

And  amid  the  mortal  throng 
Be  you  masters  of  the  song : 

Angels  and  supernal  powers, 

Be  the  noblest  tenor  yours : 

Let,  in  praise  of  God,  the  sound 
Run  a  never-ending  round, 

That  our  song  of  praise  may  be 
Everlasting,  as  is  He. 

From  earth’s  vast  and  hollow  womb 
Music’s  deepest  base  may  come  ; 

Seas  and  floods,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Shall  their  counter-tenors  roar : 

To  this  concert,  when  we  sing, 
Whistling  winds,  your  descants  bring; 
That  our  song  may  over-climb 
All  the  bounds  of  place  and  time, 

And  ascend,  from  sphere  to  sphere, 

To  the  great  Almighty’s  ear. 

So  from  heaven  on  earth  He  shall 
Let  His  gracious  blessings  fall : 

And  this  huge  wide  orb  we  see 
Shall  one  choir,  one  temple  be ; 

Where  in  such  a  praiseful  tone 
We  will  sing  what  He  hath  done, 

That  the  cursed  fiends  below 
Shall  thereat  impatient  grow  . 

Then,  oh  come,  in  pious  lays 

Sound  we  God  Almighty’s  praise ! 

George  Wither. 


552 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


PSALM  CX  VII. 

From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies 

Let  the  Creator’s  praise  arise  ; 

Let  the  Redeemer’s  Name  be  sung 

Through  every  land,  by  every  tongue  ! 

Eternal  are  Thv  mercies.  Lord  ! 

Eternal  truth  attends  Thy  word  ; 

Thy  praise  shall  sound  from  shore  to  shore, 

Till  suns  shall  rise  and  set  no  more. 

Isaac  Watts. 

- •<>♦ - 

Evening  Hymn  of  the  Alpine 
Shepherds. 

Brothers,  the  day  declines ; 

Above,  the  glacier  brightens ; 

Through  hills  of  waving  pines 
The  “  vesper  halo  ”  lightens  ! 

Now  wake  the  welcome  chorus 
To  Him  our  sires  adored  ; 

To  Him  who  watcheth  o’er  us, — 

Ye  shepherds,  praise  the  Lord ! 

From  each  tower’s  embattled  crest 
The  vesper-bell  has  toll’d  ; 

’Tis  the  hour  that  bringeth  rest 
To  the  shepherd  and  his  fold : 

From  hamlet,  rock,  and  chalet 
Let  our  evening  song  be  pour’d  ; 

Till  mountain,  rock,  and  valley 
Re-echo, — Praise  the  Lord  ! 

Praise  the  Lord,  who  made  and  gave  us 
Our  glorious  mountain-land ! 

Who  deign’d  to  shield  and  save  us 
From  the  despot’s  iron  hand  : 

With  the  bread  of  life  He  feeds  us ; 
Enlighten’d  by  His  word, 

Through  pastures  green  He  leads  us, — 
Ye  shepherds,  praise  the  Lord! 

And  hark,  below,  aloft, 

From  clifts  that  pierce  the  cloud, 

From  blue  lakes,  calm  and  soft 
As  a  virgin  in  her  shroud, 

New  strength  our  anthem  gathers  ; 

From  Alp  to  Alp  ’tis  pour’d; 

So  sang  our  sainted  fathers, — 

Ye  shepherds,  praise  the  Lord! 


Praise  the  Lord !  from  flood  and  fell 
Let  the  voice  of  old  and  young — 

All  the  strength  of  Appenzel, 

True  of  heart  and  sweet  of  tongue — 
The  grateful  theme  prolong 
With  souls  in  soft  accord, 

Till  yon  stars  take  up  our  song, — 
Hallelujah  to  the  Lord  ! 

William  Beattie, 

—  •<>• 

Evening  Contemplation. 

Softly  now  the  light  of  day 
Fades  upon  my  sight  away ; 

Free  from  care,  from  labor  free, 

Lord,  I  would  commune  with  Thee. 

Thou,  whose  all-pervading  eye 
Naught  escapes,  without,  within  ! 
Pardon  each  infirmity, 

Open  fault,  and  secret  sin. 

Soon  for  me  the  light  of  day 
Shall  for  ever  pass  away ; 

Then,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 

Take  me,  Lord,  to  dwell  with  Thee. 

Thou  who,  sinless,  yet  hast  known 
All  of  man’s  infirmity  ! 

Then,  from  Thine  eternal  throne, 

Jesus,  look  with  pitying  eye. 

George  Washington  Doane. 

- K>« - 

The  Priest. 

I  would  I  were  an  excellent  divine 
That  had  the  Bible  at  my  fingers’  ends ; 
That  men  might  hear  out  of  this  mouth 
of  mine, 

How  God  doth  make  His  enemies  His 
friends ; 

Rather  than  with  a  thundering  and  long 
prayer 

Be  led  into  presumption,  or  despair. 

This  would  I  be,  and  would  none  other 
be — 

But  a  religious  servant  of  my  God  ; 

And  know  there  is  none  other  God  but 
He, 

And  willingly  to  suffer  mercy’s  rod — 
Joy  in  His  grace,  and  live  but  in  His 
love, 

And  seek  my  bliss  but  in  the  world  above. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


553 


And  I  would  frame  a  kind  of  faithful 
prayer 

For  all  estates  within  the  state  of 
grace,  * 

That  careful  love  might  never  know 
despair, 

Nor  servile  fear  might  faithful  love 
deface : 

And  this  would  I  both  day  and  night 
devise 

To  make  my  humble  spirit’s  exercise. 

And  I  would  read  the  rules  of  sacred 
life  ; 

Persuade  the  troubled  soul  to  patience ; 

The  husband  care,  and  comfort  to  the 
wife, 

To  child  and  servant  due  obedience ; 

Faith  to  the  friend,  and  to  the  neighbor 
peace, 

That  love  might  live,  and  quarrels  all 
might  cease. 

Prayer  for  the  health  of  all  that  are  dis¬ 
eased, 

Confession  unto  all  that  are  convicted, 

And  patience  unto  all  that  are  dis¬ 
pleased, 

And  comfort  unto  all  that  are  af¬ 
flicted, 

And  mercy  unto  all  that  have  offended, 

And  grace  to  all :  that  all  may  be 
amended. 

Nicholas  Breton. 


Morning  Hymn. 

Oh,  timely  happy,  timely  wise, 

Hearts  that  with  rising  morn  arise ! 

Eyes  that  the  beam  celestial  view, 

Which  evermore  makes  all  things  new ! 

New  every  morning  is  the  love 
Our  wakening  and  uprising  prove, 
Through  sleep  and  darkness  safely  brought, 
Restored  to  life,  and  power,  and  thought. 

New  mercies,  each  returning  day, 

Hover  around  us  while  we  pray ; 

New  perils  past,  new  sins  forgiven, 

New  thoughts  of  God,  new  hopes  of 
heaven. 


If,  on  our  dailv  course,  our  mind 
Be  set  to  hallow  all  we  find, 

New  treasures  still,  of  countless  price, 

God  will  provide  for  sacrifice. 

Old  friends,  old  scenes,  will  lovelier  be, 

As  more  of  heaven  in  each  we  see ; 

Some  softening  gleam  of  love  and  prayer 
Shall  dawn  on  everv  cross  and  care. 

As  for  some  dear  familiar  strain 
Untired  we  ask,  and  ask  again, 

Ever,  in  its  melodious  store, 

Finding  a  spell  unheard  before; 

Such  is  the  bliss  of  souls  serene, 

When  they  have  sworn,  and  steadfast  mean, 
Counting  the  cost,  in  all  t’  espy 
Their  God,  in  all  themselves  deny. 

Oh,  could  we  learn  that  sacrifice, 

What  lights  would  all  around  us  rise ! 
How  would  our  hearts  with  wisdom  talk 
Along  life’s  dullest,  dreariest  walk ! 

We  need  not  bid,  for  cloister’d  cell, 

Our  neighbor  and  our  work  farewell, 

Nor  strive  to  wind  ourselves  too  high 
For  sinful  man  beneath  the  sky ; 

The  trivial  round,  the  common  task, 

Will  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask; 

Room  to  deny  ourselves, — a  road 
To  bring  us,  daily,  nearer  God. 

Seek  we  no  more :  content  with  these, 

Let  present  rapture,  comfort,  ease, 

As  heaven  shall  bid  them,  come  and  go ; 
The  secret  this  of  rest  below. 

Only,  O  Lord,  in  Thy  dear  love 
Fit  us  for  perfect  rest  above, 

And  help  us,  this  and  every  day, 

To  live  more  nearly  as  we  pray ! 

John  Keble. 

- - 

Morning  Hymn. 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 
Thy  daily  stage  of  duty  run ; 

Shake  off  dull  sloth,  and  joyful  rise 
To  pay  thy  morning  sacrifice. 

Thy  precious  time  misspent  redeem ; 
Each  present  day  thy  last  esteem  ; 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Improve  thy  talent  with  due  care ; 

For  the  great  day  thyself  prepare. 

In  conversation  be  sincere  ; 

Keep  conscience  as  the  noontide  clear ; 
Think  how  All-seeing  God  thy  ways 
And  all  thy  secret  thoughts  surveys. 

By  influence  of  the  light  divine 
Let  thy  own  light  to  others  shine ; 

Reflect  all  Heaven’s  propitious  rays, 

In  ardent  love  and  cheerful  praise. 

Wake  and  lift  up  thyself,  my  heart, 

And  with  the  angels  bear  thy  part, 

Who,  all  night  long,  unwearied  sing 
High  praise  to  the  Eternal  King. 

Awake  !  awake  !  Ye  heavenly  choir, 

May  your  devotion  me  inspire, 

That  I,  like  you,  my  age  may  spend, 

Like  you  may  on  my  God  attend ! 

May  I,  like  you,  in  God  delight, 

Have  all  day  long  my  God  in  sight, 
Perform  like  you  my  Maker’s  will ! 

Oh  may  I  never  more  do  ill ! 

Had  I  your  wings  to  Heaven  I’d  fly ; 

But  God  shall  that  defect  supply ; 

And  my  soul,  wing’d  with  warm  desire, 
Shall  all  day  long  to  Heaven  aspire. 

All  praise  to  Thee,  who  safe  hast  kept, 
And  hast  refresh’d  me  whilst  I  slept ! 
Grant,  Lord,  when  I  from  death  shall  wake, 
I  may  of  endless  light  partake  ! 

I  would  not  wake,  nor  rise  again, 

Ev’n  Heaven  itself  I  would  disdain, 

Wert  thou  not  there  to  be  enjoy’d, 

And  I  in  hymns  to  be  employ’d ! 

Heaven  is,  dear  Lord,  where’er  Thou  art ; 
Oh  never  then  from  me  depart ! 

For,  to  my  soul,  ’tis  hell  to  be 
But  for  one  moment  void  of  Thee. 

Lord,  I  my  vows  to  thee  renew  ; 

Disperse  my  sins  as  morning  dew ; 

Guard  my  first  springs  of  thought  and  will, 
And  with  Thyself  my  spirit  fill. 

Direct,  control,  suggest,  this  day, 

All  I  design,  or  do,  or  say ; 

That  all  my  powers,  with  all  their  might, 
In  Thy  sole  glory  may  unite. 

Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow  ; 
Praise  Him,  all  creatures  here  below  ! 


Praise  Him  above,  ye  heavenly  host ; 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost ! 

Thomas  Ken. 


Morning  Hymn. 

Since  Thou  hast  added  now,  O  God ! 

Unto  my  life  another  day, 

And  giv’st  me  leave  to  walk  abroad, 

And  labor  in  my  lawful  way  ; 

My  walks  and  works  with  me  begin, 
Conduct  me  forth,  and  bring  me  in. 

In  every  power  my  soul  enjoys 
Internal  virtues  to  improve  ; 

In  every  sense  that  she  employs 
In  her  external  works  to  move  ; 

Bless  her,  O  God !  and  keep  me  sound 
From  outward  harm  and  inward  wound. 

Let  sin  nor  Satan’s  fraud  prevail 
To  make  mine  eye  of  reason  blind, 

Or  faith,  or  hope,  or  love  to  fail, 

Or  any  virtues  of  the  mind  ; 

But  more  and  more  let  them  increase, 

And  bring  me  to  mine  end  in  peace. 

Lewd  courses  let  my  feet  forbear  ; 

Keep  Thou  my  hands  from  doing  wrong; 
Let  not  ill  counsels  pierce  mine  ear, 

Nor  wicked  words  defile  my  tongue  ; 
And  keep  the  windows  of  each  eye 
That  no  strange  lust  climb  in  thereby. 

But  guard  Thou  safe  my  heart  in  chief; 

That  neither  hate,  revenge,  nor  fear, 

Nor  vain  desire,  vain  joy,  or  grief, 

Obtain  command  or  dwelling  there: 
And,  Lord  !  with  every  saving  grace, 

Still  true  to  Thee  maintain  that  place  ! 

From  open  wrongs,  from  secret  hates, 
Preserve  me,  likewise,  Lord  !  this  day; 
From  slanderous  tongues,  from  wicked  mates 
From  every  danger  in  my  way ; 

My  goods  to  me  secure  Thou  too. 

And  prosper  all  the  works  I  do. 

So  till  the  evening  of  this  morn 

My  time  shall  then  so  well  be  spent, 
That  when  the  twilight  shall  return 
I  may  enjoy  it  with  content, 

And  to  Thy  praise  and  honor  say, 

That  this  hath  proved  a  happy  day. 

George  Wither. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


555 


Evening  Hymn. 

Sun  of  my  soul,  Thou  Saviour  dear, 

It  is  not  night  if  Thou  be  near ; 

Oh !  may  no  earth-born  cloud  arise 
To  hide  Thee  from  Thy  servant’s  eyes! 

"When  round  Thy  wondrous  works  below 
My  searching  rapturous  glance  I  throw, 
Tracing  out  wisdom,  power,  and  love, 

In  earth  or  sky,  in  stream  or  grove ; 

Or,  by  the  light  Thy  words  disclose, 

Watch  time’s  full  river  as  it  flows, 
Scanning  Thy  gracious  Providence, 

Where  not  too  deep  for  mortal  sense ; 

When  with  dear  friends  sweet  talk  I  hold, 
And  all  the  flowers  of  life  unfold ; 

Let  not  my  heart  within  me  burn, 

Except  in  all  I  Thee  discern  ! 

When  the  soft  dews  of  kindly  sleep 
My  wearied  eyelids  gently  steep, 

Be  my  last  thought,  How  sweet  to  rest 
For  ever  on  my  Saviour’s  breast ! 

Abide  with  me  from  morn  till  eve, 

For  without  Thee  I  cannot  live ! 

Abide  with  me  when  night  is  nigh, 

For  without  Thee  I  dare  not  die ! 

Thou  Framer  of  the  light  and  dark, 

Steer  through  the  tempest  Thine  own  ark  ! 
Amid  the  howling  wintry  sea 
We  are  in  port  if  we  have  Thee. 

The  rulers  of  this  Christian  land, 

’Twixt  Thee  and  us  ordain’d  to  stand, 
Guide  Thou  their  course,  O  Lord,  aright ! 
Let  all  do  all  as  in  Thy  sight ! 

Oh  !  by  Thine  own  sad  burthen,  borne 
So  meekly  up  the  hill  of  scorn, 

Teach  Thou  Thy  priests  their  daily  cross 
To  bear  as  Thine,  nor  count  it  loss ! 

If  some  poor  wandering  child  of  Thine 
Have  spurn’d,  to-day,  the  voice  divine ; 
Now,  Lord,  the  gracious  work  begin; 

Let  him  no  more  lie  down  in  sin  ! 

Watch  by  the  sick,  enrich  the  poor 
With  blessings  from  Thy  boundless  store  ! 
Be  every  mourner’s  sleep  to-night 
Like  infant’s  slumbers,  pure  and  light! 


Come  near  and  bless  us  when  we  wake, 
Ere  through  the  world  our  way  we  take : 
Till,  in  the  ocean  of  Thy  love, 

We  lose  ourselves  in  Heaven  above ! 

John  Keble. 

- *o+ - 

Evening  Hymn. 

All  praise  to  Thee,  my  God,  this  night, 
For  all  the  blessings  of  the  light ; 

Keep  me,  oh  keep  me,  King  of  kings, 
Beneath  Thine  own  Almighty  wings ! 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  for  Thy  dear  Son, 

The  ill  that  I  this  day  have  done ; 

That  with  the  world,  myself,  and  Thee, 

I,  ere  I  sleep,  at  peace  may  be. 

Teach  me  to  live,  that  I  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  my  bed  ! 

To  die,  that  this  vile  body  may 
Rise  glorious  at  the  awful  day ! 

Oh  may  my  soul  on  Thee  repose  ; 

And  may  sweet  sleep  mine  eyelids  close ; 
Sleep,  that  may  me  more  vigorous  make 
To  serve  my  God  when  I  awake ! 

When  in  the  night  I  sleepless  lie, 

My  soul  with  heavenly  thoughts  supply ! 
Let  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest, 

No  powers  of  darkness  me  molest ! 

Dull  sleep,  of  sense  me  to  deprive ! 

I  am  but  half  my  time  alive : 

Thy  faithful  lovers,  Lord,  are  grieved 
To  lie  so  long  of  Thee  bereaved. 

But  though  sleep  o’er  my  frailty  reigns, 
Let  it  not  hold  me  long  in  chains  ! 

And  now  and  then  let  loose  my  heart, 
Till  it  an  hallelujah  dart ! 

The  faster  sleep  the  senses  binds, 

The  more  unfetter’d  are  our  minds ; 

Oh  may  my  soul,  from  matter  free, 

Thy  loveliness  unclouded  see  ! 

Oh  when  shall  I,  in  endless  day, 

For  ever  chase  dark  sleep  away, 

And  hymns  with  the  supernal  choir 
Incessant  sing,  and  never  tire  ? 

Oh  may  my  Guardian,  while  I  sleep, 
Close  to  my  bed  His  vigils  keep ; 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


His  love  angelical  instill ; 

Stop  all  the  avenues  of  ill : 

May  He  celestial  joy  rehearse, 

And  thought  to  thought  with  me  converse ; 

Or  in  my  stead,  all  the  night  long, 

Sing  to  my  God  a  grateful  song ! 

Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow, 

Praise  Him,  all  creatures  here  below ! 

Praise  Him  above,  ye  heavenly  host ! 

Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost! 

Thomas  Ken. 

- »o»  ■■  - 

Evening  Hymn 

Behold  the  sun,  that  seem’d  but  now 
Enthroned  overhead, 

Beginneth  to  decline  below 
The  globe  whereon  we  tread  ; 

And  he,  whom  yet  we  look  upon 
With  comfort  and  delight, 

Will  quite  depart  from  hence  anon, 

And  leave  us  to  the  night. 

Thus  time,  unheeded,  steals  away 
The  life'  which  Nature  gave  ; 

Thus  are  our  bodies  every  day 
Declining  to  the  grave  : 

Thus  from  us  all  those  pleasures  fly 
Whereon  we  set  our  heart  ; 

And  when  the  night  of  death  draws  nigh, 
Thus  will  they  all  depart. 

Lord  !  though  the  sun  forsake  our  sight, 
And  mortal  hopes  are  vain  ; 

Let  still  Thine  everlasting  light 
Within  our  souls  remain  ! 

And  in  the  nights  of  our  distress 
Vouchsafe  those  rays  divine, 

Which  from  the  Sun  of  Righteousness 
For  ever  brightly  shine  ! 

George  Wither. 

•O* - - 

Evening  Hymn 

The  night  is  come  ;  like  to  the  day, 
Depart  not  thou,  great  God,  away, 

Let  not  my  sins,  black  as  the  night, 
Eclipse  the  lustre  of  Thy  light. 

Keep  in  my  horizon  ;  for  to  me 
The  sun  makes  not  the  day,  but  Thee. 


Thou  whose  nature  cannot  sleep, 

On  my  temples  sentry  keep  : 

Guard  me  ’gainst  those  watchful  foes, 
Whose  eyes  are  open  while  mine  close. 
Let  no  dreams  my  head  infest 
But  such  as  Jacob’s  temples  blest. 

Whilst  I  do  rest,  my  soul  advance  ; 
Make  my  sleep  a  holy  trance  : 

That  I  may,  my  rest  being  wrought, 
Awake  into  some  holy  thought, 

And  with  as  active  vigor  run 
My  course,  as  doth  the  nimble  sun. 

Sleep  is  a  death ;  oh,  make  me  try, 

By  sleeping,  what  it  is  to  die  : 

And  as  gently  lay  my  head 
On  my  grave  as  now  my  bed. 

Howe’er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 
Awake  again  at  last  with  Thee. 

And  thus  assured,  behold  I  lie 
Securely,  or  to  wake  or  die. 

These  are  my  drowsy  days  ;  in  vain 
I  do  now  wake  to  sleep  again  : 

Oh,  come  that  hour  when  I  shall  never 

Sleep  thus  again,  but  wake  for  ever. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne. 

— - ♦<>• - - 

Evening  Hymn 

Sweet  Saviour  !  bless  us  ere  we  go ; 

Thy  word  into  our  minds  instill, 

And  make  our  lukewarm  hearts  to  glow 
With  lowlv  love  and  fervent  will ; 
Through  life’s  long  day  and  death’s  dark 
night, 

O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  light. 

The  day  is  done,  its  hours  have  run, 

And  Thou  hast  taken  count  of  all, — 
The  scanty  triumphs  grace  hath  won, 

The  broken  vow,  the  frequent  fall ; 
Through  life’s  long  day  and  death’s  dark 
night, 

O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  light. 

Grant  us,  dear  Lord,  from  evil  ways 
True  absolution  and  release, 

And  bless  us  more  than  in  past  days, 

With  purity  and  inward  peace  ; 

Through  life’s  long  day  and  death’s  dark 
night, 

0  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  light. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


557 


Do  more  than  pardon, — give  us  joy, 

Sweet  fear,  and  sober  liberty, 

And  loving  hearts  without  alloy, 

That  only  long  to  be  like  Thee; 

Through  life’s  long  day  and  death’s  dark 
night, 

O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  light. 

Labor  is  sweet,  for  Thou  hast  toil’d, 

And  care  is  light,  for  Thou  hast  cared : 
Let  not  our  works  with  self  be  soil’d, 

Nor  in  unsimple  ways  ensnared; 
Through  life’s  long  dav  and  death’s  dark 
night, 

0  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  light. 

For  all  we  love — the  poor,  the  sad, 

The  sinful — unto  Thee  we  call ; 

Oh  !  let  Thy  mercy  make  us  glad  ! 

Thou  art  our  Jesus  and  our  all; 

Through  life’s  long  day  and  death’s  dark 
night, 

O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  light. 

Sweet  Saviour !  bless  us  ;  night  is  come ; 

Through  all  its  watches  near  us  be  ; 

Good  angels  "watch  about  our  home, 

And  we  are  one  day  nearer  Thee. 
Through  life’s  long  day  and  death’s  dark 
night, 

O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  light. 

Frederick  William  Faber. 

•<>♦--  — - 

Abide  with  Me. 

Abide  with  me !  fast  falls  the  even-tide ; 
The  darkness  deepens ;  Lord,  with  me 
abide ! 

When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  oh  abide  with  me ! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life’s  little  day ; 
Earth’s  joys  grow  dim ;  its  glories  pass 
away ; 

Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see : 

0  Thou,  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me! 

Not  a  brief  glance  I  beg,  a  passing  word : 
But,  as  Thou  dwell’st  with  Thy  disciples, 
Lord, 

Familiar,  condescending,  patient,  free, 
Come,  not  to  sojourn,  but  abide,  with  me ! 


Come  not  in  terrors,  as  the  King  of  kings ; 

But  kind  and  good,  with  healing  in  Thy 
wings ; 

Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every  plea; 

Come,  Friend  of  sinners,  and  thus  ’bide 
with  me  ! 

Thou  on  my  head  in  early  youth  didst 
smile  ; 

And,  though  rebellious  and  perverse  mean¬ 
while, 

Thou  hast  not  left  me,  oft  as  I  left  Thee. 

On  to  the  close,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me  ! 

I  need  Thy  Presence  every  passing  hour ; 

What  but  Thy  grace  can  foil  the  Tempter’s 
power? 

Who  like  Thyself  my  guide  and  stay  can 
be  ? 

Through  cloud  and  sunshine,  oh  abide  with 
me! 

I  fear  no  foe,  with  Thee  at  hand  to  bless: 

Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bitter¬ 
ness  : 

Where  is  Death’s  sting?  where,  Grave,  thy 
victory? 

I  triumph  still,  if  Thou  abide  with  me ! 

Hold  then  Thy  cross  before  my  closing 

eyes ! 

Shine  through  the  gloom,  and  point  me  to 
the  skies ! 

Heaven’s  morning  breaks,  and  earth’s  vain 
shadows  flee ; 

In  life  and  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me  ! 

Henry  Francis  Lyte. 

- »o»  ■■ 

Midnight  Hymn. 

My  God,  now  I  from  sleep  awake, 

The  sole  possession  of  me  take  : 

From  midnight  terrors  me  secure, 

And  guard  my  heart  from  thoughts  impure ! 

Bless’d  angels  !  while  we  silent  lie, 

You  hallelujahs  sing  on  high  ; 

You  joyful  hymn  the  Ever-blest, 

Before  the  Throne,  and  never  rest. 

I  with  your  choir  celestial  join 

In  offering  up  a  hymn  divine  ; 

With  you  in  Heaven  I  hope  to  dwell, 

And  bid  the  night  and  world  farewell. 


558 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


My  soul,  when  I  shake  off  this  dust, 

Lord,  in  Thy  arms  I  will  entrust : 

Oh  make  me  Thy  peculiar  care  ; 

Some  mansion  for  my  soul  prepare  ! 

Give  me  a  place  at  Thy  saints’  feet, 

Or  some  fall’n  angel’s  vacant  seat ! 

I’ll  strive  to  sing  as  loud  as  they, 

Who  sit  above  in  brighter  day. 

Oh  may  I  always  ready  stand 
With  my  lamp  burning  in  my  hand : 

May  I  in  sight  of  Heaven  rejoice, 
Whene’er  I  hear  the  Bridegroom’s  voice  ! 

All  praise  to  Thee  in  light  array’d, 

Who  light  Thy  dwelling-place  hast  made  ; 
A  boundless  ocean  of  bright  beams 
From  Thy  all-glorious  Godhead  streams. 

The  Sun  in  its  meridian  height 
Is  very  darkness  in  Thy  sight ! 

My  soul  oh  lighten  and  inflame, 

W ith  thought  and  love  of  Thy  great  Name ! 

Bless’d  Jesu,  Thou,  on  Heaven  intent, 
Whole  nights  hast  in  devotion  spent ; 

But  I,  frail  creature,  soon  am  tired, 

And  all  my  zeal  is  soon  expired. 

My  soul,  how  canst  thou  weary  grow 
Of  antedating  bliss  below, 

In  sacred  hymns,  and  heavenly  love, 
Which  will  eternal  be  above  ? 

Shine  on  me,  Lord,  new  life  impart ! 

Fresh  ardors  kindle  in  my  heart ! 

One  ray  of  Thy  all-quickening  light 
Dispels  the  sloth  and  clouds  of  night. 

Lord,  lest  the  tempter  me  surprise, 

Watch  over  Thine  own  sacrifice  ! 

All  loose,  all  idle  thoughts  cast  out, 

And  make  my  very  dreams  devout ! 

Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow, 
Praise  Him,  all  creatures  here  below  ! 
Praise  Him  above,  ye  heavenly  host ; 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost ! 

Thomas  Ken. 

-  ■ 

Hymn. 

How  are  Thy  servants  blest,  0  Lord  ! 

How  sure  is  their  defence  ! 


Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  omnipotence. 

In  foreign  realms,  and  lands  remote, 
Supported  by  Thy  care, 

Through  burning  climes  I  pass’d  unhurt, 
And  breathed  in  tainted  air. 

Thy  mercy  sweeten’d  every  soil, 

Made  every  region  please  ; 

The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warm’d, 

And  smooth’d  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 

Think,  O  my  soul,  devoutly  think, 

How  with  affrighted  eyes 
Thou  saw’st  the  wide-extended  deep 
In  all  its  horrors  rise ! 

Confusion  dwelt  in  every  face, 

And  fear  in  every  heart, 

When  waves  on  waves,  and  gulfs  in  gulfs, 
O’ercame  the  pilot’s  art. 

Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  0  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free  ; 

Whilst  in  the  confidence  of  prayer 
My  soul  took  hold  on  Thee. 

For  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung, 
High  on  the  broken  wave  ; 

I  knew  Thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retired, 
Obedient  to  Thv  will ; 

The  sea,  that  roar’d  at  Thy  command, 

At  Thy  command  was  still. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  deaths, 
Thy  goodness  I’ll  adore — 

And  praise  Thee  for  Thy  mercies  past, 
And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

My  life,  if  Thou  preserv’st  my  life, 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be  ; 

And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 

Shall  join  my  soul  to  Thee. 

Joseph  Addison. 

- KX - 

Thanksgiving  Hymn. 

Come,  ye  thankful  people,  come, 

Raise  the  song  of  Harvest-PIome  ! 

All  is  safely  gather’d  in, 

Ere  the  winter-storms  begin  ; 


559 


“ PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS” 


God,  our  Maker,  doth  provide 
For  our  wants  to  be  supplied  ; 

Come  to  God’s  own  temple,  come, 
Raise  the  song  of  Harvest-Home  ! 

We  ourselves  are  God’s  own  field, 

Fruit  unto  His  praise  to  yield  ; 

Wheat  and  tares  together  sown, 

Unto  joy  or  sorrow  grown  : 

First  the  blade,  and  then  the  ear, 

Then  the  full  corn  shall  appear  : 

Grant,  0  harvest  Lord,  that  we 
Wholesome  grain  and  pure  may  be  ! 

For  the  Lord  our  God  shall  come, 

And  shall  take  His  harvest  home  ; 
From  His  field  shall  purge  away 
Ail  that  doth  offend,  that  day ; 

Give  His  Angels  charge  at  last 
In  the  fire  the  tares  to  cast, 

But  the  fruitful  ears  to  store 
In  His  garner  evermore. 

Then,  thou  Church  triumphant,  come, 
Raise  the  song  of  Harvest-Home  ! 

All  are  safely  gather’d  in, 

Free  from  sorrow,  free  from  sin  ; 

There  for  ever  purified, 

In  God’s  garner  to  abide  : 

Come,  ten  thousand  Angels,  come, 
Raise  the  glorious  Harvest-Home  ! 

Henry  Alford. 


A  Thanksgiving  to  God  for 
His  House. 

Lord,  Thou  hast  given  me  a  cell, 

Wherein  to  dwell ; 

A  little  house,  whose  humble  roof 
Is  weather-proof ; 

Under  the  sparres  of  which  I  lie 
Both  soft  and  drie ; 

Where  Thou,  my  chamber  for  to  ward, 
Hath  set  a  guard 

Of  harmlesse  thoughts,  to  watch  and  keep 
Me  while  I  sleep. 

Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  fate ; 

Both  void  of  state ; 

And  yet  the  threshold  of  my  doore 
Is  worn  by  th’  poore, 

Who  thither  come  and  freely  get 
Good  words  or  meat. 


Like  as  my  parlour,  so  my  hall 

And  kitchin’s  small ; 

A  little  butterie,  and  therein 
A  little  byn, 

Which  keeps  my  little  loafe  of  bread 
Unchipt,  unflead; 

Some  brittle  sticks  of  thorne  or  brier 
Make  me  a  fire, 

Close  by  whose  living  coale  I  sit, 

And  glow  like  it. 

Lord,  I  confesse  too,  when  I  dine, 

The  pulse  is  Thine, 

And  all  those  other  bits  that  bee 

There  placed  by  Thee ; 

The  worts,  the  purslain,  and  the  messe 
Of  water-cresse, 

Which  of  Thy  kindnesse  Thou  hast  sent ; 
And  my  content 

Makes  those,  and  my  beloved  beet, 

To  be  more  sweet. 

’Tis  Thou  that  crown’st  my  glittering  hearth 
With  guiltlesse  mirth, 

And  giv’st  me  wassaile  bowles  to  drink, 
Spiced  to  the  brink. 

Lord,  ’tis  Thy  plenty-dropping  hand, 

That  soiles  my  land, 

And  giv’st  me,  for  my  bushell  sowne, 
Twice  ten  for  one  ; 

Thou  mak’st  my  teeming  hen  to  lay 
Her  egg  each  day ; 

Besides  my  healthful  ewes  to  bear 
Me  twins  each  yeare  ; 

The  while  the  conduits  of  my  kine 
Run  creame,  for  wine : 

All  these,  and  better  Thou  dost  send 
Me,  to  this  end, 

That  I  should  render,  for  my  part, 

A  thankfull  heart ; 

Which,  fired  with  incense,  I  resigne, 

As  wholly  Thine; 

But  the  acceptance,  that  must  be, 

My  Christ,  by  Thee. 

Robert  Herrick. 

- *0* - 

For  Ne  W-  YEAR'S  DA  Y. 

Eternal  source  of  every  joy, 

Well  may  Thy  praise  our  lips  employ, 
While  in  Thy  temple  we  appear, 

Whose  goodness  crowns  the  circling  year. 

The  flowery  spring  at  Thy  command 
Embalms  the  air  and  paints  the  land ; 


5G0 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  summer  rays  with  vigor  shine, 

To  raise  the  corn,  and  cheer  the  vine. 

Thy  hand  in  autumn  richly  pours 
Through  all  our  coasts  redundant  stores, 
And  winters,  soften’d  by  Thy  care, 

No  more  a  face  of  horror  wear. 

Seasons  and  months  and  weeks  and  days 
Demand  successive  songs  of  praise  ; 

Still  be  the  cheerful  homage  paid 
With  opening  light  and  evening  shade  ! 

Oh  !  may  our  more  harmonious  tongues 
In  worlds  unknown  pursue  the  songs  ; 
And  in  those  brighter  courts  adore, 
Where  days  and  years  revolve  no  more  ! 

Philip  Doddridge. 

— - - 

Sun  da  y. 

O  DAY  most  calm,  most  bright ! 

The  fruit  of  this,  the  next  world’s  bud  ; 
The  indorsement  of  supreme  delight, 
Writ  by  a  Friend,  and  with  His  blood ; 
The  couch  of  time,  care’s  balm  and  bay, 
The  week  were  dark  but  for  thy  light ; 
Thy  torch  doth  show  the  way. 

The  other  days  and  thou 
Make  up  one  man,  whose  face  thou  art, 
Knocking  at  heaven  with  thy  brow  : 

The  working  days  are  the  back  part, 

The  burden  of  the  week  lies  there, 
Making  the  w7hole  to  stoop  and  bow, 

Till  thy  release  appear. 

Man  had  straightforward  gone 
To  endless  death  ;  but  thou  dost  pull 
And  turn  us  round  to  look  on  One, 
Whom,  if  we  wrere  not  very  dull, 

We  could  not  choose  but  look  on  still, 
Since  there  is  no  place  so  alone, 

The  which  He  doth  not  fill ! 

Sundays  the  pillars  are 
On  which  heaven’s  palace  arched  lies : 
The  other  days  fill  up  the  spare 
And  hollow7  room  with  vanities ; 

They  are  the  fruitful  beds  and  borders 
Of  God’s  rich  garden  ;  that  is  bare, 
Which  parts  their  ranks  and  orders. 

The  Sundays  of  man’s  life, 

Threaded  together  on  time’s  string, 


Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife  • 

Of  the  eternal  glorious  King ; 

On  Sunday  heaven’s  gate  stands  ope; 
Blessings  are  plentiful  and  rife, 

More  plentiful  than  hope. 

This  day  my  Saviour  rose, 

And  did  enclose  this  light  for  His, 

That,  as  each  beast  his  manger  knowrs, 
Man  might  not  of  his  fodder  miss ; 

Christ  hath  took  in  this  piece  of  ground, 
And  made  a  garden  there  for  those 
Who  wrant  herbs  for  their  wound. 

The  rest  of  our  creation 
Our  great  Redeemer  did  remove 
With  the  same  shake,  which  at  His  passion 
Did  th’  earth,  and  all  things  with  it,  move: 
As  Samson  bore  the  doors  away, 

Christ’s  hands,  though  nail’d,  wrought  our 
salvation, 

And  did  unhinge  that  day. 

The  brightness  of  that  day 
We  sullied  by  our  foul  offence; 

Wherefore  that  robe  we  cast  away, 

Having  a  new  at  His  expense, 

Whose  drops  of  blood  paid  the  full  price 
That  was  required  to  make  us  gay 
And  fit  for  Paradise. 

George  Herbert. 

- ...  .. 

Son-Da  yes. 

Bpight  shadows  of  true  rest !  some  shoots 
of  blisse ; 

Heaven  once  a  week  ; 

The  next  world’s  gladnesse  prepossest  in 
this  ; 

A  day  to  seek  : 

Eternity  in  time  ;  the  steps  by  which 
We  climb  above  all  ages;  lamps  that 
light 

Man  through  his  heap  of  dark  days  ;  and 
the  rich 

And  full  redemption  of  the  wdiole  week’s 
flight ! 

The  pulleys  unto  headlong  man  ;  time’s 
bower ; 

The  narrow  way  ; 

Transplanted  paradise ;  God’s  walking 
houre  ; 

The  cool  o’  th’  day  ! 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


561 


The  creature’s  jubile  ;  God’s  parle  with 
dust ; 

Heaven  here ;  man  on  those  hills  of  myrrh 
and  flowres  ; 

Angels  descending  ;  the  returns  of  trust ; 
A  gleam  of  glory  after  six-days  showres  ! 

The  Churche’s  love-feasts  ;  time’s  prerog¬ 
ative 

And  interest 

Deducted  from  the  whole ;  the  combs  and 
hive, 

And  home  of  rest. 

The  milky-way  chalkt  out  with  suns ;  a 
clue, 

That  guides  through  erring  hours  ;  and 
in  full  story 

A  taste  of  heav’n  on  earth ;  the  pledge 
and  cue 

Of  a  full  feast !  and  the  out-courts  of 
glory. 

Henry  Vaughan. 

■  -■  >o» - 

Sabbath  Chimes. 

There’s  music  in  the  morning  air, 

A  holy  voice  and. sweet, 

Far  calling  to  the  house  of  prayer 
The  humblest  peasant’s  feet. 

From  hill,  and  vale,  and  distant  moor, 
Long  as  the  chime  is  heard, 

Each  cottage  sends  its  tenants  poor 
For  God’s  enriching  word. 

Where’er  the  British  power  hath  trod, 
The  cross  of  faith  ascends, 

And,  like  a  radiant  arch  of  God, 

The  light  of  Scripture  bends  ! 

Deep  in  the  forest  wilderness 
The  wood-built  church  is  known  ; 

A  sheltering  wing,  in  man’s  distress, 
Spread  like  the  Saviour’s  own  ! 

The  warrior  from  his  armkd  tent, 

The  seaman  from  his  tide, 

Far  as  the  Sabbath  chimes  are  sent 
In  Christian  nations  wide, — 
Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  bring 
Their  sorrows  to  His  shrine, 

And  taste  the  never-failing  spring 
Of  Jesus’  love  divine! 

if,  at  an  earthly  chime,  the  tread 

Of  million,  million  feet 
36 


Approach  whene’er  the  Gospel’s  read 
In  God’s  own  temple  seat, 

How  blest  the  sight,  from  death’s  dark 
sleep 

To  see  God’s  saints  arise ; 

And  countless  hosts  of  angels  keep 
The  Sabbath  of  the  skies  ! 

Charles  Swain- 

——♦04 - 

To  Thy  Temple  I  Repair. 

To  Thy  temple  I  repair ; 

Lord,  I  love  to  worship  there  ; 

When  within  the  veil  I  meet 
Christ  before  the  mercy-seat. 

Thou,  through  Him,  art  reconciled; 

I,  through  Him,  became  Thy  child  ; 
Abba,  Father  !  give  me  grace 
In  Thy  courts  to  seek  Thy  face  ! 

While  Thy  glorious  praise  is  sung, 
Touch  my  lips,  unloose  my  tongue, 
That  my  joyful  soul  may  bless 
Thee,  the  Lord  my  Righteousness  ! 

While  the  prayers  of  saints  ascend, 
God  of  love  !  to  mine  attend  ! 

Hear  me,  for  Thy  Spirit  pleads  ; 

Hear,  for  Jesus  intercedes  ! 

While  I  hearken  to  Thy  law, 

Fill  my  soul  with  humble  awe ; 

Till  Thy  Gospel  bring  to  me 
Life  and  immortality  : 

While  Thy  ministers  proclaim 
Peace  and  pardon  in  Thy  Name, 
Through  their  voice,  by  faith,  may  I 
Hear  Thee  speaking  from  the  sky  ! 

From  Thy  house  when  I  return, 

May  my  heart  within  me  burn  ; 

And  at  evening  let  me  say, 

I  have  walk’d  with  God  to-day  ! 

James  Montgomery. 


Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXII I. 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
And  feed  me  with  a  Shepherd’s  care ; 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye ; 
My  noonday  walks  He  shall  attend, 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint, 

Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant, 

To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads 
My  weary,  wandering  steps  He  leads, 
Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow, 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread, 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread, 

My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill, 

For  Thou,  O  Lord,  art  with  me  still ; 

Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid, 

And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

Though  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way, 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 

Thy  bounty  shall  my  wants  beguile ; 

The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile, 

With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crown’d, 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. 

Joseph  Addison. 

- K>« - 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIII. 

Happy  me !  O  happy  sheep 
Whom  my  God  vouchsafes  to  keep ; 
Even  my  God,  even  He  it  is 
That  points  me  to  these  ways  of  bliss ; 
On  whose  pastures  cheerful  Spring 
All  the  year  doth  sit  and  sing, 

And,  rejoicing,  smiles  to  see 
Their  green  backs  wear  His  livery. 
When  my  wayward  breath  is  flying 
He  calls  home  my  soul  from  dying, 
Strokes  and  tames  my  rabid  grief, 

And  does  woo  me  into  life: 

When  my  simple  weakness  strays, 
Tangled  in  forbidden  ways, 

He,  my  Shepherd,  is  my  guide, 

He’s  before  me,  on  my  side, 

And  behind  me,  He  beguiles 
Craft  in  all  her  knotty  wiles  : 

He  expounds  the  giddy  wonder 
Of  my  weary  steps,  and  under 
Spreads  a  path  clear  as  the  day, 

Where  no  churlish  rub  says  nay 
To  my  joy-conducted  feet, 

Whilst  they  gladly  go  to  meet 
Grace  and  Peace,  to  meet  new  lays 
Tuned  to  my  great  Shepherd’s  praise. 
Come  now,  all  ye  terrors,  sally, 

Muster  forth  into  the  valley, 


Where  triumphant  darkness  hovers 
With  a  sable  wing,  that  covers 
Brooding  horror.  Come  then,  Deaths 
Let  the  damps  of  thy  dull  breath 
Overshadow  even  the  shade, 

And  make  Darkness’  self  afraid ; 

There  my  feet,  even  there,  shall  find 
Way  for  a  resolved  mind. 

Still  my  Shepherd,  still  my  God, 

Thou  art  with  me ;  still  thy  rod, 

And  thy  staff,  whose  influence 
Gives  direction,  gives  defence. 

At  the  whisper  of  Thy  word 
Crown’d  abundance  spreads  my  board  : 
How  my  head  in  ointment  swims  ! 

How  my  cup  o’erlooks  her  brims  ! 

So,  even  so  still  may  I  move 

By  the  line  of  Thy  dear  love ; 

•/  •/  • 

Still  may  Thy  sweet  mercy  spread 
A  shady  arm  above  my  head, 

About  my  paths  ;  so  shall  I  find 
The  fair  centre  of  my  mind, 

Thy  temple;  and  those  lovely  walls 
Bright  ever  with  a  beam  that  falls 
Fresh  from  the  pure  glance  of  Thine  eye, 
Lighting  to  Eternity. 

There  I’ll  dwell  for  ever,  there 

Will  I  find  a  purer  air 

To  feed  my  life  with,  there  I’ll  sup, 

Balm  and  nectar  in  my  cup, 

And  thence  my  ripe  soul  will  I  breathe 
Warm  into  the  arms  of  Death. 

Richard  Crashaw. 

■  •<>»  ■ 

Thy  Goodness,  Lord,  our  Souls 
Confess. 

Thy  goodness,  Lord,  our  souls  confess, 
Thy  goodness  we  adore  ; 

A  spring,  whose  blessings  never  fail, 

A  sea  without  a  shore. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  Thy  love  attest 
In  every  cheerful  ray ; 

Love  draws  the  curtains  of  the  night, 
And  love  restores  the  day. 

Thy  bounty  every  season  crowns 
With  all  the  bliss  it  yields, 

With  joyful  clusters  bend  the  vines, 

With  harvests  wrave  the  fields. 

But  chiefly  Thy  compassions,  Lord, 

Are  in  the  Gospel  seen  ; 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


563 


There,  like  the  sun,  Thv  mercy  shines 

Without  a  cloud  between. 

Thomas  Gibbons. 

- +o«  - ■  ' 

Baptismal  Hymn. 

In  token  that  thou  shalt  not  fear 
Christ  crucified  to  own, 

We  print  the  cross  upon  thee  here, 

And  stamp  thee  His  alone. 

In  token  that  thou  shalt  not  blush 
To  glory  in  His  name, 

We  blazon  here  upon  thy  front 
His  glory  and  His  shame. 

In  token  that  thou  shalt  not  flinch 
Christ’s  quarrel  to  maintain, 

But  ’neath  His  banner  manfully 
Firm  at  thy  post  remain  ; 

In  token  that  thou  too  shalt  tread 
The  path  He  travell’d  by, 

Endure  the  cross,  despise  the  shame, 
And  sit  thee  down  on  high  ; 

Thus,  outwardly  and  visibly, 

We  seal  thee  for  His  own, 

And  may  the  brow  that  wears  His  cross 
Hereafter  share  His  crown  ! 

Henry  Alford. 

•o* - 

Fountain  of  Mercy /  God  of 
LOVE! 

Fountain  of  mercy !  God  of  love ! 

How  rich  Thy  bounties  are ! 

The  rolling  seasons,  as  they  move, 
Proclaim  Thy  constant  care. 

When  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth 
The  sower  hid  the  grain, 

Thy  goodness  mark’d  its  secret  birth, 
And  sent  the  early  rain. 

The  spring’s  sweet  influence  was  Thine, 
The  plants  in  beauty  grew  ; 

Thou  gavest  refulgent  suns  to  shine, 
And  mild,  refreshing  dew. 

These  various  mercies  from  above 
Matured  the  swelling  grain, 

A  yellow  harvest  crowns  Thy  love, 

And  plenty  fills  the  plain. 


Seed-time  and  harvest,  Lord,  alone 
Thou  dost  on  man  bestow ; 

Let  him  not  then  forget  to  own 
From  Whom  his  blessings  flow! 

Fountain  of  love!  our  praise  is  Thine; 

To  Thee  our  songs  we’ll  raise, 

And  all  created  Nature  join 
In  sweet  harmonious  praise ! 

Anne  Flowerdew. 

- +<>• 

What  is  Prayer ? 

Prayer  is  the  soul’s  sincere  desire, 
Utter’d  or  unexpress’d  ; 

The  motion  of  a  hidden  fire 
That  trembles  in  the  breast. 

Prayer  is  the  burthen  of  a  sigh, 

The  falling  of  a  tear, 

The  upward  glancing  of  the  eye, 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 
That  infant  lips  can  try  ; 

Prayer  the  sublimest  strains  that  reach 
The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner’s  voice 
Returning  from  his  ways, 

While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice, 
And  cry,  Behold,  he  prays ! 

Praver  is  the  Christian’s  vital  breath. 
The  Christian’s  native  air  ; 

His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death  ; 
He  enters  heaven  with  prayer. 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one 
In  word,  and  deed,  and  mind  ; 

While  with  the  Father  and  the  Son 
Sweet  fellowship  they  find. 

Nor  prayer  is  made  by  man  alone : 

The  Holy  Spirit  pleads  ; 

And  Jesus,  on  the  eternal  Throne, 

For  mourners  intercedes. 

O  Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God  ! 

The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way  ! 

The  path  of  prayer  Thyself  hast  trod  : 
Lord  !  teach  us  how  to  pray  ! 

James  Montgomery. 

•O*  -  - 


564 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Hour  of  Prayer. 

Child,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play, 
While  the  red  light  fades  away  : 
Mother,  with  thine  earnest  eye 
Ever  following  silently : 

Father,  by  the  breeze  of  eve 
Call’d  thy  harvest-work  to  leave, — 
Pray !  ere  yet  the  dark  hours  be, 

Lift  the  heart,  and  bend  the  knee. 

Traveller  in  the  stranger’s  land, 

Far  from  thine  own  household  band : 
Mourner,  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  a  voice  from  this  world  gone  : 
Captive,  in  whose  narrow  cell 
Sunshine  hath  not  leave  to  dwell : 
Sailor,  on  the  darkening  sea, 

Lift  the  heart,  and  bend  the  knee. 

Warrior,  that  from  battle  won 
Breathest  now  at  set  of  sun  ; 

Woman,  o’er  the  lowly  slain, 
Weeping  on  his  burial-plain  : 

Ye  that  triumph,  ye  that  sigh, 
Kindred  by  one  holy  tie, 

Heaven’s  first  star  alike  ye  see, 

Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 

- »o« - 

Hear  my  Prayer ,  0  Heavenly 
Father. 

Hear  my  prayer,  O  Heavenly  Father, 
Ere  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep  : 

Bid  Thy  angels,  pure  and  holy, 

Bound  my  bed  their  vigil  keep. 

Great  my  sins  are,  but  Thy  mercy 
Far  outweighs  them  every  one  : 

Down  before  Thy  cross  I  cast  them 
Trusting  in  Thy  help  alone. 

Keep  me,  through  this  night  of  peril, 
Underneath  its  boundless  shade  ; 
Take  me  to  Thy  rest,  I  pray  Thee, 
When  my  pilgrimage  is  made  ! 

None  shall  measure  out  Thy  patience 
By  the  span  of  human  thought ; 
None  shall  bound  the  tender  mercies 
Which  Thy  Holy  Son  hath  wrought. 


Pardon  all  my  past  transgressions ; 

Give  me  strength  for  days  to  come  ; 
Guide  and  guard  me  with  Thy  blessing, 

Till  Thine  angels  bid  me  home  ! 

Harriet  T.  Parr, 


Nearer ,  my  God ,  to  Thee. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee  ! 

E’en  though  it  be  a  cross 
That  raiseth  me ; 

Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee  ! 

Though  like  the  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down, 

Darkness  be  over  me, 

My  rest  a  stone  ; 

Yet  in  my  dreams  Pd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 
Steps  unto  Heaven ; 

All  that  Thou  send’st  to  me 
In  mercy  given  ; 

Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee ! 

Then,  with  my  waking  thoughts 
Bright  with  Thy  praise, 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
Bethel  I’ll  raise ; 

So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee  ! 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing 
Cleaving  the  sky, 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 
Upward  I  fly, 

Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee ! 

Sarah  Flower  Adams. 


Walking  with  God. 

Gen.  v.  24. 

Oh  for  a  closer  walk  with  God, 
A  calm  and  heavenly  frame ! 


“ PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


565 


A  light  to  shine  upon  the  road 
That  leads  me  to  the  Lamb ! 

Where  is  the  blessedness  I  knew 
When  first  I  saw  the  Lord  ? 

Where  is  the  soul-refreshing  view 
Of  Jesus  and  His  word  ? 

What  peaceful  hours  I  once  enjoy’d  ! 
How  sweet  their  memory  still ! 

But  they  have  left  an  aching  void 
The  world  can  never  fill. 

Return,  O  holy  Dove  !  return, 

Sweet  messenger  of  rest ! 

I  hate  the  sins  that  made  Thee  mourn, 
And  drove  Thee  from  my  breast. 

The  dearest  idol  I  have  known, 
Whate’er  that  idol  be, 

Help  me  to  tear  it  from  Thy  throne, 
And  worship  only  Thee ! 

So  shall  my  walk  be  close  with  God, 
Calm  and  serene  my  frame  ; 

So  purer  light  shall  mark  the  road 
That  leads  me  to  the  Lamb  ! 

William  Cowper. 

- K>« - 

God. 

Thou  hast  made  me,  and  shall  Thy  work 
decay  ? 

Repair  me  now,  for  now  mine  end  doth 
haste ; 

I  run  to  death,  and  death  meets  me  as 
fast, 

And  all  my  pleasures  are  like  yesterday. 

I  dare  not  move  my  dim  eyes  any  way, 

Despair  behind,  and  death  before  doth 
cast 

Such  terror;  and  my  feeble  flesh  doth 
waste 

By  sin  in  it,  which  it  towards  hell  doth 
weigh. 

Only  Thou  art  above,  and  when  towards 
Thee 

By  Thy  leave  I  can  look,  I  rise  again ; 

But  our  old  subtle  foe  so  tempteth  me, 

That  not  one  hour  myself  I  can  sustain  : 

Thy  grace  may  wing  me  to  prevent  His  art, 

And  Thou  like  adamant  draw  mine  iron 
heart. 


The  Inner  Calm. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 
While  these  hot  breezes  blow  ; 

Be  like  the  night-dew’s  cooling  balm 
Upon  earth’s  fever’d  brow  ! 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 

Soft  resting  on  Thy  breast ; 

Soothe  me  with  holy  hymn  and  psalm, 
And  bid  my  spirit  rest. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm ; 

Let  Thine  outstretched  wing 
Be  like  the  shade  of  Elim's  palm 
Beside  her  desert  spring. 

Yes  ;  keep  me  calm,  though  loud  and  rude 
The  sounds  my  ear  that  greet ; 

Calm  in  the  closet’s  solitude, 

Calm  in  the  bustling  street ; 

Calm  in  the  hour  of  buoyant  health, 

Calm  in  my  hour  of  pain  ; 

Calm  in  my  poverty  or  wealth, 

Calm  in  my  loss  or  gain  ; 

Calm  in  the  sufferance  of  wrong, 

Like  Him  who  bore  my  shame ; 

Calm  ’mid  the  threatening,  taunting  throng 
Who  hate  Thy  holy  Name  ; 

Calm  when  the  great  world’s  news  with 
power 

My  listening  spirit  stir  : 

Let  not  the  tidings  of  the  hour 
E’er  find  too  fond  an  ear  ; 

Calm  as  the  ray  of  sun  or  star, 

Which  storms  assail  in  vain, 

Moving  unruffled  through  earth’s  war 
Tli’  eternal  calm  to  gain  ! 

Horatius  Bonar. 

- -O* - 

Resign  a  tion. 

0  God  !  whose  thunder  shakes  the  sky, 
Whose  eye  this  atom-globe  surveys, 

To  Thee,  my  only  rock,  I  fly, — 

Thy  mercy  in  Thy  justice  praise. 

The  mystic  mazes  of  Thy  will, 

The  shadows  of  celestial  night, 

Are  past  the  power  of  human  skill ; 

But  what  the  Eternal  acts  is  right. 


John  Donne. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Oh  teach  me,  in  the  trying  hour — 

When  anguish  swells  the  dewy  tear — 

To  still  my  sorrows,  own  Thy  power, 

Thy  goodness  love,  Thy  justice  fear. 

If  in  this  bosom  aught  but  Thee, 

Encroaching,  sought  a  boundless  sway, 

Omniscience  could  the  danger  see, 

And  mercy  look  the  cause  away. 

Then  why,  my  soul,  dost  thou  complain — 
Why  drooping  seek  the  dark  recess  ? 

Shake  off  the  melancholy  chain  ; 

For  God  created  all  to  bless. 

But  ah  !  my  breast  is  human  still ; 

The  rising  sigh,  the  falling  tear, 

My  languid  vitals’  feeble  rill, 

The  sickness  of  my  soul  declare. 

But  yet,  with  fortitude  resign’d, 

I’ll  thank  the  inflictor  of  the  bldw — 

Forbid  the  sigh,  compose  my  mind, 

Nor  let  the  gush  of  misery  flow. 

The  gloomy  mantle  of  the  night, 

Which  on  my  sinking  spirit  steals, 

Will  vanish  at  the  morning  light, 

Which  God,  my  east,  my  sun,  reveals. 

Thomas  Chatterton. 

- K>« - 

Resign  a  tion. 

Lord,  it  belongs  not  to  my  care 
Whether  I  die  or  live: 

To  love  and  serve  Thee  is  my  share, 

And  this  Thy  grace  must  give. 

If  life  be  long,  I  will  be  glad, 

That  I  may  long  obey  ; 

If  short,  yet  why  should  I  be  sad 
To  soar  to  endless  day? 

Christ  leads  me  through  no  darker  rooms 
Than  He  went  through  before ; 

He  that  into  God’s  kingdom  comes 
Must  enter  by  His  door. 

Come,  Lord,  when  grace  has  made  me 
meet 

Thy  blessed  face  to  see  ; 

For  if  Thy  work  on  earth  be  sweet, 

What  will  Thy  glory  be? 

Then  shall  I  end  my  sad  complaints, 

And  weary,  sinful  days ; 


And  join  with  the  triumphant  saints, 
That  sing  Jehovah’s  praise. 

My  knowledge  of  that  life  is  small, 

The  eye  of  faith  is  dim  ; 

But  ’tis  enough  that  Christ  knows  all, 
And  I  shall  be  with  Him. 

Richard  Baxter. 


Thy  Will  be  Done. 

My  God  and  Father,  while  I  stray 
Far  from  my  home,  on  life’s  rough  way, 
Oh  teach  me  from  my  heart  to  say, 

Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Though  dark  my  path  and  sad  my  lot. 
Let  me  be  still  and  murmur  not, 

Or  breathe  the  prayer  divinely  taught, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

What  though  in  lonely  grief  I  sigh 
For  friends  beloved,  no  longer  nigh, 
Submissive  still  would  I  reply, 

Thy  will  be  done ! 

Though  Thou  hast  call’d  me  to  resign 
What  most  I  prized,  it  ne’er  was  mine ; 

I  have  but  yielded  what  was  Thine  ; 

Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Should  grief  or  sickness  waste  away 
My  life  in  premature  decay, 

My  Father!  still  I  strive  to  say, 

Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Let  but  my  fainting  heart  be  blest 
With  Thy  sweet  Spirit  for  its  guest, 

My  God,  to  Thee  I  leave  the  rest; 

Thy  will  be  done ! 

Renew  my  will  from  day  to  day ; 

Blend  it  with  Thine  ;  and  take  away 
All  that  now  makes  it  hard  to  say, 

Thy  will  be  done ! 

Then,  when  on  earth  I  breathe  no  more 
The  prayer,  oft  mix’d  with  tears  before, 
I’ll  sing  upon  a  happier  shore, 

Thy  will  be  done ! 

Charlotte  Elliott. 

- *0* - 

The  Will  of  God. 

I  worship  thee,  sweet  Will  of  God ! 
And  all  Thy  ways  adore, 


“ PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


567 


And  every  day  I  live  I  seem 
To  love  Thee  more  and  more. 

Thou  wert  the  end,  the  blessed  rule 
Of  our  Saviour’s  toils  and  tears ; 

Thou  wert  the  passion  of  His  heart 
Those  three-and-thirty  years. 

And  He  hath  breathed  into  my  soul 
A  special  love  of  Thee, 

A  love  to  lose  my  will  in  His, 

And  by  that  loss  be  free. 

I  love  to  see  Thee  bring  to  naught 
The  plans  of  wily  men  ; 

When  simple  hearts  outwit  the  wise, 

Oh,  Thou  art  loveliest  then  ! 

The  headstrong  world,  it  presses  hard 
Upon  the  Church  full  oft, 

And  then  how  easily  Thou  turn’st 
The  hard  ways  into  soft ! 

I  love  to  kiss  each  print  where  Thou 
Hast  set  Thine  unseen  feet : 

I  cannot  fear  Thee,  blessed  Will ! 

*  Thine  empire  is  so  sweet. 

When  obstacles  and  trials  seem 
Like  prison-walls  to  be, 

I  do  the  little  I  can  do, 

And  leave  the  rest  to  Thee. 

I  know  not  what  it  is  to  doubt; 

My  heart  is  ever  gay ; 

I  run  no  risk,  for  come  what  will 
Thou  always  hast  Thy  way. 

I  have  no  cares,  O  blessed  Will ! 

For  all  my  cares  are  Thine; 

I  live  in  triumph,  Lord  ;  for  Thou 
Hast  made  Thy  triumphs  mine. 

And  when  it  seems  no  chance  or  change 
From  grief  can  set  me  free, 

Hope  finds  its  strength  in  helplessness, 
And  gayly  waits  on  Thee. 

Man’s  weakness  waiting  upon  God 
Its  end  can  never  miss, 

For  men  on  earth  no  work  can  do 
More  angel-like  than  this. 

Ride  on,  ride  on,  triumphantly, 

Thou  glorious  Will !  ride  on  ; 

Faith’s  pilgrim  sons  behind  Thee  take 
The  road  that  Thou  hast  gone. 

He  always  wins  who  sides  with  God, 

To  him  no  chance  is  lost ; 


God’s  Will  is  sweetest  to  him  when 
It  triumphs  at  his  cost. 

Ill  that  He  blesses  is  our  good, 

And  unblest  good  is  ill ; 

And  all  is  right  that  seems  most  wrong, 

If  it  be  His  sweet  Will ! 

Frederick  William  Faber. 

- - 

Thy  Will  be  Done. 

Father,  I  know  that  all  my  life 
Is  portion’d  out  for  me, 

And  the  changes  that  are  sure  to  come 
I  do  not  fear  to  see ; 

But  I  ask  Thee  for  a  present  mind, 
Intent  on  pleasing  Thee. 

I  ask  Thee  for  a  thoughtful  love, 
Through  constant  watching  wise, 

To  meet  the  glad  with  joyful  smiles. 
And  wipe  the  weeping  eyes  ; 

And  a  heart  at  leisure  from  itself, 

To  soothe  and  sympathize. 

I  would  not  have  the  restless  will 
That  hurries  to  and  fro  ; 

Seeking  for  some  great  thing  to  do. 

Or  secret  thing  to  know: 

I  would  be  treated  as  a  child, 

And  guided  where  I  go. 

Wherever  in  the  world  I  am, 

In  whatsoe’er  estate, 

I  have  a  fellowship  with  hearts 
To  keep  and  cultivate, 

And  a  work  of  lowly  love  to  do, 

For  the  Lord  on  whom  I  wait. 

So  I  ask  Thee  for  the  daily  strength 
To  none  that  ask  denied, 

And  a  mind  to  blend  with  outward  life 
While  keeping  at  Thy  side  ; 

Content  to  fill  a  little  space, 

If  Thou  be  glorified. 

And  if  some  things  I  do  not  ask 
In  my  cup  of  blessing  be, 

I  would  have  my  spirit  fill’d  the  more 
With  grateful  love  to  Thee  ; 

More  careful,  not  to  serve  Thee  much, 
But  to  please  Thee  perfectly. 

There  are  briers  besetting  every  path, 
That  call  for  patient  care  ; 


568 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


There  is  a  cross  in  every  lot, 

And  an  earnest  need  for  prayer  ; 

But  a  lowly  heart,  that  leans  on  Thee, 

Is  happy  anywhere. 

In  a  service  which  Thy  will  appoints 
There  are  no  bonds  for  me  ; 

For  my  inmost  heart  is  taught  the  Truth 
That  makes  Thy  children  free  ; 

And  a  life  of  self-renouncing  love 
Is  a  life  of  liberty. 

Anna  L^etitia  Waring. 


Thy  Will  be  Done. 

We  see  not,  know  not;  all  our  way 
Is  night, — with  Thee  alone  is  day  : 
From  out  the  torrent’s  troubled  drift, 
Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we  lift, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may  faint, 
But  who  are  we  to  make  complaint, 

Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like  these, 
The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease? 

Thy  will  be  done  ! 

We  take  with  solemn  thankfulness 
Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 

And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait  for  Thee, 
Whose  will  be  done  ! 

Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and  line, 

We  trace  Thy  picture’s  wise  design, 
And  thank  Thee  that  our  age  supplies 
Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 

Thy  will  be  done  ! 

And  if,  in  our  unworthiness, 

Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press  ; 

If  from  Thy  ordeal’s  heated  bars 
Our  feet  are  seam’d  with  crimson  scars, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 

And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain 
Be  Liberty’s  eternal  gain, 

Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy  keys, 
The  anthem  of  the  destinies! 


The  minor  of  Thy  loftier  strain, 

Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

- »o» - 

Just  as  I  am. 

Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea 
But  that  Thy  Blood  was  shed  for  me, 

And  that  Thou  bidd’st  me  come  to  Thee, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come ! 

Just  as  I  am,  and  waiting  not 
To  rid  my  soul  of  one  dark  blot, 

To  Thee,  whose  Blood  can  cleanse  each 
spot, 

0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am,  though  toss’d  about 
With  many  a  conflict,  many  a  doubt, 
Fightings  and  fears  within,  without, 

0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come ! 

Just  as  I  am,  poor,  wretched,  blind, 

Sight,  riches,  healing  of  the  mind, 

Yea,  all  I  need,  in  Thee  to  find, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come ! 

Just  as  I  am,  Thou  wilt  receive, 

Wilt  welcome,  pardon,  cleanse,  relieve! 
Because  Thy  promise  I  believe, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come ! 

Just  as  I  am  (Thy  Love  unknown 
Has  broken  every  barrier  down), 

Now,  to  be  Thine,  yea,  Thine  alone, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come ! 

Just  as  I  am,  of  that  free  love 
The  breadth,  length,  depth,  and  height  to 
prove, 

Here  for  a  season,  then  above, 

0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come ! 

Charlotte  Elliott. 

- - +<>« - 

Hymn  for  Family  Worship. 

O  Lord,  another  day  is  flown  ; 

And  we,  a  lonely  band, 

Are  met  once  more  before  Thy  throne 
To  bless  Thy  fostering  hand. 

And  wilt  Thou  lend  a  listening  ear 
To  praises  low  as  ours  ? 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


569 


Thou  wilt !  for  Thou  dost  love  to  hear 
The  song  which  meekness  pours. 

And,  Jesus,  Thou  Thy  smiles  wilt  deign 
As  we  before  Thee  pray  ; 

For  Thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train, 

And  we  are  less  than  they. 

Oh  let  Thy  grace  perform  its  part, 

And  let  contention  cease  ; 

And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart 
Thine  everlasting  peace ! 

Thus  chasten’d,  cleansed,  entirely  Thine, 
A  flock  by  Jesus  led, 

The  Sun  of  holiness  shall  shine 
In  glory  on  our  head. 

And  Thou  wilt  turn  our  wandering  feet, 
And  Thou  wilt  bless  our  way, 

Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet 
The  dawn  of  lasting  day  ! 

Henry  Kirke  White. 
- »<>♦ 

Lead ,  Kindly  Light. 

Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  th’  encircling 
gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ; 

The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from 
home ; 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ; 

Keep  Thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  pray’d  that  Thou 
Shouldst  lead  me  on  ; 

I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path  ;  but 
now 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 

I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will.  Kemember  not  past 
years ! 

So  long  Thy  power  has  blest  me,  sure  it 
still 

Will  lead  me  on 

O’er  moor  and  fen,  o’er  crag  and  torrent, 
till 

The  night  is  gone, 

And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost 
a  while ! 

John  Henry  Newman. 


When  Gathering  Clouds 
around  I  View. 

When  gathering  clouds  around  I  view, 
And  days  are  dark  and  friends  are  few, 

On  Him  I  lean,  who  not  in  vain 
Experienced  every  human  pain. 

He  sees  my  wants,  allays  my  fears, 

And  counts  and  treasures  up  my  tears. 

If  aught  should  tempt  my  soul  to  stray 
From  heavenly  wisdom’s  narrow  way; 

To  fly  the  good  I  would  pursue, 

Or  do  the  sin  I  would  not  do ; 

Still  He,  who  felt  temptation’s  power, 
Shall  guard  me  in  that  dangerous  hour. 

If  wounded  love  my  bosom  swell, 
Deceived  by  those  I  prized  too  well, 

He  shall  his  pitying  aid  bestow, 

Who  felt  on  earth  severer  woe ; 

At  once  betray’d,  denied,  or  fled, 

By  those  who  shared  His  daily  bread. 

If  vexing  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

And,  sore  dismay’d,  my  spirit  dies ; 

Still  He,  who  once  vouchsafed  to  bear 
The  sickening  anguish  of  despair, 

Shall  sweetly  soothe,  shall  gently  dry, 

The  throbbing  heart,  the  streaming  eye. 

When  sorrowing  o’er  some  stone  I  bend, 
Which  covers  what  was  once  a  friend, 

And  from  his  voice,  his  hand,  his  smile, 
Divides  me  for  a  little  while; 

Thou,  Saviour,  mark’st  the  tears  I  shed, 
For  Thou  didst  weep  o’er  Lazarus  dead! 

And  oh,  when  I  have  safely  past 
Through  every  conflict  but  the  last, 
i  Still,  still  unchanging,  watch  beside 
My  bed  of  death,  for  Thou  hast  died  ! 

Then  point  to  realms  of  cloudless  day, 
And  wipe  the  latest  tear  away ! 

Sir  Robert  Grant. 

•o« - 

Long  did  I  Toil. 

Long  did  I  toil,  and  knew  no  earthly  rest; 
Far  did  I  rove,  and  found  no  certain 
home ; 

At  last  I  sought  them  in  HE  sheltering 
breast, 

Who  opes  His  arms,  and  bids  the  weary 
come : 


570 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


With  Him  I  found  a  home,  a  rest  divine ; 

And  I  since  then  am  His,  and  He  is  mine. 

Yes !  He  is  mine !  and  naught  of  earthly 
things, 

Not  all  the  charms  of  pleasure,  wealth,  or 
power, 

The  fame  of  heroes,  or  the  pomp  of  kings, 

Could  tempt  me  to  forego  His  love  an 
hour. 

Go,  worthless  wrorld,  I  cry,  with  all  that’s 
thine ! 

Go  !  I  my  Saviour’s  am,  and  He  is  mine. 

The  good  I  have  is  from  His  stores  sup¬ 
plied  ; 

The  ill  is  only  what  He  deems  the  best ; 

He  for  my  Friend,  I’m  rich  with  naught 
beside  ; 

And  poor  without  Him,  though  of  all 
possest : 

Changes  may  come  ;  I  take,  or  I  resign  ; 

Content,  while  I  am  His,  while  He  is 
mine. 

Whate’er  may  change,  in  Him  no  change 
is  seen ; 

A  glorious  Sun,  that  wanes  not  nor  de¬ 
clines; 

Above  the  clouds  and  storms  He  walks 
serene, 

And  sweetly  on  His  people’s  darkness 
shines : 

All  may  depart ;  I  fret  not,  nor  repine, 

While  I  my  Saviour’s  am,  while  He  is 
mine. 

He  stays  me  falling,  lifts  me  up  when 
down, 

Reclaims  me  wandering,  guards  from 
every  foe ; 

Plants  on  my  worthless  brow  the  victor’s 
crown ; 

Which,  in  return,  before  His  feet  I 
throw, 

Grieved  that  I  cannot  better  grace  His 
shrine, 

Who  deigns  to  own  me  His,  as  He  is 
mine. 

While  here,  alas !  I  know  but  half  His 

love, 

But  half  discern  Him,  and  but  half 
adore ; 


But  when  I  meet  Him  in  the  realms 
above, 

I  hope  to  love  Him  better,  praise  Him 
more, 

And  feel,  and  tell,  amid  the  choir  divine, 
How  fully  I  am  His,  and  He  is  mine. 

Henry  Francis  Lyte. 

•o* - 

Rise ,  my  Soul,  and  Stretch  thy 

Wings. 

Rise,  my  soul,  and  stretch  thy  wings> 
Thy  better  portion  trace ; 

Rise  from  transitory  things 
Toward  heaven,  thy  native  place. 

Sun  and  moon  and  stars  decay  ; 

Time  shall  soon  this  earth  remove ; 
Rise,  my  soul,  and  haste  away 
To  seats  prepared  above. 

Rivers  to  the  ocean  run, 

Nor  stay  in  all  their  course; 

Fire  ascending  seeks  the  sun  ; 

Both  speed  them  to  their  source : 

So  my  soul,  derived  from  God, 

Pants  to  view  His  glorious  face, 
Forward  tends  to  His  abode, 

To  rest  in  His  embrace. 

Fly  me  riches,  fly  me  cares, 

Whilst  I  that  coast  explore ; 
Flattering  world,  with  all  thy  snares 
Solicit  me  no  more ! 

Pilgrims  fix  not  here  their  home; 

Strangers  tarry  but  a  night ; 

When  the  last  dear  morn  is  come, 
They’ll  rise  to  joyful  light. 

Cease,  ye  pilgrims,  cease  to  mourn ; 

Press  onward  to  the  prize; 

Soon  our  Saviour  will  return 
Triumphant  in  the  skies. 

Yet  a  season,  and  you  know 
Happy  entrance  will  be  given, 

All  our  sorrows  left  below, 

And  earth  exchanged  for  heaven. 

Robert  Seagrave. 

■  ■  •<>•  -  — 

Row  Kindly  hast  Thou  led  me* 

Oh  how  kindly  hast  Thou  led  me, 
Heavenly  Father,  day  by  day ! 

Found  my  dwelling,  clothed  and  fed  me, 
Furnish’d  friends  to  cheer  my  way! 
Didst  Thou  bless  me,  didst  Thou  chasten, 
With  Thy  smile,  or  with  Thy  rod, 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


571 


’Twas  that  still  my  step  might  hasten 
Homeward,  heavenward,  to  my  God ! 

Oh  how  slowly  have  I  often 

Follow’d  where  Thy  hand  would  draw! 
How  Thy  kindness  fail’d  to  soften ! 

How  Thy  chastening  fail’d  to  awe ! 
Make  me  for  Thy  rest  more  ready 
As  Thy  path  is  longer  trod ; 

Keep  me  in  Thy  friendship  steady, 

Till  Thou  call  me  home,  my  God ! 

Thomas  Gkinfield. 

Wrestling  Jacob. 

Come,  0  thou  Traveller  unknown, 

Whom  still  I  hold,  but  cannot  see, 

My  company  before  is  gone, 

And  I  am  left  alone  with  Thee  ; 

With  Thee  all  night  I  mean  to  stay, 

And  wrestle  till  the  break  of  day. 

I  need  not  tell  Thee  who  I  am, 

My  misery  or  sin  declare  ; 

Thyself  hast  call’d  me  by  my  name  ; 

Look  on  Thy  hands,  and  read  it  there ! 
But  Who,  I  ask  Thee,  Who  art  thou? 

Tell  me  Thy  Name,  and  tell  me  now. 

In  vain  Thou  strugglest  to  get  free, 

I  never  will  unloose  my  hold  ; 

Art  thou  the  Man  that  died  for  me  ? 

The  secret  of  Thy  love  unfold. 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  Thee  go, 

Till  I  Thy  Name,  Thy  Nature  know. 

Wilt  Thou  not  yet  to  me  reveal 
Thy  new,  unutterable  Name  ? 

Tell  me,  I  still  beseech  Thee,  tell ; 

To  know  it  now,  resolved  I  am  : 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  Thee  go, 

Till  I  Thy  Name,  Thy  Nature  know. 

’Tis  all  in  vain  to  hold  Thy  tongue, 

Or  touch  the  hollow  of  my  thigh  ; 
Though  every  sinew  be  unstrung, 

Out  of  my  arms  Thou  shalt  not  fly  : 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  Thee  go, 

Till  I  Thy  Name,  Thy  Nature  know. 

What  though  my  shrinking  flesh  complain, 
And  murmur  to  contend  so  long  ? 

I  rise  superior  to  my  pain  ; 

When  I  am  weak,  then  I  am  strong : 
And  when  my  all  of  strength  shall  fail 
I  shall  with  the  God-Man  prevail. 


My  strength  is  gone  ;  my  nature  dies  ; 

I  sink  beneath  Thy  weighty  hand, 

Faint  to  revive,  and  fall  to  rise  ; 

I  fall,  and  yet  by  faith  I  stand  : 

I  stand,  and  will  not  let  Thee  go, 

Till  I  Thy  Name,  Thy  Nature  know. 

Yield  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak, 

But  confident  in  self-despair  ; 

Speak  to  my  heart,  in  blessings  speak, 

Be  conquer’d  by  my  instant  prayer  ! 
Speak,  or  Thou  never  hence  shalt  move, 
And  tell  me,  if  Thy  Name  is  Love. 

’Tis  Love!  ’tis  Love!  Thou  diedst  for  me! 

I  hear  Thy  whisper  in  my  heart ! 

The  morning  breaks,  the  shadows  flee  ; 

Pure  universal  Love  Thou  art ! 

To  me,  to  all,  Thy  bowels  move  ! 

Thy  Nature,  and  Thy  Name,  is  Love  ! 

My  prayer  hath  power  with  God ;  the 
grace 

Unspeakable  I  now  receive  ; 

Through  faith  I  see  Thee  face  to  face, 

I  see  Thee  face  to  face  and  live  : 

In  vain  I  have  not  wept  and  strove  ; 

Thy  Nature,  and  Thy  Name,  is  Love. 

I  know  Thee,  Saviour,  who  Thou  art ; 

Jesus,  the  feeble  sinner’s  Friend  ! 

Nor  wilt  Thou  with  the  night  depart, 

But  stay,  and  love  me  to  the  end ! 

Thy  mercies  never  shall  remove, 

Thy  Nature,  and  Thy  Name,  is  Love! 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness  on  me 

Hath  rose,  with  healing  in  His  wings  ; 
Wither’d  my  nature’s  strength,  from  Thee 
My  soul  its  life  and  succor  brings ; 

My  help  is  all  laid  up  above  ; 

Thy  Nature,  and  Thy  Name,  is  Love. 

Contented  now  upon  my  thigh 

I  halt,  till  life’s  short  journey  end  ; 

All  helplessness,  all  weakness,  I 

On  Thee  alone  for  strength  depend ; 

Nor  have  I  power  from  Thee  to  move; 

Thy  Nature,  and  Thy  Name,  is  Love. 

Lame  as  I  am,  I  take  the  prey, 

Hell,  earth,  and  sin  with  ease  o’er- 
come ; 

I  leap  for  joy,  pursue  my  way, 

And  as  a  bounding  hart  fly  home ! 


572 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Through  all  eternity  to  prove, 

Thy  Nature,  and  Thy  Name,  is  Love! 

Charles  Wesley. 


Whilst  Thee  I  Seek. 

Whilst  Thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power, 
Be  my  vain  wishes  still’d ! 

And  may  this  consecrated  hour 
With  better  hopes  be  fill’d. 

Thy  love  the  power  of  thought  bestow’d : 
To  Thee  my  thoughts  would  soar : 

Thy  mercy  o’er  my  life  has  flow’d, 

That  mercy  I  adore. 

In  each  event  of  life,  how  clear 
Thy  ruling  hand  I  see ! 

Each  blessing  to  my  soul  more  dear, 
Because  conferr’d  by  Thee. 

In  every  joy  that  crowns  my  days, 

In  every  pain  I  bear, 

My  heart  shall  find  delight  in  praise, 

Or  seek  relief  in  prayer. 

When  gladness  wings  my  favor’d  hour, 
Thy  love  my  thoughts  shall  fill ; 

Resign’d,  when  storms  of  sorrow  lower, 
My  soul  shall  meet  Thy  will. 

My  lifted  eye,  without  a  tear, 

The  gathering  storms  shall  see  ; 

My  steadfast  heart  shall  know  no  fear; 
That  heart  shall  rest  on  Thee. 

Helen  Maria  Williams. 


The  Right  must  Win. 

Oh,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  His  part 

Upon  this  battle-field  of  earth, 

And  not  sometimes  lose  heart! 

He  hides  Himself  so  wondrously, 

As  though  there  were  no  God ; 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 

Or  He  deserts  us  at  the  hour 
The  fight  is  all  but  lost ; 

And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 
Just  when  we  need  Him  most. 


Yes,  there  is  less  to  try  our  faith 
In  our  mysterious  creed, 

Than  in  the  godless  look  of  earth 
In  these  our  hours  of  need. 

Ill  masters  good,  good  seems  to  change 
To  ill  with  greatest  ease ; 

And,  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 
Is  at  cross-purposes. 

It  is  not  so,  but  so  it  looks ; 

And  we  lose  courage  then  ; 

And  doubts  will  come  if  God  hath  kept 
His  promises  to  men. 

Ah  !  God  is  other  than  we  think ; 

His  ways  are  far  above, 

Far  beyond  reason’s  height,  and  reach’d 
Only  by  childlike  love. 

The  look,  the  fashion  of  God’s  ways 
Love’s  lifelong  study  are ; 

She  can  be  bold,  and  guess  and  act, 
When  Reason  would  not  dare. 

She  has  a  prudence  of  her  own  ; 

Her  step  is  firm  and  free ; 

Yet  there  is  cautious  science  too 
In  her  simplicity. 

Workman  of  God  !  oh  lose  not  heart, 
But  learn  what  God  is  like  ; 

And  in  the  darkest  battle-field 
Thou  shalt  know  where  to  strike. 

Thrice  blessed  is  he  to  whom  is  given 
The  instinct  that  can  tell 

That  God  is  on  the  field  when  He 
Is  most  invisible. 

Blest  too  is  he  who  can  divine 
Where  real  right  doth  lie, 

And  dares  to  take  the  side  that  seems 
Wrong  to  man’s  blindfold  eye. 

Then  learn  to  scorn  the  praise  of  men, 
And  learn  to  lose  with  God ; 

For  Jesus  won  the  world  through  shame, 
And  beckons  thee  His  road. 

God’s  glory  is  a  wondrous  thing, 

Most  strange  in  all  its  ways, 

And,  of  all  things  on  earth,  least  like 
What  men  agree  to  praise. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SON  GST 


573 


As  He  can  endless  glory  weave 
From  what  tnen  reckon  shame, 

In  His  own  world  He  is  content 
To  play  a  losing  game. 

Muse  on  His  justice,  downcast  soul ! 
Muse  and  take  better  heart  ; 

Back  with  thine  angel  to  the  field, 
And  bravely  do  thy  part ! 

God’s  justice  is  a  bed  where  we 
Our  anxious  hearts  may  lay, 

And,  weary  with  ourselves,  may  sleep 
Our  discontent  away. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God; 
And  right  the  day  must  win ; 

To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty, 

To  falter  would  be  sin  ! 

Frederick  William  Faber. 

- K>« - 

Ioy  and  Peace  in  Believing. 

Sometimes  a  light  surprises 
The  Christian  while  he  sings  ; 

It  is  the  Lord,  who  rises 
With  healing  in  His  wings  : 

When  comforts  are  declining, 

He  grants  the  soul  again 

A  season  of  clear  shining 
To  cheer  it  after  rain. 

In  holy  contemplation 
We  sweetly  then  pursue 

The  theme  of  God’s  salvation, 

And  find  it  ever  new : 

Set  free  from  present  sorrow, 

We  cheerfully  can  say, 

E’en  let  the  unknown  to-morrow 
Bring  with  it  what  it  may. 

It  can  bring  with  it  nothing, 

But  He  will  bear  us  through  ; 

Who  gives  the  lilies  clothing 
Will  clothe  His  people  too; 

Beneath  the  spreading  heavens 
No  creature  but  is  fed ; 

And  He,  who  feeds  the  ravens, 

Will  give  His  children  bread. 

Though  vine  nor  fig  tree  neither 
Their  wonted  fruit  shall  bear ; 

Though  all  the  field  should  wither, 
Nor  flocks  nor  herds  be  there; 


Yet,  God  the  same  abiding, 

His  praise  shall  tune  my  voice  ; 

For,  while  in  Him  confiding, 

I  cannot  but  rejoice. 

William  Cowper. 

- - 

Guide  me ,  0  Thou  Great  Jeho¬ 
vah; 

Guide  me,  O  Thou  great  Jehovah ! 

Pilgrim  through  this  barren  land ; 

I  am  weak,  but  Thou  art  mighty, 

Hold  me  with  Thy  powerful  hand. 
Bread  of  Heaven !  Bread  of  Hea¬ 
ven  ! 

Feed  me  now  and  evermore ! 

Open  now  the  crystal  fountain, 

Whence  the  healing  streams  do  flow ; 
Let  the  fiery  cloudy  pillar 

Lead  me  all  my  journey  through ; 
Strong  Deliverer !  strong  Deliverer ! 
Be  thou  still  my  Strength  and  Shield  ! 

When  I  tread  the  verge  of  Jordan, 

Bid  my  anxious  fears  subside ; 

Death  of  deaths,  and  hell’s  destruction, 
Land  me  safe  on  Canaan’s  side ; 

Songs  of  praises,  songs  of  praises, 

I  will  ever  give  to  Thee  ! 

Musing  on  my  habitation, 

Musing  on  my  heavenly  home, 

Fills  my  soul  with  holy  longing; 

Come,  my  Jesus,  quickly  come. 

Vanity  is  all  I  see; 

Lord,  I  long  to  be  with  thee ! 

William  Williams. 

- K>« - 

The  Child  Leans  on  its  Pa¬ 
rent’s  Breast. 

The  child  leans  on  its  parent’s  breast, 
Leaves  there  its  cares,  and  is  at  rest ; 

The  bird  sits  singing  by  his  nest, 

And  tells  aloud 

His  trust  in  God,  and  so  is  blest 

’Neath  every  cloud. 

He  has  no  store,  he  sows  no  seed, 

Yet  sings  aloud,  and  doth  not  heed  ; 

By  flowing  stream  or  grassy  mead 

He  sings  to  shame 
Men,  who  forget,  in  fear  of  need, 

A  Father’s  name. 


574 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  heart  that  trusts  for  ever  sings, 

And  feels  as  light  as  it  had  wings ; 

A  well  of  peace  within  it  springs ; 

Come  good  or  ill, 

Whate’er  to-day,  to-morrow  brings. 

It  is  His  will. 

Isaac  Williams. 

- ♦<>♦  —  - 

I  Love  Thy  Kingdom ,  Lord. 

I  love  Thy  kingdom,  Lord, 

The  house  of  Thine  abode, 

The  Church  our  blest  Redeemer  saved 
With  His  own  precious  blood. 

I  love  Thy  Church,  0  God  ! 

Her  walls  before  Thee  stand, 

Dear  as  the  apple  of  Thine  eye, 

And  graven  on  Thy  hand. 

If  e’er  to  bless  Thy  sons, 

My  voice,  or  hands,  deny, 

These  hands  let  useful  skill  forsake, 
This  voice  in  silence  die. 

If  e’er  my  heart  forget 
Her  welfare  or  her  woe, 

Let  every  joy  this  heart  forsake, 

And  every  grief  o’erflow. 

For  her  my  tears  shall  fall ; 

For  her  my  prayers  ascend  ; 

To  her  my  cares  and  toils  be  given, 
Till  toils  and  cares  shall  end. 

Beyond  my  highest  joy 
I  prize  her  he&venly  ways, 

Her  sweet  communion,  solemn  vows, 
Her  hymns  of  love  and  praise. 

Jesus,  Thou  Friend  divine, 

Our  Saviour  and  our  King, 

Thy  hand  from  every  snare  and  foe 
Shall  great  deliverance  bring. 

Sure  as  Thy  truth  shall  last, 

To  Zion  shall  be  given 
The  brightest  glories  earth  can  yield, 
And  brighter  bliss  of  Heaven. 

Timothy  Dwight. 

(From  the  Latin  of  St.  Ambrose.) 


UDUM  VlVIMUS  VIVAMUS.” 

“  Live  while  you  live!”  the  epicure  would 

say, 

“  And  seize  the  pleasures  of  the  present 
day !” 

“  Live  while  you  live !”  the  sacred  Preacher 
cries, 

“  And  give  to  God  each  moment  as  it 
flies !” 

Lord,  in  my  view  let  both  united  be : 

I  live  in  pleasure  while  I  live  to  Thee. 

Philip  Doddridge. 

- *o« - 

Children  of  the  Heavenly 
King. 

Children  of  the  Heavenly  King, 

As  ye  journey,  sweetly  sing  ; 

Sing  your  Saviour’s  worthy  praise, 
Glorious  in  His  works  and  ways  ! 

We  are  travelling  home  to  God, 

In  the  way  the  Fathers  trod  ; 

They  are  happy  now  ;  and  we 
Soon  their  happiness  shall  see. 

O  ye  banish’d  seed,  be  glad ! 

Christ  our  Advocate  is  made  ; 

Us  to  save,  our  flesh  assumes  ; 

Brother  to  our  souls  becomes. 

Shout,  ye  little  flock,  and  blest ! 

You  on  Jesus’  Throne  shall  rest ; 
There  your  seat  is  now  prepared, 
There  your  kingdom  and  reward. 

Lift  your  eyes,  ye  sons  of  Light ! 
Zion’s  city  is  in  sight : 

There  our  endless  home  shall  be, 
There  our  Lord  we  soon  shall  see. 

Fear  not,  brethren  ;  joyful  stand 
On  the  borders  of  your  land  ; 

Jesus  Christ,  your  Father’s  Son, 

Bids  you  undismay’d  go  on. 

Lord  !  obediently  we  go, 

Gladly  leaving  all  below  : 

Only  Thou  our  leader  be, 

And  we  still  will  follow  Thee  ! 

Seal  our  love,  our  labors  end ; 

Let  us  to  Thy  bliss  ascend  ; 


-•O*- 


" PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS! 


575 


Let  us  to  Thy  kingdom  come  ; 

Lord  !  we  long  to  be  at  home. 

John  Cennick. 


Early  Piety. 

By  cool  Siloam’s  shady  rill 
How  sweet  the  lily  grows ! 

How  sweet  the  breath  beneath  the  hill 
Of  Sharon’s  dewy  rose  ! 

Lo !  such  the  child  whose  early  feet 
The  paths  of  peace  have  trod, 

Whose  secret  heart  with  influence  sweet 
Is  upward  drawn  to  God. 

By  cool  Siloam’s  shady  rill 
The  lily  must  decay ; 

The  rose  that  blooms  beneath  the  hill 
Must  shortly  fade  away ; 

And  soon,  too  soon,  the  wintry  hour 
Of  man’s  maturer  age 

Will  shake  the  soul  with  sorrow’s  power, 
And  stormy  passion’s  rage. 

O  Thou  whose  infant  feet  were  found 
Within  Thy  Father’s  shrine, 

Whose  years  with  changeless  virtue  crown’d 
Were  all  alike  divine : 

Dependent  on  Thy  bounteous  breath, 

We  seek  Thy  grace  alone 

In  childhood,  manhood,  age,  and  death, 

To  keep  us  still  Thine  own. 

Reginald  Heber. 


0  Happy  Soul,  that  Lives  on 
High! 

O  happy  soul,  that  lives  on  high, 
While  men  lie  grovelling  here ! 

His  hopes  are  fix’d  above  the  sky, 

And  faith  forbids  his  fear. 

His  conscience  knows  no  secret  stings, 
While  peace  and  joy  combine 

To  form  a  life  whose  holy  springs 
Are  hidden  and  divine. 

He  waits  in  secret  on  his  God, 

His  God  in  secret  sees ; 

Let  earth  be  all  in  arms  abroad, 

He  dwells  in  heavenly  peace. 

His  pleasures  rise  from  things  unseen, 
Beyond  this  world  and  time, 


Where  neither  eyes  nor  ears  have  been, 
Nor  thoughts  of  sinners  climb. 

He  wants  no  pomp,  nor  royal  throne, 

To  raise  his  figure  here ; 

Content  and  pleased  to  live  unknown. 
Till  Christ,  his  Life,  appear. 

He  looks  to  heaven’s  eternal  hill, 

To  meet  that  glorious  day, 

And  patient  waits  his  Saviour’s  will, 

To  fetch  his  soul  away. 

Isaac  Watts. 

- K>» 

Heavenly  Wisdom. 

Oh,  happy  is  the  man  who  hears 
Instruction’s  warning  voice, 

And  who  celestial  Wisdom  makes 
His  early,  only  choice. 

For  she  has  treasures  greater  far 
Than  east  or  west  unfold, 

And  her  reward  is  more  secure 
Than  is  the  gain  of  gold. 

In  her  right  hand  she  holds  to  view 
A  length  of  happy  years, 

And  in  her  left,  the  prize  of  fame 
And  honor  bright  appears. 

She  guides  the  young,  with  innocence, 
In  pleasure’s  path  to  tread  ; 

A  crown  of  glory  she  bestows 
Upon  the  hoary  head. 

According  as  her  labors  rise, 

So  her  rewards  increase  ; 

Her  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness, 
And  all  her  patks  are  peace. 

John  Logan. 

- K>> 

The  Heart's  Song. 

In  the  silent  midnight  watches, 

List — thy  bosom  door ! 

How  it  knocketh,  knocketh,  knocketh. 

Knocketh  evermore ! 

Say  not  ’tis  thy  pulses  beating ; 

’Tis  thy  heart  of  sin  : 

’Tis  thy  Saviour  knocks,  and  crieth, 

Rise  and  let  Me  in  ! 

Death  comes  down  with  reckless  footstep 
To  the  hall  and  hut; 


576 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Think  you  Death  will  stand  a-knocking 
Where  the  door  is  shut? 

Jesus  waiteth — waiteth — waiteth  ; 

But  thy  door  is  fast ! 

Grieved,  away  thy  Saviour  goeth  : 

Death  breaks  in  at  last. 

Then  ’tis  thine  to  stand  entreating 
Christ  to  let  thee  in  : 

At  the  gate  of  heaven  beating, 

Wailing  for  thy  sin. 

Nay,  alas  !  thou  foolish  virgin, 

Hast  thou  then  forgot, 

Jesus  waited  long  to  know  thee, 

But  He  knows  thee  not ! 

Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe. 

- »o* 

Delight  in  God  Only. 

I  love,  and  have  some  cause  to  love,  the 
earth — 

She  is  my  Maker’s  creature,  therefore 
good. 

She  is  my  mother,  for  she  gave  me  birth ; 

She  is  my  tender  nurse,  she  gives  me 
food : 

But  what’s  a  creature,  Lord,  compared  with 
Thee? 

Or  what’s  my  mother  or  my  nurse  to  me  ? 

I  love  the  air — her  dainty  sweets  refresh 

My  drooping  soul,  and  to  new  sweets  in¬ 
vite  me ; 

Her  shrill-mouth’d  choir  sustain  me  with 
their  flesh, 

And  with  their  polyphonian  notes  de¬ 
light  me :  • 

But  what’s  the  air,  or  all  the  sweets  that 
she 

Can  bless  my  soul  withal,  compared  to 
Thee? 

I  love  the  sea — she  is  mv  fellow-creature, 

My  careful  purveyor ;  she  provides  me 
store ; 

She  walls  me  round ;  she  makes  my  diet 
greater ; 

She  wafts  my  treasure  from  a  foreign 
shore : 

But,  Lord  of  oceans,  when  compared  with 
Thee, 

What  is  the  ocean  or  her  wealth  to  me? 


To  Heaven’s  high  city  I  direct  my  jour¬ 
ney, 

Whose  spangled  suburbs  entertain  mine 
eye— 

Mine  eye,  by  contemplation’s  great  at¬ 
torney, 

Transcends  the  crystal  pavement  of  the 
sky: 

But  what  is  Heaven,  great  God,  compared 
to  Thee? 

Without  thy  presence,  Heaven’s  no  Heaven 
to  me. 

Without  Thy  presence,  earth  gives  no  re¬ 
fection  ; 

Without  Thy  presence,  sea  affords  no 
treasure ; 

Without  Thy  presence,  air’s  a  rank  infec¬ 
tion  ; 

Without  Thy  presence,  Heaven  itself ’s 
no  pleasure : 

If  not  possess’d,  if  not  enjoy’d  in  Thee, 

What’s  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  or  Heaven  to 
me? 

The  highest  honors  that  the  world  can 
boast 

Are  subjects  far  too  low  for  my  desire ; 

The  brightest  beams  of  glory  are,  at 
most, 

But  dying  sparkles  of  Thy  living  fire  ; 

The  proudest  flames  that  earth  can  kindle 
be 

But  nightly  glow-worms  if  compared  to 
Thee. 

Without  Thy  presence,  wealth  is  bags  of 
cares ; 

Wisdom  but  folly;  joy,  disquiet  sad¬ 
ness  ; 

Friendship  is  treason,  and  delights  are 
snares ; 

Pleasure’s  but  pain,  and  mirth  but  pleas¬ 
ing  madness — 

Without  Thee,  Lord,  things  be  not  what 
they  be, 

Nor  have  their  being,  when  compared  with 
Thee. 

In  having  all  things,  and  not  Thee,  what 
have  I  ? 

Not  having  Thee,  what  have  my  labors 
got? 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


577 


Let  me  enjoy  but  Thee,  what  further  crave 

I? 

And  having  Thee  alone,  what  have  I 
not  ? 

1  wish  nor  sea,  nor  land,  nor  would  I  be 
Possess’d  of  Heaven,  Heaven  unpossess’d 
of  Thee! 

Francis  Quarles. 

- - 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

When  marshall’ d  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky  ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 

Can  fix  the  sinner’s  wandering  eye. 

Hark  !  hark !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem ; 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 

It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud — the  night  was  dark, 
The  ocean  yawn’d — and  rudely  blow’d 
The  wind  that  toss’d  my  foundering 
bark. 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 
When  suddenly  a  star  arose, 

It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 

It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 

And  through  the  storm  and  dangers’  thrall 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Now  safely  moor’d — my  perils  o’er, 

I’ll  sing,  first  in  night’s  diadem, 

For  ever  and  for  evermore, 

The  Star — the  Star  of  Bethlehem ! 

Henry  Kirke  White. 

■ - K>« - 

Life. 

If  life’s  pleasures  cheer  thee, 

Give  them  not  thy  heart, 

Lest  the  gifts  ensnare  thee 
F rom  thy  God  to  part : 

His  praises  speak,  His  favor  seek, 

Fix  there  thy  hopes’  foundation  ; 

Love  him,  and  He  shall  ever  be 

The  Rock  of  thy  salvation. 

37 


If  sorrow  e’er  befall  thee, 

Painful  though  it  be, 

Let  not  fear  appall  thee : 

To  thy  Saviour  flee  : 

He,  ever  near,  thy  prayer  will  hear, 
And  calm  thy  perturbation  ; 

The  waves  of  woe  shall  ne’er  o’erflow 
The  Rock  of  thy  salvation. 

Death  shall  never  harm  thee, 

Shrink  not  from  his  blow, 

For  thy  God  shall  arm  thee, 

And  victory  bestow : 

For  death  shall  bring  to  thee  no  sting. 

The  grave  no  desolation  ; 

’Tis  gain  to  die,  with  Jesus  nigh, 

The  Rock  of  thy  salvation. 

Francis  Scott  Key. 

-  ■  •<>♦  —  ■■ 

Art  thou  Weary ? 

Art  thou  weary,  art  thou  languid, 

Art  thou  sore  distress’d? 

“Come  to  Me,”  saith  One,  “  and  coming, 
Be  at  rest.” 

Hath  He  marks  to  lead  me  to  Him, 

If  He  be  mv  Guide? 

%! 

“  In  His  feet  and  hands  are  wound-prints, 
And  His  side.” 

Is  there  diadem,  as  Monarch, 

That  His  brow  adorns  ? 

“Yea,  a  crown,  in  very  surety, 

But  of  thorns.”  * 

If  I  find  Him,  if  I  follow, 

What  His  guerdon  here  ? 

“  Many  a  sorrow,  many  a  labor, 

Many  a  tear.” 

If  I  still  hold  closelv  to  Him, 

What  hath  He  at  last? 

“  Sorrow  vanquish’d,  labor  ended, 

Jordan  pass’d.” 

If  I  ask  Him  to  receive  me, 

Will  He  say  me  nay? 

“  Not  till  earth,  and  not  till  heaven 
Pass  away.” 

V 


578 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Finding,  following,  keeping,  struggling, 

Is  He  sure  to  bless? 

“  Saints,  apostles,  prophets,  martyrs, 
Answer,  Yes.” 

John  Mason  Neale. 
(Translation  from  St.  Stephen  the  Sabaite.) 

■ ■  ■  «c* - 

Up-hill. 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? 
Yes ,  to  the  very  end. 

Will  the  day’s  journey  take  the  whole  long 
day. 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 
A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours 
begin. 

May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my 
face? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 

Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in 
sight  ? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that 
door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum. 

Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who 
seek? 

Yes,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

Christina  Georgina  Rossetti. 

- KX - 

Nothing  but  Leaves. 

“He  found  nothing  thereon  hut  leaves.” — Matt.  chap. 

xxi.  v.  19. 

Nothing  but  leaves  ;  the  spirit  grieves 
Over  a  wasted  life  ; 

Sin  committed  while  conscience  slept, 
Promises  made  but  never  kept, 

Hatred,  battle,  and  strife  ; 

Nothing  but  leaves  ! 

Nothing  but  leaves  ;  no  garner’d  sheaves 
Of  life’s  fair,  ripen’d  grain  ; 

Words,  idle  words,  for  earnest  deeds; 

We  sow  our  seeds — lo  !  tares  and  weeds ; 
We  reap  with  toil  and  pain 
Nothing  but  leaves  ! 


Nothing  but  leaves  ;  memory  weaves 
No  veil  to  screen  the  past: 

As  we  retrace  our  weary  way, 

Counting  each  lost  and  misspent  day — 
We  find,  sadly,  at  last, 

Nothing  but  leaves  ! 

And  shall  we  meet  the  Master  so, 
Bearing  our  wither’d  leaves  ? 

The  Saviour  looks  for  perfect  fruit, — 

We  stand  before  him,  humbled,  mute ; 
Waiting  the  words  he  breathes, — 

“  Nothing  but  leaves  /” 

Lucy  Evelina  Akerman. 


The  Pilgrimage. 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet, 

My  staff  of  faith  to  walk  upon  ; 

My  scrip  of  joy,  immortal  diet ; 

My  bottle  of  salvation  ; 
j  My  gown  of  glory,  hope’s  true  gauge, 

And  thus  I’ll  take  my  pilgrimage  ! 

Blood  must  be  my  body’s  balmer, 

No  other  balm  will  there  be  given  ; 
Whilst  my  soul,  like  quiet  palmer, 
Travelleth  toward  the  land  of  Heaven : 
Over  the  silver  mountains 
Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains  : 

There  will  I  kiss  the  bowl  of  bliss, 

And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill 
Upon  every  milken  hill. 

My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before, 

But  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 

Then  by  that  happy,  blissful  day, 

More  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see. 

That  have  cast  off  their  rags  of  clay, 

And  walk  apparell’d  fresh  like  me. 

I’ll  take  them  first  to  quench  their  thirst, 
And  taste  of  nectar’s  suckets 
At  those  clear  wells  where  sweetness 
dwells 

Drawn  up  by  saints  in  crystal  buckets. 
And  when  our  bottles  and  all  we 
Are  fill’d  with  immortality, 

Then  the  blest  paths  we’ll  travel, 

Strew’d  with  rubies  thick  as  gravel, — 
Ceilings  of  diamonds,  sapphire  floors, 
High  walls  of  coral,  and  pearly  bowers. 
From  thence  to  heaven’s  bribeless  hall, 
Where  no  corrupted  voices  brawl ; 


“PSALMS  AMD  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


579 


No  conscience  molten  into  gold, 

No  forged  accuser,  bought  or  sold, 

No  cause  deferr’d,  no  vain-spent  journey, 
For  there  Christ  is  the  King’s  Attorney  ; 
Who  pleads  for  all  without  degrees, 

And  He  hath  angels,  but  no  fees  ; 

And  when  the  grand  twelve  million  jury 
Of  our  sins,  with  direful  fury, 

’Gainst  our  souls  black  verdicts  give, 
Christ  pleads  His  death,  and  then  we  live. 
Be  thou  my  speaker,  taintless  pleader, 
Unblotted  lawyer,  true  proceeder  ! 

Thou  giv’st  salvation  even  for  alms, — 

Not  with  a  bribed  lawyer’s  palms. 

And  this  is  mine  eternal  plea 

To  Him  that  made  heaven,  earth  and  sea, 

That  since  my  flesh  must  die  so  soon, 

And  want  a  head  to  dine  next  noon, 

J ust  at  the  stroke  when  my  veins  start  and 
spread, 

Set  on  my  soul  an  everlasting  head  : 

Then  am  I,  like  a  palmer,  fit 
To  tread  those  blest  paths  which  before  I 
writ. 

Of  death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell, 
Who  oft  doth  think,  must  needs  die  well. 

Sie  Walter  Raleigh. 

• - *o* - 

The  Flower. 

How  fresh,  O  Lord,  how  sweet  and 
clean 

Are  thy  returns !  e’en  as  the  flowers  in 
spring — 

To  which,  besides  their  own  demean, 
The  late-past  frosts  tributes  of  pleasure 
bring. 

Grief  melts  away 
Like  snow  in  May, 

As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing. 

Who  would  have  thought  my  shri  veil’d 
heart 

Could  have  recovered  greenness?  It  was 
gone 

Quite  underground  ;  as  flowers  depart 
To  see  their  mother-root  when  they  have 
blown, 

Where  they  together, 

All  the  hard  weather, 

Dead  to  the  world,  keep  house  unknown. 


These  are  Thy  wonders,  Lord  of  power : 
Killing  and  quick’ning,  bringing  down  to 
hell 

And  up  to  heaven  in  an  hour, 

Making  a  chiming  of  a  passing-bell. 

We  say  amiss, 

This  or  that  is — 

Thy  word  is  all,  if  we  could  spell. 

Oh,  that  I  once  past  changing  were — 
Fast  in  Thy  paradise,  where  no  flower  can 
wither ! 

Many  a  spring  I  shoot  up  fair, 
Offering  at  heaven,  growing  and  groaning 
thither ; 

Nor  doth  my  flower 
Want  a  spring-shower, 

My  sins  and  I  joining  together. 

But,  while  I  grow  in  a  straight  line, 
Still  upward  bent,  as  if  heaven  were  mine 
own, 

Thy  anger  comes,  and  I  decline ; 

What  frost  to  that?  what  pole  is  not  the 
zone 

Where  all  things  burn, 

When  Thou  dost  turn, 

And  the  least  frown  of  Thine  is  shown? 

And  now  in  age  I  bud  again — 

After  so  many  deaths  I  live  and  write ; 

I  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain, 
And  relish  versing ;  O  my  only  light, 

It  cannot  be 
That  I  am  he 

On  whom  Thy  tempests  fell  all  night ! 

These  are  Thy  wonders,  Lord  of  love — 
To  make  us  see  we  are  but  flowers  that 
glide  ; 

Which  when  we  once  can  find  and 
prove, 

Thou  hast  a  garden  for  us  where  to  bide. 
Who  would  be  more, 

Swelling  through  store, 

Forfeit  their  paradise  by  their  pride. 

George  Herbert. 

- *<>• - 

Jesu,  my  Strength ,  my  Hope. 

Jesu,  my  strength,  my  hope, 

On  Thee  I  cast  my  care, 

With  humble  confidence  look  up, 

And  know  Thou  hear’st  my  prayer. 


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Gi,ve  me  on  thee  to  wait 
Till  I  can  all  things  do, 

On  Thee,  Almighty  to  create, 

Almighty  to  renew ! 

I  rest  upon  Thy  word ; 

The  promise  is  for  me  ; 

My  succor  and  salvation,  Lord, 

Shall  surely  come  from  Thee. 

But  let  me  still  abide, 

Nor  from  my  hope  remove, 

Till  Thou  my  patient  spirit  guide 
Into  thy  perfect  love  ! 

I  want  a  sober  mind, 

A  self-renouncing  will, 

That  tramples  down  and  casts  behind 
The  baits  of  pleasing  ill : 

A  soul  inured  to  pain, 

To  hardship,  grief,  and  loss; 

Bold  to  take  up,  firm  to  sustain, 

The  consecrated  cross. 

I  want  a  godly  fear, 

A  quick  discerning  eye, 

That  looks  to  Thee  when  sin  is  near, 
And  sees  the  tempter  fly ; 

A  spirit  still  prepared, 

And  arm’d  with  jealous  care, 

For  ever  standing  on  its  guard, 

And  watching  unto  prayer. 

I  want  a  heart  to  pray. 

To  pray  and  never  cease, 

Never  to  murmur  at  Thy  stay, 

Or  wish  my  sufferings  less ; 

This  blessing,  above  all, 

Always  to  pray,  I  want, 

Out  of  the  deep  on  Thee  to  call, 

And  never,  never  faint. 

I  want  a  true  regard, 

A  single,  steady  aim, 

Unmoved  by  threat’ning  or  reward, 

To  Thee  and  Thy  great  name; 

A  jealous,  just  concern 
For  Thine  immortal  praise; 

A  pure  desire  that  all  may  learn 
And  glorify  Thy  grace. 

I  want  with  all  my  heart, 

Thy  pleasure  to  fulfil, 

To  know  myself,  and  what  Thou  art, 
And  what  Thy  perfect  will. 

I  want  I  know  not  what ; 

I  want  mv  wants  to  see ; 

I  want — alas,  what  want  I  not, 

When  Thou  art  not  in  me? 

Charles  Wesley. 


MISSION! RY  H YMN 
From  Greenland’s  icy  mountains, 
From  India’s  coral  strand, 

Where  Afric’s  sunny  fountains 
Roll  down  their  golden  sand ; 

From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a  palmy  plain, 

They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  error’s  chain. 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 
Blow  soft  o’er  Ceylon’s  isle ; 

Though  every  prospect  pleases, 

And  only  man  is  vile ; 

In  vain  with  lavish  kindness 
The  gifts  of  God  are  strown ; 

The  heathen  in  his  blindness 
Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone. 

Can  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 
With  wisdom  from  on, high, 

Can  we  to  men  benighted 
The  lamp  of  life  deny? 

Salvation  !  O  salvation  ! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 

Till  each  remotest  nation 
Has  learnt  Messiah’s  Name. 

Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  His  story, 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll, 

Till  like  a  sea  of  glory 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole ; 

Till  o’er  our  ransom’d  nature 
The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain, 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator, 

In  bliss  returns  to  reign. 

Reginald  Heber. 

- KX - 

The  Burial  of  Moses. 

“  And  he  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the  land  of  Moab, 
over  against  Beth-peor  ;  but  no  man  knoweth  of  his 
sepulchre  unto  this  day.” 

By  Nebo’s  lonelv  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan’s  wave, 

In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab 
There  lies  a  lonely  grave. 

And  no  man  knows  that  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e’er, 

For  the  angels  of  God  upturn’d  the  sod 
And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 
That  ever  pass’d  on  earth  ; 

But  no  man  heard  the  trampling, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth  — 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  back  when  night  is  done, 

And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean’s  cheek 
Grows  into  the  great  sun. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS." 


581 


Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 
Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 
Open  their  thousand  leaves  ; 

So  without  sound  of  music, 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 

Silently  down  from  the  mountain’s  crown 
The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle 
On  gray  Beth-peor’s  height, 

Out  of  his  lonely  eyrie 

Look’d  on  the  wondrous  sight ; 
Perchance  the  lion  stalking, 

Still  shuns  that  hallow’d  spot, 

For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 
That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

But  when  the  warrior  dietli, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 

With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drum, 
Follow  his  funeral  car; 

Thev  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won, 

And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 
While  peals  the  minute  gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 
We  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 

And  give  the  bard  an  honor’d  place, 

With  costly  marble  drest, 

In  the  great  minster  transept 
Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 

And  the  organ  rings,  and  the  sweet  choir 
sings 

Along  the  emblazon’d  wall. 

This  was  the  truest  warrior 
That  ever  buckled  sword, 

This  the  most  gifted  poet 
That  ever  breathed  a  word  ; 

And  never  earth’s  philosopher 
Traced,  with  his  golden  pen, 

On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage 
As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor, — 

The  hillside  for  a  pall, 

To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 
With  stars  for  tapers  tall, 


And  the  dark  rock-pines  like  tossing 
plumes, 

Over  his  bier  to  wave, 

And  God’s  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land, 
To  lay  him  in  the  grave? 

In  that  strange  grave  without  a  name, 
Whence  his  uncoffin’d  clay 
Shall  break  again,  O  wondrous  thought ! 

Before  the  judgment  day, 

And  stand  with  glory  wrapt  around 
On  the  hills  he  never  trod, 

And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life 
With  the  Incarnate  Son  of  God. 

0  lonely  grave  in  Moab’s  land ! 

O  dark  Beth-peor’s  hill ! 

Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 

God  hath  His  mysteries  of  grace, 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 

He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  hidden  sleep 
Of  him  He  loved  so  well. 

Cecil  Frances  Alexander. 

.  - *<>« - 

The  Ninety  and  Nine. 

There  were  ninety  and  nine  that  safely 
lay 

In  the  shelter  of  the  fold, 

But  one  was  out  on  the  hills  away. 

Far  off  from  the  gates  of  gold — 

Away  on  the  mountains  wild  and  bare, 
Away  from  the  tender  Shepherd’s  care. 

“  Lord,  Thou  hast  here  Thy  ninety  and 
nine ; 

Are  they  not  enough  for  Thee?” 

But  the  Shepherd  made  answer:  “’Tis  of 
mine 

Has  wander’d  away  from  me  ; 

•  And  although  the  road  be  rough  and  steep. 
I  go  to  the  desert  to  find  my  sheep.” 

But  none  of  the  ransom’d  ever  knew 
How  deep  were  the  waters  cross’d  ; 

Nor  how  dark  was  the  night  that  the  Lord 
pass’d  through 

Ere  He  found  His  sheep  that  was  lost. 
Out  in  the  desert  He  heard  its  cry — 

Sick  and  helpless,  and  ready  to  die. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


44  Lord,  whence  are  those  blood-drops  all 
the  way 

That  mark  out  the  mountain’s  track?” 

44  They  were  shed  for  one  who  had  gone 
astray 

Ere  the  Shepherd  could  bring  him 
back.” 

44  Lord,  whence  are  Thy  hands  so  rent  and 
torn  ?” 

44  They  are  pierced  to-night  by  many  a 
thorn.” 

But  all  thro’  the  mountains,  thunder-riven, 
And  up  from  the  rocky  steep, 

There  rose  a  cry  to  the  gate  of  heaven, 

44  Rejoice  !  I  have  found  My  sheep  !” 
And  the  angels  echo’d  around  the  throne, 

44  Rejoice,  for  the  Lord  brings  back  His 
own !” 

Elizabeth  C.  Clephaxe. 

- 

Retirement. 

Far  from  the  world,  O  Lord,  I  flee, 

From  strife  and  tumult  far;  • 

From  scenes  where  Satan  wages  still 
His  most  successful  war. 

The  calm  retreat,  the  silent  shade, 

With  prayer  and  praise  agree, 

And  seem  by  Thy  sweet  bounty  made 
For  those  who  follow  Thee. 

There,  if  Thy  Spirit  touch  the  soul, 

And  grace  her  mean  abode, 

Oh,  with  what  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 
She  communes  with  her  God! 

There,  like  the  nightingale,  she  pours 
Her  solitarv  lavs, 

Nor  asks  a  witness  of  her  song, 

Nor  thirsts  for  human  praise. 

Author  and  Guardian  of  my  life, 

Sweet  Source  of  light  divine, 

And,  all  harmonious  names  in  one, 

My  Saviour  !  Thou  art  mine  ! 

What  thanks  I  owe  Thee,  and  what  love, 

A  boundless,  endless  store, 

Shall  echo  through  the  realms  above 
When  time  shall  be  no  more  ! 

William  Cowper. 


Lord ,  shall  thy  Children  come 
to  Thee? 

Lord,  shall  thy  children  come  to  Thee  ? 

A  boon  of  love  divine  we  seek  ; 

Brought  to  Thine  arms  in  infancy, 

Ere  heart  could  feel,  or  tongue  could 
speak, 

Thy  children  pray  for  grace,  that  they 
May  come  themselves  to  Thee  to-day. 

Lord,  shall  we  come  ?  and  come  again, 

Oft  as  we  see  Thy  table  spread, 

And,  tokens  of  Thy  dying  pain, 

The  wine  pour’d  out,  the  broken  bread? 
Bless,  bless,  O  Lord,  Thy  children’s  prayer, 
That  they  may  come  and  find  Thee  there. 

Lord,  shall  we  come  ?  not  thus  alone 
At  holv  time  or  solemn  rite, 

But  every  hour  till  life  be  flown, 

Through  weal  or  woe,  in  gloom  or  light, 
Come  to  Thy  throne  of  grace,  that  we 
In  faith,  hope,  love,  confirm’d  may  be. 

Lord,  shall  we  come,  come  yet  again  ? 

Thy  children  ask  one  blessing  more  : 

To  come,  not  now  alone,  but  then, 

When  life,  and  death,  and  time  are  o’er; 
Then,  then  to  come,  O  Lord,  and  be 

Confirm’d  in  heaven,  confirm’d  by  Thee. 

Samuel  Hixds. 

- »o» - 

When  our  Heads  are  Bowed 
with  Woe. 

When  our  heads  are  bow’d  with  woe, 
When  our  bitter  tears  o’erflow, 

When  we  mourn  the  lost,  the  dear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear. 

Thou  our  throbbing  flesh  hast  worn, 
Thou  our  mortals  griefs  hast  borne, 

Thou  hast  shed  the  human  tear ; 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear. 

When  the  sullen  death-bell  tolls 
For  our  own  departed  souls, 

When  our  final  doom  is  near, 

Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear. 

Thou  hast  bow’d  the  dying  head, 

Thou  the  blood  of  life  hast  shed, 

Thou  hast  fill’d  a  mortal  bier ; 

Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS:’ 


583 


When  the  heart  is  sad  within 
With  the  thought  of  all  its  sin, 

When  the  spirit  shrinks  with  fear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear. 

Thou  the  shame,  the  grief,  hast  known, 
Though  the  sins  were  not  Thine  own ; 
Thou  hast  deign’d  their  load  to  bear; 

Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear. 

Henry  Hart  Milman. 


PSALM  CXXI. 

Up  to  the  hills  I  lift  mine  eyes, 

The  eternal  hills  bevond  the  skies  ; 

Thence  all  her  help  my  soul  derives, 

There  my  Almighty  Refuge  lives. 

He  lives,  the  everlasting  God, 

That  built  the  world,  that  spread  the  flood ; 
The  heavens  with  all  their  hosts  he  made, 
And  the  dark  regions  of  the  dead. 

He  guides  our  feet,  He  guards  our  way ; 
His  morning  smiles  bless  all  the  day ; 

He  spreads  the  evening  veil,  and  keeps 
The  silent  hours  while  Israel  sleeps. 

Israel,  a  name  divinely  blest, 

May  rise  secure,  securely  rest ; 

Thy  holy  Guardian’s  wakeful  eyes 
Admit  no  slumber  nor  surprise. 

No  sun  shall  smite  thy  head  by  day, 

Nor  the  pale  moon  with  sickly  ray 
Shall  blast  thy  couch  ;  no  baleful  star 
Dart  his  malignant  fire  so  far. 

Should  earth  and  hell  with  malice  burn, 
Still  thou  shalt  go,  and  still  return, 

Safe  in  the  Lord  ;  His  heavenly  care 
Defends  thy  life  from  every  snare. 

On  thee  foul  spirits  have  no  power  ; 

And,  in  thy  last  departing  hour, 

Angels,  that  trace  the  airy  road, 

Shall  bear  thee  homeward  to  thy  God. 

«/ 

Isaac  Watts. 

•O*  — 

A  LANCASHIRE  DOXOLOGY. 

“  Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings 
flow.” 

Praise  Him  who  sendeth  joy  and  woe. 


The  Lord  who  takes,  —  the  Lord  who 
gives,— 

Oh,  praise  Him,  all  that  dies  and  lives. 

He  opens  and  He  shuts  His  hand, 

But  why,  we  cannot  understand  : 

Pours  and  dries  up  His  mercies’  flood, 

And  yet  is  still  All-perfect  Good. 

We  fathom  not  the  mighty  plan, 

The  mystery  of  God  and  man  ; 

We  women,  when  afflictions  come, 

We  only  suffer  and  are  dumb. 

And  when,  the  tempest  passing  by, 

He  gleams  out,  sunlike,  through  the  sky, 
We  look  up,  and,  through  black  clouds 
riven, 

We  recognize  the  smile  of  Heaven. 

Ours  is  no  wisdom  of  the  wise, 

We  have  no  deep  philosophies: 

Childlike,  we  take  both  kiss  and  rod, 

For  he  who  loveth  knoweth  God. 

Dinah  Maria  Muloch  Craik. 

-  ♦04 - 

The  God  of  Abraham  Praise. 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise, 

Who  reigns  enthroned  above, 
Ancient  of  everlasting  days, 

And  God  of  Love  ! 

Jehovah  !  Great  I  Am  ! 

By  earth  and  heaven  contest ; 

I  bow  and  bless  the  sacred  Name, 

For  ever  blest ! 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise  ! 

At  whose  supreme  command 
From  earth  I  rise,  and  seek  the  joys 
At  His  right  hand  : 

I  all  on  earth  forsake, 

Its  wisdom,  fame,  and  power, 

And  Him  my  only  portion  make, 

My  Shield  and  Tower. 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise  ! 

Whose  all-sufficient  grace 
Shall  guide  me  all  my  happy  days 
In  all  my  ways  : 

He  calls  a  worm  His  friend  ! 

He  calls  Himself  my  God  ! 

And  He  shall  save  me  to  the  end 
Through  Jesus’  Blood. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


He  by  Himself  bath  sworn, 

I  on  His  oath  depend  ; 

I  shall,  on  eagle’s  wings  upborne, 

To  heaven  ascend  ; 

I  shall  behold  His  face, 

I  shall  His  power  adore, 

And  sing  the  wonders  of  His  grace 
For  evermore ! 

Though  Nature’s  strength  decay, 

And  earth  and  hell  withstand, 

To  Canaan’s  bounds  I  urge  my  way 
At  His  command  : 

The  watery  deep  I  pass 
With  Jesus  in  mv  view, 

And  through  the  howling  wilderness 
My  way  pursue. 

The  goodly  land  I  see, 

With  peace  and  plenty  blest, 

A  land  of  sacred  libertv, 

And  endless  rest  : 

There  milk  and  honey  flow, 

v  7 

And  oil  and  wine  abound, 

And  trees  of  life  for  ever  grow, 

With  Mercy  crown’d. 

There  dwells  the  Lord  our  King, 

The  Lord  our  Righteousness, 
Triumphant  o’er  the  world  and  sin, 
The  Prince  of  Peace  ! 

On  Sion’s  sacred  height 

His  kingdom  still  maintains, 

And,  glorious  with  His  saints  in  light, 
For  ever  reigns  ! 

He  keeps  His  own  secure  ; 

He  guards  them  by  His  side  ; 
Arrays  in  garments  white  and  pure 
His  spotless  Bride ; 

With  streams  of  sacred  bliss, 

With  groves  of  living  joys, 

With  all  the  fruits  of  Paradise, 

He  still  supplies. 

Before  the  great  Three-One 
Thev  all  exulting  stand, 

And  tell  the  wonders  He  hath  done 
Through  all  their  land  ; 

The  listening  spheres  attend 
And  swell  the  growing  fame, 

And  sing,  in  songs  which  never  end, 
The  wondrous  Name ! 


The  God  who  reigns  on  high, 

The  great  Archangels  sing, 

And,  “  Holy,  holy,  holy,”  cry, 

“  Almighty  King ! 

Who  Was,  and  Is,  the  same, 

And  evermore  shall  be  ! 

Jehovah  !  Father  !  Great  I  Am  ! 

We  worship  Thee !” 

Before  the  Saviour’s  face 
The  ransom’d  nations  bow, 

O’erwhelm’d  at  His  Almighty  grace, 

For  ever  new  : 

He  shows  His  prints  of  love  ; 

They  kindle  to  a  flame, 

And  sound,  through  all  the  worlds  above, 
The  slaughter’d  Lamb  ! 

The  whole  triumphant  host 
Give  thanks  to  God  on  high  ; 

“  Hail !  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost !” 
They  ever  cry : 

Hail !  Abraham’s  God,  and  mine  ! 

I  join  the  heavenly  lays  ; 

All  might  and  majesty  are  Thine, 

And  endless  praise ! 

Thomas  Olivers. 

- »o» - 

0  Tiiou,  from  Whom  all  Good¬ 
ness  Flows. 

O  Thou,  from  whom  all  goodness  flows, 

I  lift  my  heart  to  Thee ; 

In  all  my  sorrows,  conflicts,  woes, 

Dear  Lord,  remember  me  ! 

When  groaning  on  my  burden’d  heart 
My  sins  lie  heavily, 

My  pardon  speak,  new  peace  impart, 

In  love  remember  me ! 

Temptations  sore  obstruct  my  way ; 

And  ills  I  cannot  flee  : 

Oh,  give  me  strength,  Lord,  as  my  day; 
For  good  remember  me ! 

Distrest  with  pain,  disease,  and  grief, 

This  feeble  body  see ! 

Grant  patience,  rest,  and  kind  relief; 

Hear,  and  remember  me  ! 

If  on  my  face,  for  Thy  dear  Name, 

Shame  and  reproaches  be ; 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


585 


All  hail  reproach,  and  welcome  shame, 

If  Thou  remember  me  ! 

The  hour  is  near;  consign’d  to  death 

I  own  the  just  decree  : 

Saviour  !”  with  my  last  parting  breath, 

I’ll  cry,  “  Remember  me !” 

Thomas  Haweis. 

—  ■  - 

Come,  thou  Fount  of  Every 
Blessing. 

Come,  Thou  Fount  of  every  blessing, 
Tune  mine  heart  to  sing  Thy  grace; 

Streams  of  mercy,  never  ceasing, 

Call  for  songs  of  loudest  praise. 

Teach  me  some  melodious  sonnet, 

Sung  by  flaming  tongues  above ; 

Praise  the  mount — I’m  fix’d  upon  it — 
Mount  of  God’s  unchanging  love  ! 

Here  I  raise  my  Ebenezer ! 

Hither  by  Thine  help  I’m  come; 

And  I  hope,  by  Thy  good  pleasure, 
Safely  to  arrive  at  home. 

Jesus  sought  me  when  a  stranger, 
Wandering  from  the  fold  of  God; 

He,  to  rescue  me  from  danger. 
Interposed  with  precious  blood. 

Oh,  to  grace  how  great  a  debtor 
Daily  I’m  constrain’d  to  be ! 

Let  that  grace  now,  like  a  fetter, 

Bind  my  wandering  heart  to  Thee; 

Prone  to  wander,  Lord,  I  feel  it, 

Prone  to  leave  the  God  I  love ; 

Here’s  mine  heart,  oh  take  and  seal  it; 
Seal  it  from  Thy  courts  above. 

Robert  Robinson. 


The  Omnipotent  Decree. 

Stand  the  omnipotent  decree ! 

Jehovah’s  will  be  done ! 

Nature’s  end  we  wait  to  see, 

And  hear  her  final  groan. 

Let  this  earth  dissolve,  and  blend 
In  death  the  wicked  and  the  just; 
Let  those  ponderous  orbs  descend, 
And  grind  us  into  dust : — 

Rests  secure  the  righteous  man  ; 

At  his  Redeemer’s  beck, 


Sure  to  emerge  and  rise  again, 

And  mount  above  the  wreck. 

Lo  !  the  heavenly  spirit  towers, 

Like  flames,  o’er  Nature’s  funeral  pyre, 
Triumphs  in  immortal  powers. 

And  claps  his  wings  of  fire  ! 

Nothing  hath  the  just  to  lose, 

By  worlds  on  worlds  destroy’d; 

Far  beneath  his  feet  he  views, 

With  smiles,  the  flaming  void  ; 

Sees  this  universe  renew’d, 

The  grand  millennial  reign  begun; 
Shouts,  with  all  the  sons  of  God, 

Around  the  eternal  throne. 

Resting  in  this  glorious  hope 

To  be  at  last  restored,  7 

Yield  we  now  our  bodies  up 

To  earthquake,  plague,  or  sword. 
Listening  for  the  call  divine, 

The  latest  trumpet  of  the  seven ; 

Soon  our  soul  and  dust  shall  join, 

And  both  fly  up  to  heaven. 

Charles  Wesley. 

■  -  »o« - 

Complaining. 

Do  not  beguile  my  heart, 

Because  Thou  art 

My  power  and  wisdom.  Put  me  not  to 
shame, 

Because  I  am 

Thy  clay  that  weeps,  Thy  dust  that 
calls. 

Thou  art  the  Lord  of  glory — 

The  deed  and  story 
Are  both  Thy  due  ;  but  I,  a  silly  fly, 

That  live  or  die 
According  as  the  weather  falls. 

Art  Thou  all  justice,  Lord? 

Shows  not  Thy  word 

More  attributes  ?  Am  I  all  throat  or  eye, 
To  weep  or  cry  ? 

Have  I  no  parts  but  those  of  grief? 

Let  not  Thy  wrathful  power 
Afflict  my  hour, 

My  inch  of  life  ;  or  let  Thy  gracious  power 
Contract  my  hour, 

That  I  may  climb  and  find  relief. 

George  Herbert 


586 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


On  a  Prayer-Book 
sent  to  Mrs.  M.  E. 

Lo  !  here  a  little  volume,  but  great  book, 
(Fear  it  not,  sweet, 

It  is  no  hypocrite  !) 

Much  larger  in  itself  than  in  its  look ! 

It  is — in  one  rich  handful — heaven  and 
all 

Heaven’s  royal  hosts  encamp’d  —  thus 
small 

To  prove,  that  true  schools  use  to  tell, 

A  thousand  angels  in  one  point  can 
dwell. 

It  is  love’s  great  artillery, 

Which  here  contracts  itself,  and  comes  to 
lie 

Close  couch’d  in  your  white  bosom,  and 
from  thence, 

As  from  a  snowy  fortress  of  defence, 
Against  the  ghostly  foe  to  take  your 
part, 

And  fortify  the  hold  of  your  chaste 
heart. 

It  is  the  armory  of  light — 

Let  constant  use  but  keep  it  bright, 

You’ll  find  it  yields 
To  holy  hands  and  humble  hearts 
More  swords  and  shields 
Than  sin  hath  snares,  or  hell  hath  darts. 
Only  be  sure 
The  hands  be  pure 

That  hold  these  weapons,  and  the  eyes 
Those  of  turtles — chaste  and  true, 

Wakeful  and  wise. 

Here  is  a  friend  shall  fight  for  you ; 

Hold  but  this  book  before  your  heart, 

Let  prayer  alone  to  play  his  part. 

But  oh  !  the  heart 

That  studies  this  high  art 

Must  be  a  sure  housekeeper, 

And  yet  no  sleeper. 

Dear  soul,  be  strong, 

Mercy  will  come  ere  long, 

And  bring  her  bosom  full  of  blessings — 
Flowers  of  never-fading  graces, 

To  make  immortal  dressings 
For  worthy  souls,  whose  wise  embraces 
Store  up  themselves  for  Him  who  is  alone 
The  Spouse  of  virgins  and  the  Virgin’s 
Son. 


But  if  the  noble  Bridegroom,  when  He 
comes, 

Shall  find  the  wandering  heart  from 
home, 

Leaving  her  chaste  abode 
To  gad  abroad — 

Amongst  the  gay  mates  of  the  god  of 
flies 

To  take  her  pleasures,  and  to  play, 
And  keep  the  devil’s  holiday — 

To  dance  in  the  sunshine  of  some  smiling, 
But  beguiling 

Spear  of  sweet  and  sugar’d  lies — 

Some  slippery  pair 
Of  false,  perhaps  as  fair, 

Flattering  but  forswearing  eyes — 

Doubtless  some  other  heart 
Will  get  the  start, 

And,  stepping  in  before, 

Will  take  possession  of  the  sacred  store 
Of  hidden  sweets  and  holy  joys — 
Words  which  are  not  heard  with  ears 
(These  tumultuous  shops  of  noise), 

Effectual  whispers,  whose  still  voice 
The  soul  itself  more  feels  than  hears — 

Amorous  languishments,  luminous  trances, 
Sights  which  are  not  seen  with  eyes — 
Spiritual  and  soul-piercing  glances, 

Whose  pure  and  subtle  lightning  flies 
Home  to  the  heart,  and  sets  the  house  on 
fire, 

And  melts  it  down  in  sweet  desire ; 

Yet  doth  not  stay 

To  ask  the  windows  leave  to  pass  that 
way— 

Delicious  deaths,  soft  exhalations 
Of  soul,  dear  and  divine  annihilations — 

A  thousand  unknown  rites 
Of  joys,  and  rarefied  delights — 

An  hundred  thousand  loves  and  graces, 
And  many  a  mystic  thing 
Which  the  divine  embraces 
Of  the  dear  Spouse  of  spirits  with  them 
will  bring, 

For  which  it  is  no  shame 
That  dull  mortality  must  not  know  a 
name. 

Of  all  this  hidden  store 
Of  blessings,  and  ten  thousand  more, 

If,  when  He  come, 

He  find  the  heart  from  home, 


“ PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


587 


Doubtless  He  will  unload 

Himself  some  otherwhere, 

And  pour  abroad 
His  precious  sweets 

On  the  fair  soul  whom  first  He  meets. 

Oh  fair  !  oh  fortunate !  oh  rich  !  oh  dear ! 
Oh,  happy  and  thrice  happy  she — 
Dear  silver-breasted  dove, 

Whoe’er  she  be, 

Whose  early  love 
With  winged  vows 

Makes  haste  to  meet  her  morning  Spouse, 

And  close  with  His  immortal  kisses — 
Happy  soul !  who  never  misses 
To  improve  that  precious  hour, 

And  every  day 
Seize  her  sweet  prey, 

All  fresh  and  fragrant  as  He  rises, 
Dropping  with  a  balmy  shower, 

A  delicious  dew  of  spices ! 

Oh !  let  that  happy  soul  hold  fast 

Her  heavenly  armful ;  she  shall  taste 

At  once  ten  thousand  paradises ; 

She  shall  have  power 
To  rifle  and  deflower 

The  rich  and  roseal  spring  of  those  rare 

sweets 

Which,  with  a  swelling  bosom,  there  she 

meets  ; 

Boundless  and  infinite,  bottomless  treasures 
Of  pure  inebriating  pleasures ; 

Happy  soul !  she  shall  discover 
What  joy,  what  bliss, 

How  many  heavens  at  once,  it  is, 

V  7  7 

To  have  a  God  become  her  lover. 

Richard  Crashaw. 

- - 

To  Keep  a  True  Lent. 

Is  this  a  fast — to  keep 
The  larder  lean, 

And  clean 

From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep? 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  fill 

The  platter  high  with  fish? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour — 

Or  ragged  to  go — 

Or  show 

A  downcast  look,  and  sour? 


No !  ’tis  a  fast  to  dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat, 

And  meat, 

Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 

From  old  debate 
And  hate — 

To  circumcise  thy  life. 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent ; 

To  starve  thy  sin, 

Not  bin  ; 

And  that’s  to  keep  thy  Lent. 

Roeert  Herrick. 


0  God  of  Bethel ,  by  whose 
Hand. 

O  God  of  Bethel,  by  whose  hand 
Thy  people  still  are  fed, 

Who  through  this  weary  pilgrimage 
Hast  all  our  fathers  led  ; 

Our  vows,  our  prayers,  we  now  present 
Before  Thy  throne  of  grace  ; 

God  of  our  fathers  !  be  the  God 
Of  their  succeeding  race. 

Through  each  perplexing  path  of  life 
Our  wandering  footsteps  guide ; 

Give  us  each  day  our  daily  bread, 

And  raiment  fit  provide. 

Oh  spread  Thy  covering  wdngs  around 
Till  all  our  wanderings  cease, 

And  at  our  Father’s  loved  abode 
Our  souls  arrive  in  peace ! 

Such  blessings  from  Thy  gracious  hand 
Our  humble  prayers  implore ; 

And  Thou  shalt  be  our  chosen  God, 
And  portion  evermore. 

Variation  by  John  Logan. 
(From  Philip  Doddridge.) 

- K»  —  ■ 

Nearer  Home. 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o’er  and  o’er  ; 

I’m  nearer  my  home  to-day 
Than  I  ever  have  been  before  •, 


588 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Nearer  my  Father’s  house, 

Where  the  many  mansions  be ; 
Nearer  the  great  white  throne; 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea; 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down  ; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross  ; 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown. 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 
Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream 
That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 
Come  to  the  dread  abysm : 

Closer  Death  to  my  lips 
Presses  the  awful  chrism. 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 
Have  almost  gain’d  the  brink  ; 

If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 
Even  to-day  than  I  think  ; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 
On  the  rock  of  a  living  faith ! 

Phcebe  Cary. 


Ye  Golden  Lamps  of  Heaven ; 
Farewell. 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell, 
With  all  your  feeble  light : 

Farewell,  thou  ever-changing  moon, 
Pale  empress  of  the  night. 

And  thou,  refulgent  orb  of  day, 

In  brighter  flames  array’d  ; 

My  soul,  that  springs  beyond  thy  sphere, 
No  more  demands  thine  aid. 

Ye  stars  are  but  the  shining  dust 
Of  my  divine  abode, 

The  pavement  of  those  heavenly  courts 
Where  I  shall  reign  with  God. 


The  Father  of  eternal  light 
Shall  there  His  beams  display, 

Nor  shall  one  moment’s  darkness  mix 
With  that  unvaried  day. 

No  more  the  drops  of  piercing  grief 
Shall  swell  into  mine  eyes  ; 

Nor  the  meridian  sun  decline 
Amid  those  brighter  skies. 

There  all  the  millions  of  His  saints 
Shall  in  one  song  unite, 

And  each  the  bliss  of  all  shall  view 
With  infinite  delight. 

Philip  Doddridge. 

- - 

Songs  of  praise  the  Angels 

Sang. 

Songs  of  praise  the  angels  sang, 
Heaven  with  hallelujahs  rang, 

When  Jehovah’s  work  begun, 

When  He  spake  and  it  was  done. 

Songs  of  praise  awoke  the  morn, 

When  the  Prince  of  Peace  was  born  ; 
Songs  of  praise  arose  when  He 
Captive  led  captivity. 

Heaven  and  earth  must  pass  away, 
Songs  of  praise  shall  crown  that  day ; 
God  will  make  new  heavens,  new  earth, 
Songs  of  praise  shall  hail  their  birth. 

And  can  man  alone  be  dumb, 

Till  that  glorious  kingdom  come  ? 

No  :  the  Church  delights  to  raise 
Psalms,  and  hymns,  and  songs  of  praise. 

Saints  below,  with  heart  and  voice, 

Still  in  songs  of  praise  rejoice, 

Learning  here,  by  faith  and  love, 

Songs  of  praise  to  sing  above. 

Borne  upon  their  latest  breath, 

Songs  of  praise  shall  conquer  death; 
Then,  amidst  eternal  joy, 

Songs  of  praise  their  powers  employ. 

James  Montgomery. 


-•O 


“ PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


589 


On  Another's  Sorrow. 

Can  I  see  another’s  woe, 

And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 

Can  I  see  another’s  grief, 

And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear, 

And  not  feel  my  sorrow’s  share  ? 

Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  fill’d? 

Can  a  mother  Sit  and  hear 
An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear? 

No  !  no  !  never  can  it  be — 

Never,  never  can  it  be! 

And  can  He  who  smiles  on  all, 

Hear  the  wren  with  sorrows  small, 
Hear  the  small  bird’s  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear, — 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 

Pouring  pity  in  their  breast? 

And  not  sit  the  cradle  near, 

WTeeping  tear  on  infant’s  tear? 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away? 

Oh,  no  !  never  can  it  be — 

Never,  never  can  it  be ! 

He  doth  give  His  joy  to  all; 

He  becomes  an  infant  small, 

He  becomes  a  man  of  woe, 

He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh, 

And  thy  Maker  is  not  nigh ; 

Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear, 

And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

Oh  !  He  gives  to  us  His  joy, 

That  our  griefs  He  may  destroy. 

Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone 
He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 

William  Blake. 

- - 

Passing  Under  the  Rod. 

I  saw  the  young  bride  in  her  beauty  and 
pride, 

Bedeck’d  in  her  snowy  array  ; 

And  the  bright  flush  of  joy  mantled  high 
on  her  cheek, 

And  the  future  look’d  blooming  and  gay : 


And  with  woman’s  devotion  she  laid  her 
fond  heart 

At  the  shrine  of  idolatrous  love, 

And  she  anchor’d  her  hopes  to  this  perish¬ 
ing  earth, 

By  the  chain  which  her  tenderness 
wove. 

But  I  saw,  when  those  heartstrings  were 
bleeding  and  torn, 

And  the  chain  had  been  sever’d  in  two, 

She  had  changed  her  white  robes  for  the 
sables  of  grief, 

And  her  bloom  for  the  paleness  of 
woe ! 

But  the  Healer  was  there,  pouring  balm 
on  her  heart, 

And  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes, 

And  He  strengthen’d  the  chain  He  had 
broken  in  twain, 

And  fasten’d  it  firm  to  the  skies  ! 

There  had  whisper’d  a  voice — ’twas  the 
voice  of  her  God  : 

“  I  love  thee — I  love  thee — pass  under  the 
rod  /” 

I  saw  the  young  mother  in  tenderness 
bend 

O’er  the  couch  of  her  slumbering  boy, 

And  she  kiss’d  the  soft  lips  as  they  mur¬ 
mur’d  her  name, 

While  the  dreamer  lay  smiling  in  joy. 

Oh,  sweet  as  a  rosebud  encircled  with 
dew, 

When  its  fragrance  is  flung  on  the  air, 

So  fresh  and  so  bright  to  that  mother  he 
seem’d, 

As  he  lay  in  his  innocence  there. 

But  I  saw  when  she  gazed  on  the  same 
lovely  form, 

Pale  as  marble,  and  silent,  and  cold, 

But  paler  and  colder  her  beautiful  boy, 

And  the  tale  of  her  sorrow  was  told ! 

But  the  Healer  was  there  who  had  stricken 
her  heart, 

And  taken  her  treasure  away  ; 

To  allure  her  to  heaven,  He  has  placed  it 
on  high, 

And  the  mourner  will  sweetly  obey. 

There  had  whisper’d  a  voice — ’twas  the 
voice  of  her  God  : 

“  I  love  thee — I  love  thee — pass  under  the 
rod  /” 


590 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  saw  the  fond  brother,  with  glances  of 
love, 

Gazing  down  on  a  gentle  young  girl, 

And  she  hung  on  his  arm,  and  breathed 
soft  in  his  ear, 

As  he  play’d  with  each  graceful  curl. 

Oh,  he  loved  the  sweet  tones  of  her  silvery 
voice, 

Let  her  use  it  in  sadness  or  glee  ; 

And  he  twined  his  arms  round  her  delicate 
form, 

As  she  sat  in  the  eve  on  his  knee. 

But  I  saw  when  he  gazed  on  her  death- 
stricken  face, 

And  she  breathed  not  a  word  in  his 
ear, 

And  he  clasped  his  arms  round  an  icy- 
cold  form, 

And  he  moisten’d  her  cheek  with  a  tear. 

But  the  Healer  was  there,  and  He  said  to 
him  thus, 

“  Grieve  not  for  thy  sister’s  short  life,” 

And  He  gave  to  his  arms  still  another  fair 
girl, 

And  he  made  her  his  own  cherish’d 
wife  ! 

There  had  whisper’d  a  voice — ’twas  the 
voice  of  his  God  : 

“I  love  thee — I  love  thee— pass  under  the 
rod!" 

I  saw,  too,  a  father  and  mother  who  loan’d 

On  the  arms  of  a  dear  gifted  son, 

And  the  star  in  the  future  grew  bright  to 
their  gaze, 

As  they  saw  the  proud  place  he  had 
won  ; 

And  the  fast-coming  evening  of  life  prom¬ 
ised  fair, 

And  its  pathway  grew  smooth  to  their 
feet, 

And  the  starlight  of  love  glimmer’d  bright 
at  the  end, 

And  the  whispers  of  fancy  were  sweet. 

And  I  saw  them  again,  bending  low  o’er 
the  grave, 

Where  their  hearts’  dearest  hope  had 
been  laid, 

And  the  star  had  gone  down  in  the  dark¬ 
ness  of  night, 

And  the  joy  from  their  bosoms  had 
tied. 


But  the  Healer  was  there,  and  His  arms 
were  around, 

And  He  led  them  with  tenderest  care  ; 
And  He  show’d  them  a  star  in  the  bright 
upper  world  ; 

’Twas  their  star  shining  brilliantly  there  ! 
They  had  each  heard  a  voice — ’twas  the 
voice  of  their  God  : 

“  I  love  thee — I  love  thee — pass  under  the 
rod  /” 

Mary  S.  B.  Dana. 

'  ■» 

The  Changed  Cross. 

It  was  a  time  of  sadness,  and  my  heart, 
Although  it  knew  and  loved  the  better 
part, 

Felt  wearied  with  the  conflict  and  the 
strife, 

7  • 

And  all  the  needful  discipline  of  life. 

And  while  I  thought  on  these  as  given  to 
me, 

My  trial-tests  of  faith  and  love  to  be, 

It  seem’d  as  if  I  never  could  be  sure 
That  faithful  to  the  end  I  should  endure. 

And  thus,  no  longer  trusting  to  His  might 
Who  says,  “  We  walk  by  faith  and  not  by 
sight,” 

Doubting,  and  almost  yielding  to  despair, 
The  thought  arose,  “  My  cross  I  cannot 
bear. 

“  Far  heavier  its  weight  must  surely  be 
Than  those  of  others  which  I  daily  see ; 
Oh  !  if  I  might  another  burden  choose, 
Methinks  I  should  not  fear  my  crown  to 
lose.” 

A  solemn  silence  reign’d  on  all  around, 
E’en  Nature’s  voices  utter’d  not  a  sound  ; 
The  evening  shadows  seem’d  of  peace  to 
tell, 

And  sleep  upon  my  weary  spirit  fell. 

A  moment’s  pause, — and  then  a  heavenly 
light 

Beam’d  full  upon  my  wondering,  raptured 
sight ; 

Angels  on  silvery  wings  seem’d  every¬ 
where, 

And  angels’  music  thrill’d  the  balmy  air. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


591 


Then  One,  more  fair  than  all  the  rest  to 
see, 

One  to  whom  all  the  others  bow’d  the 
knee, 

Came  gently  to  me,  as  I  trembling  lay, 
And,  “Follow  me,”  He  said;  “I  am  the 
Way.” 

Then,  speaking  thus,  He  led  me  far  above, 
And  there,  beneath  a  canopy  of  love, 
Crosses  of  divers  shape  and  size  were  seen, 
Larger  and  smaller  than  my  own  had  been. 

And  one  there  was  most  beauteous  to  be¬ 
hold,— 

A  little  one,  with  jewels  set  in  gold. 

Ah !  this,  methought,  I  can  with  comfort 
wear, 

For  it  will  be  an  easy  one  to  bear. 

And  so  the  little  cross  I  quickly  took, 

But  all  at  once  my  frame  beneath  it  shook  ; 
The  sparkling  jewels,  fair  were  they  to  see, 
But  far  too  heavy  was  their  weight  for  me. 

“  This  may  not  be,”  I  cried,  and  look’d 
again, 

To  see  if  there  was  any  here  could  ease  my 
pain ; 

But,  one  by  one,  I  pass’d  them  slowly  by, 
Till  on  a  lovely  one  I  cast  my  eye. 

Fair  flowers  around  its  sculptured  form 
entwined, 

And  grace  and  beauty  seem’d  in  it  com¬ 
bined. 

Wondering  I  gazed, — and  still  I  wonder’d 
more, 

To  think  so  many  should  have  pass’d  it  o’er. 

But  oh  that  form  so  beautiful  to  see 
Soon  made  its  hidden  sorrows  known  to 
me ; 

Thorns  lay  beneath  those  flowers  and  colors 
fair ; 

Sorrowing  I  said,  “  This  cross  I  may  not 
bear.” 

And  so  it  was  with  each  and  all  around, 
Not  one  to  suit  my  need  could  there  be 
found ; 

Weeping  I  laid  each  heavy  burden  down, 
As  my  Guide  gently  said,  “No  cross, — no 
crown.” 


At  length  to  Him  I  raised  my  sadden’d 
heart ; 

He  knew  its  sorrows,  bade  its  doubts  de¬ 
part  ; 

“  Be  not  afraid,”  He  said,  “  but  trust  in 
Me ; 

My  perfect  love  shall  now  be  shown  to 
thee.” 

And  then,  with  lighten’d  eyes  and  willing 
feet, 

Again  I  turn’d,  my  earthly  cross  to  meet ; 
With  forward  footsteps,  turning  not  aside, 
For  fear  some  hidden  evil  might  betide  ; 

And  there, — in  the  prepared,  appointed 
way, 

Listening  to  hear,  and  ready  to  obey, — 

A  cross  I  quickly  found  of  plainest  form, 
With  only  words  of  love  inscribed  thereon. 

With  thankfulness  I  raised  it  from  the 
rest, 

And  joyfully  acknowledged  it  the  best, — 
The  only  one,  of  all  the  many  there, 

That  I  could  feel  was  good  for  me  to  bear. 

And  while  I  thus  my  chosen  one  confess’d, 
I  saw  a  heavenly  brightness  on  it  rest ; 
And  as  I  bent,  my  burden  to  sustain, 

I  recognized  mg  own  old  cross  again. 

But,  oh !  how  different  did  it  seem  to  be, 
Now  I  had  learn’d  its  preciousness  to  see! 
No  longer  could  I  unbelieving  say, 
“Perhaps  another  is  a  better  way.” 

Ah,  no  !  henceforth  my  one  desire  shall 
be, 

That  He,  who  knows  me  best  should  choose 
for  me  ; 

And  so,  whate’er  His  love  sees  good  to 
send, 

I’ll  trust  it’s  best, — because  He  knows  the 
end. 

Mrs.  Charles  Hoeart 

- K>« - 

Weary. 

I  WOULD  have  gone  ;  God  bade  me  stay  : 

I  would  have  work’d ;  God  bade  me 
rest. 

He  broke  my  will  from  day  to  day  ; 

He  read  my  yearnings  unexpress’d, 

And  said  them  nay. 


592 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Now  I  would  stay  ;  God  bids  me  go  : 

Now  I  would  rest ;  God  bids  me  work. 
He  breaks  my  lieart  toss’d  to  and  fro  ; 

My  soul  is  wrung  with  doubts  that  lurk 
And  vex  it  so  ! 

I  go,  Lord,  where  Thou  sendest  me ; 

Day  after  day  I  plod  and  moil ; 

But,  Christ  my  God,  when  will  it  be 
That  I  mav  let  alone  my  toil, 

And  rest  with  Thee  ? 

Christina  Georgina  Rossetti. 

- •<>« - 

The  Valediction. 

Vaix  world,  what  is  in  thee  ? 

What  do  poor  mortals  see 
Which  should  esteemed  be 
Worthy  their  pleasure? 

Is  it  the  mother’s  womb, 

Or  sorrows  which  soon  come, 

Or  a  dark  grave  and  tomb ; 

Which  is  their  treasure? 

How  dost  thou  man  deceive 
By  thy  vain  glory? 

Why  do  thev  still  believe 
Thy  false  history  ? 

Is  it  children’s  book  and  rod, 

The  laborer’s  heavy  load, 

Poverty  undertrod, 

The  world  desireth  ? 

Is  it  distracting  cares, 

Or  heart-tormenting  fears, 

Or  pining  grief  and  tears, 

Which  man  requireth? 

Or  is  it  youthful  rage, 

Or  childish  toving? 

%i  o 

Or  is  decrepit  age 

Worth  man’s  enjoying? 

Is  it  deceitful  wealth, 

Got  by  care,  fraud,  or  stealth, 

Or  short,  uncertain  health, 

Which  thus  befool  men  ? 

Or  do  the  serpent’s  lies, 

By  the  world’s  flatteries 
And  tempting  vanities, 

Still  overrule  them? 

Or  do  they  in  a  dream 

Sleep  out  their  season  ? 

Or  borne  down  bv  lust’s  stream, 

v  7 

Which  conquers  reason  ? 


The  silly  lambs  to-day 
Pleasantly  skip  and  play, 

Whom  butchers  mean  to  slay, 
Perhaps  to-morrow ; 

In  a  more  brutish  sort 
Do  careless  sinners  sport, 

Or  in  dead  sleep  still  snort, 

As  near  to  sorrow ; 

Till  life,  not  well  begun, 

Be  sadly  ended, 

And  the  web  they  have  spun 
Can  ne’er  be  mended. 

What  is  the  time  that’s  gone, 

And  what  is  that  to  come  ? 

Is  it  not  now  as  none? 

The  present  stays  not. 

Time  posteth,  oh  how  fast ! 
Unwelcome  death  makes  haste; 
None  can  call  back  what’s  past — 
Judgment  delays  not; 

Though  God  bring  in  the  light, 
Sinners  awake  not — 

Because  hell’s  out  of  sight, 

They  sin  forsake  not. 

Man  walks  in  a  vain  show ; 

Thev  know,  vet  will  not  know  ; 

Sit  still  when  they  should  go — 

But  run  for  shadows, 

While  they  might  taste  and  know 
The  living  streams  that  flow, 

And  crop  the  flowers  that  grow. 

In  Christ’s  sweet  meadows. 
Life’s  better  slept  away 
Than  as  they  use  it ; 

In  sin  and  drunken  play 
Vain  men  abuse  it. 

Malignant  world,  adieu  ! 

Where  no  foul  vice  is  new — 

Only  to  Satan  true, 

God  still  offended  ; 

Though  taught  and  \yarn’d  by  God, 
And  His  chastising  rod, 

Keeps  still  the  way  that’s  broad, 
Never  amended. 

Baptismal  vows  some  make, 

But  ne’er  perform  them  ; 

If  angels  from  heaven  spake, 

’T would  not  reform  them. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS A 


593 


They  dig  for  hell  beneath, 

They  labor  hard  for  death, 

Run  themselves  out  of  breath 
To  overtake  it. 

Hell  is  not  had  for  naught, 
Damnation’s  dearly  bought, 

And  with  great  labor  sought — 
They’ll  not  forsake  it. 

Their  souls  are  Satan’s  fee — 

He’ll  not  abate  it. 

Grace  is  refused  that’s  free — 

Mad  sinners  hate  it. 

Vile  man  is  so  perverse, 

It’s  too  rough  work  for  verse 
His  badness  to  rehearse, 

And  show  his  folly ; 

He’ll  die  at  any  rates — 

He  God  and  conscience  hates, 

Yet  sin  he  consecrates,  ' 

And  calls  it  holy. 

The  grace  he’ll  not  endure 

Which  would  renew  him — 
Constant  to  all,  and  sure, 

Which  will  undo  him. 

His  head  comes  first  at  birth, 

And  takes  root  in  the  earth — 

As  nature  shooteth  forth, 

His  feet  grow  highest, 

To  kick  at  all  above, 

And  spurn  at  saving  love ; 

His  God  is  in  his  grove, 

Because  it’s  nighest ; 

He  loves  this  world  of  strife, 

Hates  that  would  mend  it ; 
Loves  death  that’s  called  life, 

Fears  what  would  end  it. 

All  that  is  good  he’d  crush, 

Blindly  on  sin  doth  rush — 

A  pricking  thorny  bush, 

Such  Christ  was  crown’d  with ; 
Their  worship’s  like  to  this — 

The  reed,  the  Judas  kiss  : 

Such  the  religion  is 

That  these  abound  with  ; 

They  mock  Christ  with  the  knee 
Whene’er  they  bow  it — 

As  if  God  did  not  see 

The  heart,  and  know  it. 

33 


Of  good  they  choose  the  least, 

Despise  that  which  is  best — 

The  joyful,  heavenly  feast 

Which  Christ  would  give  them  ; 
Heaven  hath  scarce  one  cold  wish  ; 
They  live  unto  the  flesh  ; 

Like  swine  they  feed  on  wash — 

Satan  doth  drive  them. 

Like  weeds,  they  grow  in  mire 
Which  vices  nourish — 

Where,  warm’d  by  Satan’s  fire, 

All  sins  do  flourish. 

Is  this  the  world  men  choose, 

For  which  they  heaven  refuse, 

And  Christ  and  grace  abuse, 

And  not  receive  it? 

Shall  I  not  guilty  be 
Of  this  in  some  degree, 

If  hence  God  would  me  free, 

And  I’d  not  leave  it? 

My  soul,  from  Sodom  flv, 

Lest  wrath  there  find  thee ; 

Thy  refuge-rest  is  nigh — 

Look  not  behind  thee  ! 

There’s  none  of  this  ado, 

None  of  the  hellish  crew; 

God’s  promise  is  most  true — 

Boldly  believe  it. 

My  -friends  are  gone  before, 

And  I  am  near  the  shore ; 

My  soul  stands  at  the  door — 

O  Lord,  receive  it ! 

It  trusts  Christ  and  His  merits — 

The  dead  He  raises  ; 

Join  it  with  blessed  spirits 

Who  sing  Thy  praises. 

Richard  Baxter. 

- 1^4 - 

I  WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY. 

I  would  not  live  alway — live  aiway 
below ! 

Oh  no,  I’ll  not  linger,  when  bidden  to  go. 
The  days  of  our  pilgrimage  granted  us 
here 

Are  enough  for  life’s  woes,  full  enough  for 
its  cheer. 

Would  I  shrink  from  the  path  which  the 
prophets  of  God, 

Apostles,  and  Martyrs  so  joyfully  trod? 


594 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


While  brethren  and  friends  are  all  hasten¬ 
ing  home, 

Like  a  spirit  unblest,  o’er  the  earth  would 
I  roam  ? 

I  would  not  live  alway :  I  ask  not  to 
stay 

Where  storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o’er 
the  way ; 

Where,  seeking  for  rest,  I  but  hover 
around 

Like  the  patriarch’s  bird,  and  no  resting 
is  found ; 

Where  Hope,  when  she  paints  her  gay  bow 
in  the  air, 

Leaves  her  brilliance  to  fade  in  the  night 
of  despair, 

And  Joy’s  fleeting  angel  ne’er  sheds  a  glad 
ray, 

Save  the  gleam  of  the  plumage  that  bears 
him  away. 

I  would  not  live  alway,  thus  fetter’d  by 

•sin, 

Temptation  without,  and  corruption  with¬ 
in  ; 

In  a  moment  of  strength,  if  I  sever  the 
chain, 

Scarce  the  victory  is  mine  ere  I’m  captive 
again. 

E’en  the  rapture  of  pardon  is  mingled 
with  fears, 

And  the  cup  of  thanksgiving  with  penitent 
tears. 

The  festival  trump  calls  for  jubilant 
songs, 

But  my  spirit  her  own  miserere  prolongs. 

I  would  not  live  alway :  no,  welcome  the 
tomb  ; 

Immortality’s  lamp  burns  there  bright  ’mid 
the  gloom. 

There,  too,  is  the  pillow  where  Christ 
bow’d  his  head  ; 

Oh,  soft  be  my  slumbers  on  that  holy 
bed ! 

And  then  the  glad  morn  soon  to  follow 
that  night, 

When  the  sunrise  of  glory  shall  burst  on 
my  sight, 

And  the  full  matin- song  as  the  sleepers  arise 

To  shout  in  the  morning,  shall  peal  through 
the  skies. 


Who,  who  would  live  alway,  away  from 
his  God, 

Away  from  yon  Heaven,  that  blissful 
abode, 

Where  the  rivers  of  pleasure  flow  o’er  the 
bright  plains, 

And  the  noontide  of  glory  eternally 
reigns ; 

Where  the  saints  of  all  ages  in  harmony 
meet, 

Their  Saviour  and  brethren  transported  to 
greet, 

While  the  anthems  of  rapture  unceasingly 
roll, 

And  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  the  feast  of 
the  soul  ? 

That  heavenly  music  !  what  is  it  I  hear  ? 

The  notes  of  the  harpers  ring  sweet  on  my 
ear ! 

And  see  soft  unfolding  those  portals  of 
gold, 

The  King  all  array’d  in  His  beauty  behold ! 

Oh  give  me,  oh  give  me  the  wings  of  a 
dove  ! 

Let  me  hasten  my  flight  to  those  mansions 
above : 

Ay  !  ’tis  now  that  my  soul  on  swift  pinions 
would  soar, 

And  in  ecstasy  bid  earth  adieu  evermore. 

William  Augustus  Muhlenberg. 

- »o» 

Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  a 
Friend. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave :  but  we  will 
not  deplore  thee, 

Though  sorrows  and  darkness  encompass 
the  tomb : 

Thy  Saviour  has  pass’d  through  its  portal 
before  thee, 

And  the  lamp  of  His  love  is  thy  guide 
through  the  gloom ! 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  :  we  no  longer 
behold  thee, 

Nor  tread  the  rough  paths  of  the  world 
by  thy  side ; 

But  the  wide  arms  of  Mercy  are  spread  to 
enfold  thee, 

And  sinners  may  die,  for  the  Sinless  has 
died! 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


505 


Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave :  and,  its  man¬ 
sion  forsaking, 

Perhaps  thy  weak  spirit  in  fear  linger’d 
long; 

Blit  the  mild  rays  of  Paradise  beam’d  on 
thy  waking, 

And  the  sound  which  thou  heard’st  was 
the  Seraphim’s  song ! 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave :  but  we  will  not 
deplore  thee ; 

Whose  God  was  thy  ransom,  thy  Guar¬ 
dian,  and  Guide! 

He  gave  thee,  He  took  thee,  and  He  will 
restore  thee ; 

And  death  has  no  sting,  for  the  Saviour 
has  died ! 

Reginald  Heber. 

- K>« - 

Burial  Hymn. 

Brother,  thou  art  gone  before  us ;  and 
thy  saintly  soul  is  flown 

Where  tears  are  wiped  from  every  eye,  and 
sorrow  is  unknown  ; 

From  the  burden  of  the  flesh,  and  from 
care  and  fear  released, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

The  toilsome  way  thou’st  travelled  o’er, 
and  borne  the  heavy  load ; 

But  Christ  hath  taught  thy  languid  feet  to 
reach  His  blest  abode: 

Thou’rt  sleeping  now,  like  Lazarus  upon 
his  Father’s  breast, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Sin  can  never  taint  thee  now,  nor  doubt  thy 
faith  assail, 

Nor  thy  meek  trust  in  Jesus  Christ  and  the 
Holy  Spirit  fail : 

And  there  thou’rt  sure  to  meet  the  good, 
whom  on  earth  thou  lovedst  best, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust,  the  solemn 
priest  hath  said ; 

So  we  lay  the  turf  above  thee  now,  and  we 
seal  thy  narrow  bed  ; 


But  thy  spirit,  brother,  soars  away  among 
the  faithful  blest, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

And  when  the  Lord  shall  summon  us,  whom 
thou  hast  left  behind, 

May  we,  untainted  by  the  world,  as  sure  a 
welcome  find ! 

May  each,  like  thee,  depart  in  peace,  to  be 
a  glorious  guest, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,- 
and  the  weary  are  at  rest ! 

Henry  Hart  Milman. 

- »o« 

A  Little  While. 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping 
I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  waking  and  the  sleeping, 
Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Sweet  hope ! 

’  Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading 
I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading, 
Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  home ! 

Sweet  hope ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting 
I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting, 
Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Sweet  hope ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  gathering  and  the  strowing 
I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing, 
Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Sweet  hope ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 


596 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 
I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  this  pulse’s  fever  beating, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  home ! 

Sweet  hope ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  frost-chain  and  the  fever 
I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  rock-waste  and  the  river, 
Beyond  the  ever  and  the  never, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Sweet  hope ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Horatius  Bonar. 

- •<>• - 

Address  to  the  Soul. 

Deathless  principle,  arise ! 

Soar,  thou  native  of  the  skies  ; 

Pearl  of  price,  by  Jesus  bought, 

To  His  glorious  likeness  wrought ! 

Go,  to  shine  before  His  throne; 

Deck  His  mediatorial  crown  ; 

Go,  His  triumphs  to  adorn  ; 

Made  for  God,  to  God  return ! 

Lo,  He  beckons  from  on  high ! 
Fearless  to  His  presence  fly! 

Thine  the  merit  of  His  Blood  ; 
Thine  the  Righteousness  of  God. 

Angels,  joyful  to  attend, 

Hovering  round  thy  pillow,  bend  ; 
Wait  to  catch  the  signal  given, 

And  escort  thee  quick  to  Heaven. 

Is  thy  earthly  house  distrest, 
Willing  to  retain  her  guest? 

’Tis  not  thou,  but  she,  must  die; 
Fly,  celestial  tenant,  fly  ! 

Burst  thy  shackles,  drop  thy  clay, 
Sweetly  breathe  thyself  away  ; 
Singing,  to  thy  crown  remove 
Swift  of  wing,  and  fired  with  love. 

Shudder  not  to  pass  the  stream; 
Venture  all  thv  care  on  Him  ; 

*>  i 


Him,  whose  dying  love  and  power 
Still’d  its  tossing,  hush’d  its  roar. 

Safe  is  the  expanded  wave, 

Gentle  as  a  summer’s  eve  ; 

Not  one  object  of  His  care 
Ever  suffer’d  shipwreck  there. 

See  the  haven  full  in  view  ; 

Love  Divine  shall  bear  thee  through  ; 
Trust  to  that  propitious  gale  ; 

Weigh  thy  anchor,  spread  thy  sail. 

Saints,  in  glory  perfect  made, 

Wait  thy  passage  through  the  shade: 
Ardent  for  thy  coming  o’er, 

See,  they  throng  the  blissful  shore  ! 

Mount,  their  transports  to  improve; 
Join  the  longing  choir  above ; 

Swiftly  to  their  wish  be  given ; 

Kindle  higher  joy  in  Heaven  ! 

Such  the  prospects  that  arise 
To  the  dying  Christian’s  eyes ; 

Such  the  glorious  vista  faith 

Opens  through  the  shades  of  death. 

Augustus  Montague  Toplady. 

■  ■  ■  ♦<>♦ - 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his 
Soul. 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 

Quit,  oh,  quit  this  mortal  frame  ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying, 
Oh,  the  pain,  the  bliss,  of  dying ! 

Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life  ! 

Hark  !  they  whisper  ;  angels  say, 
Sister  Spirit,  come  away. 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite — 

Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirit,  draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,  my  soul !  can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes — it  disappears  ! 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  !  my  ears 
With  sounds  seraphic  ring. 

Lend,  lend  your  wings  !  I  mount,  I  fly 
O  Grave  !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 

Alexander  Pope. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


507 


They  are  All  Gone. 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, 
And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here ! 

Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 

Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is 
drest 

After  the  sun’s  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 
Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days  ; 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and 
hoary, 

Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

0  holy  hope  !  and  high  humility, — 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 

These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  show’d 
them  me 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  death, — the  jewel  of  the 
just,— 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 

What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird’s 
nest  may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 

But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 

So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our 
wonted  themes, 

And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn  there ; 
But  when  the  hand  that  lockt  her  up  gives 
room, 

She’ll  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 
Created  glories  under  Thee  ! 

Resume  Thy  Spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
Into  true  liberty  ! 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and 
fill 

My  perspective  still  as  they  pass ; 


Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 

Henry  Vaughan. 

- K>» 

For  ever  with  the  Lord. 

For  ever  with  the  Lord ! 

Amen  !  so  let  it  be ! 

Life  from  the  dead  is  in  that  word, 
’Tis  immortality ! 

Here  in  the  body  pent, 

Absent  from  Him  I  roam, 

Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving  tent 
A  day’s  march  nearer  lionie. 

My  Father’s  house  on  high, 

Home  of  my  soul !  how  near, 

At  times,  to  faith’s  far-seeing  eye 
Thy  golden  gates  appear ! 

Ah  !  then  my  spirit  faints 
To  reach  the  land  I  love, 

The  bright  inheritance  of  saints, 
Jerusalem  above! 

Yet  clouds  will  intervene, 

And  all  my  prospect  flies ; 

Like  Noah’s  dove,  I  flit  between 
Rough  seas  and  stormy  skies. 

Anon  the  clouds  depart, 

The  winds  and  waters  cease ; 

While  sweetly  o’er  my  gladden’d  heart 
Expands  the  bow  of  peace ! 

Beneath  its  glowing  arch, 

Along  the  hallow’d  ground, 

I  see  cherubic  armies  march, 

A  camp  of  fire  around. 

I  hear  at  morn  and  even, 

At  noon  and  midnight  hour, 

The  choral  harmonies  of  heaven 
Earth’s  Babel  tongues  o’erpower. 

Then,  then  I  feel,  that  He, 
Remember’d  or  forgot, 

The  Lord  is  never  far  from  me, 

Though  I  perceive  Him  not. 

James  Montgomery. 


598 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


WHAT  are  These  in  Bright 
Arra  y. 

What  are  these  in  bright  array, 

This  innumerable  throng, 

Round  the  altar,  night  and  day, 

Hymning  one  triumphant  song? 

“  Worthy  is  the  Lamb,  once  slain, 

Blessing,  honor,  glory,  power, 

Wisdom,  riches,  to  obtain, 

New  dominion  every  hour.” 

These  through  fiery  trials  trod ; 

These  from  great  affliction  came ; 

Now,  before  the  Throne  of  God, 

Seal’d  with  His  Almighty  Name, 

Clad  in  raiment  pure  and  white, 
Victor-palms  in  every  hand, 

Through  their  dear  Redeemer’s  might, 
More  than  conquerors  they  stand. 

Hunger,  thirst,  disease  unknown, 

On  immortal  fruits  they  feed  ; 

Them  the  Lamb  amidst  the  Throne 
Shall  to  living  fountains  lead : 

Joy  and  gladness  banish  sighs  ; 

Perfect  love  dispels  all  fear  ; 

And  for  ever  from  their  eyes 

God  shall  wipe  away  the  tear. 

James  Montgomery. 

- - 

The  Better  Land. 

‘  I  hear  thee  speak  of  the  better  land ; 
Thou  call’st  its  children  a  happy  band ; 
Mother !  oh  where  is  that  radiant  shore — 
Shall  we  not  seek  it  and  weep  no  more  ? 

Is  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange 
blows, 

And  the  fire-flies  glance  through  the 
myrtle  boughs  ?” 

“Not  there,  not  there,  my  child!” 

“  Is  it  where  the  feathery  palmtrees  rise, 
And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny 
skies, 

Or  ’midst  the  green  islands  of  glittering 

seas 

Where  fragrant  forests  perfume  the 
breeze, 

And  strange,  bright  birds  on  their  starry 
wings 

Rear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious  things?” 

“Not  there,  not  there,  my  child!”  j 


“  Is  it  far  away  in  some  region  old 
Where  the  rivers  wander  o’er  sands  of 
gold, — 

Where  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby 
shine, 

And  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret 
mine, 

And  the  pearl  gleams  forth  from  the 
coral  strand, — 

Is  it  there,  sweet  mother,  that  better 
land  ?” 

“Not  there,  not  there,  my  child! 

“  Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy ! 

Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  songs  of 

joy, 

Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair, — 
Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there; 
Time  doth  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless 
bloom, 

For,  beyond  the  clouds,  and  beyond  the 
tomb, 

It  is  there,  it  is  there,  my  child  !” 
Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


Psalm  lxxxyii. 

Glorious  things  of  thee  are  spoken, 
Zion,  city  of  our  God  ; 

He,  whose  word  cannot  be  broken, 
Form’d  thee  for  His  own  abode: 

On  the  Rock  of  Ages  founded, 

What  can  shake  thy  sure  repose  ? 

With  salvation’s  walls  surrounded, 

Thou  mayst  smile  at  all  thy  foes. 

See,  the  streams  of  living  waters, 
Springing  from  eternal  love, 

Well  supply  thy  sons  and  daughters, 

And  all  fear  of  want  remove  : 

Who  can  faint,  while  such  a  river 
Ever  flows  their  thirst  t’  assuage ; 

Grace,  which,  like  the  Lord  the  giver, 
Never  fails  from  age  to  age? 

Round  each  habitation  hovering, 

See  the  cloud  and  fire  appear, 

For  a  glory  and  a  covering: 

Showing  that  the  Lord  is  near. 

Thus  deriving  from  their  banner 
Light  by  night,  and  shade  by  day, 

Safe  they  feed  upon  the  manna, 

Which  He  gives  them  when  they  pray. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


599 


Blest  inhabitants  of  Zion, 

Wash’d  in  the  Redeemer’s  blood! 
Jesus,  whom  their  souls  rely  on, 

Makes  them  kings  and  priests  to  God: 
’Tis  his  love  his  people  raises 
Over  self  to  reign  as  kings, 

And  as  priests,  his  solemn  praises 
Each  for  a  thank-off’ring  brings. 

Saviour,  if  of  Zion’s  city 

I,  through  grace,  a  member  am, 

Let  the  world  deride  or  pity, 

I  will  glory  in  Thy  Name; 

Fading  is  the  worldling’s  pleasure, 

All  his  boasted  pomp  and  show ; 

Solid  joys  and  lasting  treasure 
None  but  Zion’s  children  know. 

John  Newton. 

-  »o« - 

There  is  a  Happy  Land. 

There  is  a  happy  land, 

Far,  far  away, 

Where  saints  in  glory  stand, 

Bright,  bright  as  day. 

Oh,  how  they  sweetly  sing, 

Worthy  is  our  Saviour  King  ; 

Loud  let  his  praises  ring — 

Praise,  praise  for  aye  ! 

Come  to  this  happy  land — 

Come,  come  away ; 

Why  will  ye  doubting  stand, 

Why  still  delay  ? 

Oh,  we  shall  happy  be, 

When,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
Lord,  we  shall  live  with  Thee — 
Blest,  blest  for  aye. 

Bright  in  that  happy  land 
Beams  every  eye : 

Kept  by  a  Father’s  hand, 

Love  cannot  die. 

On,  then,  to  glory  run  ; 

Be  a  crown  and  kingdom  wron  ; 

And,  bright  above  the  sun, 

Reign,  reign  for  aye. 

Andrew  Young. 

- •<>♦ 

There  is  a  Land  of  Pure 
Delight. 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, 
Where  saints  immortal  reign, 


Infinite  day  excludes  the  night, 

And  pleasures  banish  pain. 

There  everlasting  spring  abides, 

And  never-withering  flowers  ; 

Death,  like  a  narrow  sea,  divides 
This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 

Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  dress’d  in  living  green  : 

So  to  the  Jews  old  Canaan  stood, 

While  Jordan  roll’d  between. 

But  timorous  mortals  start  and  shrink 
To  cross  this  narrow  sea, 

And  linger  shivering  on  the  brink, 

And  fear  to  launch  away. 

Oh  could  we  make  our  doubts  remove, 
These  gloomy  doubts  that  rise, 

And  see  the  Canaan  that  we  love 
With  unbeclouded  eyes, — 

Could  we  but  climb  where  Moses  stood, 
And  view  the  landscape  o’er, — 

Not  Jordan’s  stream,  nor  death’s  cold 
flood, 

Should  fright  us  from  the  shore. 

Isaac  Watts. 

♦04 

There  is  a  Dwelling-Place 
Above. 

There  is  a  dwelling-place  above  ; 

Thither,  to  meet  the  God  of  love, 

The  poor  in  spirit  go ; 

There  is  a  paradise  of  rest ; 

For  contrite  hearts  and  souls  distrest 
Its  streams  of  comfort  flow. 

There  is  a  goodly  heritage, 

Where  earthly  passions  cease  to  rage ; 

The  meek  that  haven  gain  : 

There  is  a  board,  where  they  who  pine, 

Hungry,  athirst,  for  grace  divine, 

May  feast,  nor  crave  again. 

There  is  a  voice  to  mercy  true ; 

To  them  who  mercy’s  path  pursue 
That  voice  shall  bliss  impart  ; 

There  is  a  sight  from  man  conceal’d  ; 

That  sight,  the  face  of  God  reveal’d, 

Shall  bless  the  pure  in  heart. 


600 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


There  is  a  name,  in  heaven  bestow’d  ; 

That  name,  which  hails  them  sons  of  God, 
The  friends  of  peace  shall  know : 
There  is  a  kingdom  in  the  sky, 

Where  they  shall  reign  with  God  on  high, 
Who  serve  Him  best  below. 

Lord !  be  it  mine  like  them  to  choose 
The  better  part,  like  them  to  use 

The  means  Thy  love  hath  given ! 

Be  holiness  my  aim  on  earth, 

That  death  be  welcomed  as  a  birth 
To  life  and  bliss  in  Heaven  ! 

Richard  Mant. 

- *o# - 

PSALM  L XXX IV. 

Pleasant  are  Thy  courts  above, 

In  the  land  of  light  and  love ; 

Pleasant  are  Thy  courts  below, 

In  this  land  of  sin  and  woe. 

Oh,  my  spirit  longs  and  faints 
For  the  converse  of  Thv  saints, 

For  the  brightness  of  Thy  face, 

For  Thy  fulness,  God  of  grace! 

Happy  birds  that  sing  and  fly 
Round  Thy  altars,  O  Most  High ! 
Happier  souls  that  find  a  rest 
In  a  Heavenly  Father’s  breast! 

Like  the  wandering  dove,  that  found 
Ko  repose  on  earth  around, 

They  can  to  their  ark  repair, 

And  enjoy  it  ever  there. 

Happy  souls  !  their  praises  flow 
Even  in  this  vale  of  woe ; 

Waters  in  the  desert  rise, 

Manna  feeds  them  from  the  skies : 

On  they  go  from  strength  to  strength, 
Till  they  reach  Thy  throne  at  length, 

At  Thy  feet  adoring  fall, 

Who  has  led  them  safe  through  all. 

Lord  !  be  mine  this  prize  to  win  ! 

Guide  me  through  a  world  of  sin ! 

Keep  me  by  Thy  saving  grace ; 

Give  me  at  Thy  side  a  place : 

Sun  and  Shield  alike  Thou  art  ; 

Guide  and  guard  my  erring  heart ! 
Grace  and  glory  flow  from  Thee ; 
Shower,  oh  shower  them,  Lord,  on  me ! 

Henry  Francis  Lyte. 


The  Pilgrims  of  the  Xight. 

Hark  !  hark !  my  soul !  angelic  songs  are 
swelling 

O’er  earth’s  green  fields  and  ocean's 
wave-beat  shore; 

How  sweet  the  truth  those  blessed  strains 
are  telling 

Of  that  new  life,  when  sin  shall  be  no 
more ! 

Angels  of  Jesus, 

Angels  of  light, 

Singing  to  welcome 
The  pilgrims  of  the  night ! 

Darker  than  night  life’s  shadows  fall 
around  us, 

And  like  benighted  men  we  miss  our 
mark  : 

God  hides  Himself,  and  grace  hath  scarce¬ 
ly  found  us, 

Ere  death  finds  out  his  victims  in  the 
dark. 

Angels  of  Jesus, 

Angels  of  light, 

Singing  to  welcome 

The  pilgrims  of  the  night ! 

Onward  we  go,  for  still  we  hear  them  sing¬ 
ing, 

“Come,  weary  souls,  for  Jesus  bids  you 
come;” 

And  through  the  dark,  its  echoes  sweetly 
ringing, 

The  music  of  the  Gospel  leads  us  home. 
Angels  of  Jesus, 

Angels  of  light, 

Singing  to  welcome 

The  pilgrims  of  the  night ! 

# 

Far,  far  away,  like  bells  at  evening  peal¬ 
ing, 

The  voice  of  Jesus  sounds  o’er  land  and 
sea, 

And  laden  souls  by  thousands  meekly 
stealing, 

Kind  Shepherd,  turn  their  weary  steps 
to  Thee. 

Angels  of  Jesus, 

Angels  of  light, 

Singing  to  welcome 

The  pilgrims  of  the  night ! 


11  PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


601 


Rest  comes  at  last,  though  life  be  long  and 
drearv, 

1/  r 

The  day  must  dawn,  and  darksome  night 
be  past, 

All  journeys  end  in  welcomes  to  the  weary, 

And  heaven,  the  heart’s  true  home,  will 
come  at  last. 

Angels  of  Jesus, 

Angels  of  light, 

Singing  to  welcome 

The  pilgrims  of  the  night! 

Cheer  up,  my  soul!  faith’s  moonbeams 
softly  glisten 

Upon  the  breast  of  life’s  most  troubled 
sea; 

And  it  will  cheer  thy  drooping  heart  to 
listen 

To  those  brave  songs  which  angels  mean 
for  thee. 

Angels  of  Jesus, 

Angels  of  light, 

Singing  to  welcome 

The  pilgrims  of  the  night! 

Angels!  sing  on,  your  faithful  watches 
keeping, 

Sing  us  sweet  fragments  of  the  songs 
above; 

While  we  toil  on,  and  soothe  ourselves  with 
weeping, 

Till  life’s  long  night  shall  break  in  end¬ 
less  love. 

Angels  of  Jesus, 

Angels  of  light, 

Singing  to  welcome 

The  pilgrims  of  the  night! 

Frederick  William  Faber. 


Paradise. 

0  Paradise  !  O  Paradise ! 

Who  doth  not  crave  for  rest? 

Who  would  not  seek  the  happy  land, 
Where  they  that  loved  are  blest? 
Where  loyal  hearts,  and  true, 
Stand  ever  in  the  light, 

All  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God’s  most  holy  sight. 

O  Paradise!  O  Paradise! 

The  world  is  growing  old ; 


Who  would  not  be  at  rest  and  free 
Where  love  is  never  cold, 

Where  loyal  hearts,  and  true, 
Stand  ever  in  the  light, 

All  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God’s  most  holy  sight? 

0  Paradise!  0  Paradise! 

Wherefore  doth  death  delay, 

Bright  death,  that  is  the  welcome  dawn 
Of  our  eternal  day, 

Where  loyal  hearts,  and  true, 
Stand  ever  in  the  light, 

All  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God’s  most  holy  sight? 

O  Paradise  !  O  Paradise ! 

’Tis  weary  waiting  here  : 

I  long  to  be  where  Jesus  is, 

To  feel,  to  see  Him  near; 

Where  loyal  hearts,  and  true, 

Stand  ever  in  the  light, 

All  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God’s  most  holy  sight. 

O  Paradise  !  O  Paradise ! 

I  want  to  sin  no  more; 

I  want  to  be  as  pure  on  earth 
As  on  thy  spotless  shore ; 

Where  loyal  hearts,  and  true, 

Stand  ever  in  the  light, 

All  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God’s  most  holy  sight. 

O  Paradise!  O  Paradise! 

I  greatly  long  to  see 

The  special  place  my  dearest  Lord 
Is  destining  for  me; 

Where  loval  hearts,  and  true. 
Stand  ever  in  the  light, 

All  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God’s  most  holy  sight. 

Frederick  William  Faber. 


Praise. 

Worship,  honor,  glory,  blessing, 

Be  to  Him  who  reigns  above! 
Young  and  old  Thy  Name  confessing, 
Saviour !  let  us  share  Thy  love ! 


602 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


As  the  saints  in  heaven  adore  Thee, 
We  would  bow  before  Thy  throne; 

As  Thine  angels  bow  before  Thee, 

So  on  earth  Thy  will  be  done ! 

Edward  Osler. 

- +o* - 

The  New  Jerusalem; 

Or,  the  Soul’s  Breathing  after  the 
Heavenly  Country. 

“Since  Christ’s  fair  truth  needs  no  man’s  art, 
Take  this  rude  song  in  better  part.” 

O  mother  dear,  Jerusalem, 

When  shall  I  come  to  thee  ? 

When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end — 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 

O  happy  harbor  of  God’s  saints  ! 

O  sweet  and  pleasant  soil ! 

In  thee  no  sorrows  can  be  found — 

No  grief,  no  care,  no  toil. 

In  thee  no  sickness  is  at  all, 

No  hurt,  nor  any  sore  ; 

There  is  no  death  nor  ugly  night, 

But  life  for  evermore. 

No  dimming  cloud  o’ershadows  thee, 
No  cloud  nor  darksome  night, 

But  every  soul  shines  as  the  sun — 

For  God  himself  gives  light. 

There  lust  and  lucre  cannot  dwell, 
There  envy  bears  no  stvay  ; 

There  is  no  hunger,  thirst,  nor  heat, 
But  pleasures  every  way. 

Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  ! 

Would  God  I  were  in  thee ! 

Oh  !  that  my  sorrows  had  an  end, 

Thy  joys  that  I  might  see  ! 

No  pains,  no  pangs,  no  grieving  grief, 
No  woeful  night  is  £here  ; 

No  sigh,  no  sob,  no  cry  is  heard — 

No  well-away,  no  fear. 

Jerusalem  the  city  is 
Of  God  our  King  alone  ; 

The  Lamb  of  God,  the  light  thereof, 
Sits  there  upon  His  throne. 

O  God  !  that  I  Jerusalem 
With  speed  may  go  behold  ! 

For  why?  the  pleasures  there  abound 
Which  here  cannot  be  told. 

Thy  turrets  and  thy  pinnacles 
With  carbuncles  do  shine — 


With  jasper,  pearl,  and  chrysolite, 
Surpassing  pure  and  fine. 

Thy  houses  are  of  ivory, 

Thy  windows  crystal  clear, 

Thy  streets  are  laid  with  beaten  gold — 
There  angels  do  appear. 

Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stone, 
Thy  bulwarks  diamond  square, 

Thy  gates  are  made  of  orient  pearl — 

O  God !  if  I  were  there  ! 

Within  thy  gates  nothing  can  come 
That  is  not  passing  clean  ; 

No  spider’s  web,  no  dirt,  nor  dust, 

No  filth  may  there  be  seen. 

Jehovah,  Lord,  now  come  away, 

And  end  my  griefs  and  plaints — 

Take  me  to  Thy  Jerusalem, 

And  place  me  with  Thy  saints  ! 

Who  there  are  crown’d  with  glory  great, 
And  see  God  face  to  face, 

They  triumph  still,  and  aye  rejoice — 
Most  happy  is  their  case. 

But  we  that  are  in  banishment 
Continually  do  moan  ; 

We  sigh,  we  mourn,  we  sob,  we  weep — 
Perpetually  we  groan. 

Our  sweetness  mixfed  is  with  gall, 

Our  pleasures  are  but  pain, 

Our  joys  not  worth  the  looking  on — 
Our  sorrows  aye  remain. 

But  there  they  live  in  such  delight, 

Such  pleasure  and  such  play, 

That  unto  them  a  thousand  years 
Seems  but  as  yesterday. 

O  my  sweet  home,  Jerusalem  ! 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see — 

The  King  sitting  upon  His  throne, 

And  thy  felicity  ? 

Thy  vineyards,  and  thy  orchards, 

So  wonderfully  rare, 

Are  furnish’d  with  all  kinds  of  fruit, 
Most  beautifully  fair. 

Thy  gardens  and  thy  goodly  walks 
Continually  are  green ; 

There  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant 
flowers 

As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 

There  cinnamon  and  sugar  grow, 

There  nard  and  balm  abound  ; 


“ PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS .” 


603 


No  tongue  can  tell,  no  heart  can  think, 
The  pleasures  there  are  found. 

There  nectar  and  ambrosia  spring — 
There  music’s  ever  sweet ; 

There  many  a  fair  and  dainty  thing 
Is  trod  down  under  feet. 

Quite  through  the  streets,  with  pleasant 
sound, 

The  flood  of  life  doth  flow  ; 

Upon  the  banks,  on  every  side, 

The  trees  of  life  do  grow. 

These  trees  each  month  yield  ripen’d 
fruit — 

For  evermore  they  spring  ; 

And  all  the  nations  of  the  world 
To  thee  their  honors  bring. 

Jerusalem,  God’s  dwelling-place, 

Full  sore  I  long  to  see  ; 

Oh  !  that  my  sorrows  had  an  end, 

That  I  might  dwell  in  thee  ! 

There  David  stands,  with  harp  in 
hand, 

As  master  of  the  choir  ; 

A  thousand  times  that  man  were  blest 
That  might  his  music  hear. 

There  Mary  sings  “  Magnificat,” 

With  tunes  surpassing  sweet ; 

And  all  the  virgins  bear  their  part, 
Singing  about  her  feet. 

“Te  Deum”  doth  St.  Ambrose  sing, 

St.  Austin  doth  the  like  ; 

Old  Simeon  and  Zacharie 
Have  not  their  songs  to  seek. 

There  Magdalene  hath  left  her  moan, 
And  cheerfully  doth  sing, 

With  all  blest  saints  whose  harmony 
Through  every  street  doth  ring. 

Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  ! 

Thy  joys  fain  would  I  see; 

Come  quickly,  Lord,  and  end  my  grief, 
And  take  me  home  to  Thee  ; 

Oh  !  paint  Thy  name  on  my  forehead, 
And  take  me  hence  away, 

That  I  may  dwell  with  Thee  in  bliss, 
And  sing  Thy  praises  aye. 

Jerusalem,  the  happy  home — 

Jehovah’s  throne  on  high  ! 


O  sacred  city,  queen,  and  wife 
Of  Christ  eternally  ! 

O  comely  queen  with  glory  clad, 

With  honor  and  degree, 

All  fair  thou  art,  exceeding  bright— 

No  spot  there  is  in  thee ! 

I  long  to  see  Jerusalem, 

The  comfort  of  us  all  ; 

For  thou  art  fair  and  beautiful — 

None  ill  can  thee  befall. 

In  thee,  Jerusalem,  I  say, 

No  darkness  dare  appear — 

No  night,  no  shade,  no  winter  foul — 

No  time  doth  alter  there. 

No  candle  needs,  no  moon  to  shine, 

No  glittering  star  to  light ; 

For  Christ,  the  King  of  righteousness, 
For  ever  shineth  bright. 

A  Lamb  unspotted,  white  and  pure 
To  Thee  doth  stand  in  lieu 
Of  light — so  great  the  glory  is 
Thine  heavenly  King  to  view. 

He  is  the  King  of  kings,  beset 
In  midst  His  servants’  sight ; 

And  they,  His  happy  household  all, 

Do  serve  Him  day  and  night. 

There,  there  the  choir  of  angels  sing — • 
There  the  supernal  sort 
Of  citizens,  which  hence  are  rid 
From  dangers  deep,  do  sport. 

There  be  the  prudent  prophets  all, 

The  apostles  six  and  six, 

The  glorious  martyrs  in  a  row, 

And  confessors  betwixt. 

There  doth  the  crew  of  righteous  men 
And  matrons  all  consist — 

Young  men  and  maids  that  here  on 
earth 

Their  pleasures  did  resist. 

The  sheep  and  lambs,  that  hardly 
’scaped 

The  snare  of  death  and  hell, 

Triumph  in  joy  eternally, 

Whereof  no  tongue  can  tell ; 

And  though  the  glory  of  each  one 
Doth  differ  in  degree, 

Yet  is  the  joy  of  all  alike 
And  common,  as  we  see 


604 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


There  love  and  charity  do  reign, 

And  Chrisi  is  all  in  all, 

Whom  they  most  perfectly  behold 
In  joy  celestial. 

They  love,  they  praise — they  praise,  they 
love  ; 

They  “  Holy,  holy,”  cry  ; 

They  neither  toil,  nor  faint,  nor  end, 

But  laud  continually. 

Oh  !  happy  thousand  times  were  I, 

If,  after  wretched  days, 

I  might  with  listening  ears  conceive 
Those  heavenly  songs  of  praise, 
Which  to  the  eternal  King  are  sung 
By  happy  wights  above, 

By  savkd  souls  and  angels  sweet, 

Who  love  the  God  of  love. 

Oh  !  passing  happy  were  my  state, 
Might  I  be  worthy  found 
To  wait  upon  my  God  and  King, 

His  praises  there  to  sound  ; 

And  to  enjoy  my  Christ  above, 

His  favor  and  His  grace, 

According  to  His  promise  made, 

Which  here  I  interlace  : 

“O  Father  dear,”  quoth  he,  “  let  them 
Which  Thou  hast  put  of  old 
To  me,  be  there  where  lo  !  I  am — 

Thy  glory  to  behold  ; 

Which  I  with  Thee  before  the  world 
Was  made  in  perfect  wise, 

Have  had — from  whence  the  fountain 
great 

Of  glory  doth  arise.” 

Again  :  “  If  any  man  will  serve 
Thee,  let  him  follow  Me  ; 

For  where  I  am,  he  there,  right  sure, 
Then  shall  My  servant  be.” 

And  still :  “  If  any  man  loves  Me, 

Him  loves  My  Father  dear, 

Whom  I  do  love — to  him  Myself 
In  glory  will  appear.” 

Lord,  take  away  my  misery, 

That  then  I  may  be  bold 
With  Thee,  in  Thy  Jerusalem, 

Thy  glory  to  behold  ; 

And  so  in  Zion  see  my  King, 

My  love,  my  Lord,  my  all — 


Where  now  as  in  a  glass  I  see, 

There  face  to  face  I  shall. 

Oh  !  blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart — - 
Their  Sovereign  they  shall  see  ; 

O  ye  most  happy,  heavenly  wights, 
Which  of  God’s  household  be  ! 

O  Lord,  with  speed  dissolve  my  bands, 
These  gins  and  fetters  strong  ; 

For  I  have  dwelt  within  the  tents 
Of  Kedar  over  long. 

Yet  search  me,  Lord,  and  find  me  out! 

Fetch  me  Thv  fold  unto, 

That  all  Thy  angels  may  rejoice, 

While  all  Thy  will  I  do. 

O  mother  dear  !  Jerusalem  ! 

When  shall  I  come  to  thee  ? 

When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end. 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see  ? 

Yet  once  again  I  pray  Thee,  Lord, 

To  quit  me  from  all  strife, 

That  to  Thy  hill  I  may  attain, 

And  dwell  there  all  my  life — 

With  cherubims  and  seraphims 
And  holy  souls  of  men, 

To  sing  Thy  praise,  O  God  of  hosts ! 
For  ever  and  amen  ! 

Author  Unknown. 


The  Celestial  Country. 

The  world  is  verv  evil ; 

The  times  are  waxing  late : 

Be  sober  and  keep  vigil; 

The  Judge  is  at  the  gate : 

The  Judge  that  comes  m  mercy, 

The  Judge  that  comes  with  might 
To  terminate  the  evil, 

To  diadem  the  right. 

When  the  just  and  gentle  Monarch 
Shall  summon  from  the  tomb, 

Let  man,  the  guilty,  tremble, 

For  Man,  the  God,  shall  doom. 
Arise,  arise,  good  Christian  ! 

Let  right  to  wrong  succeed ; 

Let  penitential  sorrow 

To  heavenly  gladness  lead; 

To  the  light  that  hath  no  evening, 
That  knows  nor  moon  nor  sun, 
The  light  so  new  and  golden, 

The  light  that  is  but  one. 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


60o 


And  when  the  Sole-Begotten 
Shall  render  up  once  more 
The  kingdom  to  the  Father 
Whose  own  it  was  before, — 

Then  glory  yet  unheard  of 
Shall  shed  abroad  its  ray, 
Resolving  all  enigmas, 

An  endless  Sabbath-day. 

Then,  then  from  his  oppressors 
The  Hebrew  shall  go  free, 

And  celebrate  in  triumph 
The  year  of  Jubilee; 

And  the  sunlit  land  that  recks  not 
Of  tempest  nor  of  fight, 

Shall  fold  within  its  bosom 
Each  happy  Israelite : 

The  home  of  fadeless  splendor, 

Of  flowers  that  fe*ar  no  thorn, 
Where  they  shall  dwell  as  children, 
Who  here  as  exiles  mourn. 

Midst  power  that  knows  no  limit, 
And  wisdom  free  from  bound, 
The  Beatific  vision 
Shall  glad  the  saints  around  : 

The  peace  of  all  the  faithful, 

The  calm  of  all  the  blest, 
Inviolate,  unvaried, 

Divinest,  sweetest,  best. 

Yes,  peace  !  for  war  is  needless, — 
Yes,  calm  !  for  storm  is  past, — 
And  goal  from  finish’d  labor, 

And  anchorage  at  last. 

That  peace — but  who  may  claim  it  ? 

The  guileless  in  their  way, 

Who  keep  the  ranks  of  battle, 

Who  mean  the  thing  they  say : 
The  peace  that  is  for  heaven, 

And  shall  be  for  the  earth : 

The  palace  that  re-echoes 
With  festal  song  and  mirth ; 

The  garden,  breathing  spices, 

The  paradise  on  high  ; 

Grace  beautified  to  glory, 

Unceasing  minstrelsy. 

There  nothing  can  be  feeble, 

There  none  can  ever  mourn, 

There  nothing  is  divided, 

There  nothing  can  be  torn : 

’Tis  fury,  ill,  and  scandal, 

’Tis  peaceless  peace  below  ; 

Peace,  endless,  strifeless,  ageless, 
The  halls  of  Sion  know : 


O  happy,  holy  portion, 

Refection  for  the  blest ; 

True  vision  of  true  beauty. 

Sweet  cure  of  all  distrest ! 

Strive,  man,  to  win  that  glory  ; 

Toil,  man,  to  gain  that  light ; 

Send  hope  before  to  grasp  it. 

Till  hope  be  lost  in  sight : 

Till  Jesus  gives  the  portion 
Those  blessed  souls  to  fill, 

The  insatiate,  yet  satisfied, 

The  full,  yet  craving  still. 

That  fulness  and  that  craving 
Alike  are  free  from  pain, 

Where  thou,  midst  heavenly  citizens, 

A  home  like  theirs  shalt  gain. 

Here  is  the  warlike  trumpet ; 

There,  life  set  free  from  sin  ; 

When  to  the  last  Great  Supper 
The  faithful  shall  come  in : 

When  the  heavenly  net  is  laden 
With  fishes  many  and  great ; 

So  glorious  in  its  fulness, 

Yet  so  inviolate : 

And  the  perfect  from  the  shatter’d, 

And  the  fall’n  from  them  that  stand, 
And  the  sheep-flock  from  the  goat-herd 
Shall  part  on  either  hand ! 

And  these  shall  pass  to  torment, 

And  those  shall  triumph,  then  ; 

The  new  peculiar  nation, 

Blest  number  of  blest  men. 

Jerusalem  demands  them : 

They  paid  the  price  on  earth, 

And  now  shall  reap  the  harvest 
In  blissfulness  and  mirth : 

The  glorious  holy  people, 

Who  evermore  relied 
Upon  their  Chief  and  Father, 

The  King,  the  Crucified  : 

The  sacred  ransom’d  number 
Now  bright  with  endless  sheen, 

Who  made  the  Cross  their  watchword 
Of  Jesus  Nazarene  : 

Who,  fed  with  heavenly  nectar, 

Where  soul-like  odors  play, 

Draw  out  the  endless  leisure 
Of  that  long  vernal  day : 

And  through  the  sacred  lilies, 

And  flowers  on  even'  side, 

The  happy  dear-bought  people 
Go  wandering  far  and  wide. 


606 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Their  breasts  are  filled  with  gladness, 
Their  mouths  are  tuned  to  praise, 
What  time,  now  safe  for  ever, 

On  former  sins  they  gaze  : 

The  fouler  was  the  error, 

The  sadder  was  the  fall, 

The  ampler  are  the  praises 
Of  Him  who  pardon’d  all. 

Their  one  and  only  anthem, 

The  fulness  of  His  love, 

Who  gives  instead  of  torment 
Eternal  joys  above ; 

Instead  of  torment,  glory ; 

Instead  of  death,  that  life 
Wherewith  your  happy  country, 

True  Israelites,  is  rife. 

Brief  life  is  here  our  portion, 

Brief  sorrow,  short-lived  care, 

The  life  that  knows  no  ending, 

The  tearless  life,  is  there. 

O  happy  retribution  ! 

Short  toil,  eternal  rest, 

For  mortals  and  for  sinners 
A  mansion  with  the  blest ! 

That  we  should  look,  poor  wand’rers, 
To  have  our  home  on  high ! 

That  worms  should  seek  for  dwellings 
Beyond  the  starry  sky  ! 

To  all  one  happy  guerdon 
Of  one  celestial  grace  ; 

For  all,  for  all,  who  mourn  their  fall, 
Is  one  eternal  place  ; 

And  martyrdom  hath  roses 
Upon  that  heavenly  ground, 

And  white  and  virgin  lilies 
For  virgin-souls  abound. 

There  grief  is  turn’d  to  pleasure, 
Such  pleasure  as  below 
No  human  voice  can  utter, 

No  human  heart  can  know; 

And  after  fleshly  scandal, 

And  after  this  world’s  night, 

And  after  storm  and  whirlwind, 

Is  calm,  and  joy,  and  light. 

And  now  we  fight  the  battle, 

But  then  shall  wear  the  crown 
Of  full  and  everlasting 
And  passionless  renown ; 

A  nd  now  we  watch  and  struggle, 

And  now  we  live  in  hope, 


And  Sion,  in  her  anguish, 

With  Babylon  must  cope ; 

But  He  whom  now  we  trust  in 
Shall  then  be  seen  and  known, 
And  they  that  know  and  see  Him 
Shall  have  Him  for  their  own. 

The  miserable  pleasures 
Of  the  body  shall  decay  ; 

The  bland  and  flattering  struggles 
Of  the  flesh  shall  pass  away, 

And  none  shall  there  be  jealous, 
And  none  shall  there  contend ; 
Fraud,  clamor,  guile — what  say  I? 

All  ill,  all  ill  shall  end ! 

And  there  is  David’s  Fountain, 

And  life  in  fullest  glow, 

And  there  the  light  is  golden, 

And  milk  and  honey  flow ; 

The  light  that  hath  no  evening, 

The  health  that  hath  no  sore, 

The  life  that  hath  no  ending, 

But  lasteth  evermore. 

There  Jesus  shall  embrace  us, 

There  Jesus  be  embraced, — 

That  spirit’s  food  and  sunshine 
Whence  earthly  love  is  chased. 
Amidst  the  happy  chorus. 

A  place,  however  low, 

Shall  show  Him  us,  and  showing, 
Shall  satiate  evermo. 

By  hope  we  struggle  onward, 

While  here  we  must  be  fed 
By  milk,  as  tender  infants, 

But  there  by  Living  Bread. 

The  night  was  full  of  terror, 

The  morn  is  bright  with  gladness  : 
The  Cross  becomes  our  harbor, 

And  we  triumph  after  sadness, 
And  Jesus  to  His  true  ones 
Brings  trophies  fair  to  see, 

And  Jesus  shall  be  loved,  and 
Beheld  in  Galilee ; 

Beheld,  when  morn  shall  waken, 
And  shadows  shall  decay, 

And  each  true-hearted  servant 
Shall  shine  as  doth  the  day ; 

And  every  ear  shall  hear  it, — 
Behold  thv  King’s  array, 

Behold  thy  God  in  beauty, 

The  Law  hath  past  away  i 


607 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


Yes !  God  my  King  and  Portion, 
In  fulness  of  His  grace, 

We  then  shall  see  for  ever, 

And  worship  face  to  face. 

Then  Jacob  into  Israel, 

From  earthlier  self  estranged, 
And  Leah  into  Rachel, 

For  ever  shall  be  changed  : 
Then  all  the  halls  of  Sion 
For  aye  shall  be  complete, 
And,  in  the  Land  of  Beauty, 

All  things  of  beauty  meet. 


For  thee,  oh  dear  dear  Country ! 
Mine  eyes  their  vigils  keep ; 

For  very  love,  beholding 
Thy  happy  name,  they  weep : 

The  mention  of  thy  glory 
Is  unction  to  the  breast, 

And  medicine  in  sickness, 

And  love,  and  life,  and  rest. 

O  one,  O  onelv  Mansion ! 

O  Paradise  of  Joy! 

Where  tears  are  ever  banish’d, 

And  smiles  have  no  alloy; 

Beside  thy  living  waters 
All  plants  are,  great  and  small, 

The  cedar  of  the  forest, 

The  hyssop  of  the  wall: 

With  jaspers  glow  thy  bulwarks; 
Thy  streets  with  emeralds  blaze ; 

The  sardius  and  the  topaz 
Unite  in  thee  their  rays: 

Thine  ageless  walls  ere  bonded 
With  amethyst  unpriced : 

Thy  Saints  build  up  its  fabric, 

And  the  corner-stone  is  Christ. 

The  Cross  is  all  thy  splendor, 

The  Crucified  thy  praise: 

His  laud  and  benediction 
Thy  ransom’d  people  raise : 

Jesus,  the  Gem  of  Beauty, 

True  God  and  Man,  they  sing : 

The  never-failing  Garden, 

The  ever-golden  Ring: 

The  Door,  the  Pledge,  the  Husband, 
The  Guardian  of  his  Court : 

The  Day-star  of  Salvation, 

The  Porter  and  the  Port. 

Thou  hast  no  shore,  fair  ocean! 

Thou  hast  no  time,  bright  day ! 


Dear  fountain  of  refreshment 
To  pilgrims  far  away  ! 

Upon  the  Rock  of  Ages 
They  raise  thy  holy  tower : 
Thine  is  the  victor’s  laurel, 

And  thine  the  golden  dower : 
Thou  feel’st  in  mystic  rapture, 

O  Bride  that  know’st  no  guile, 
The  Prince’s  sweetest  kisses, 

The  Prince’s  loveliest  smile ; 
Unfading  lilies,  bracelets 
Of  living  pearl  thine  own  ; 

The  Lamb  is  ever  near  thee, 

The  Bridegroom  thine  alone; 
The  Crown  is  He  to  guerdon, 
The  Buckler  to  protect, 

And  He  Himself  the  Mansion, 
And  He  the  Architect. 

The  only  art  thou  needest, 
Thanksgiving  for  thy  lot: 

The  only  joy  thou  seekest, 

The  Life  where  Death  is  not: 
And  all  thine  endless  leisure 
In  sweetest  accents  sings, 

The  ill  that  was  thy  merit, — 

The  wealth  that  is  thy  King’s ! 


Jerusalem  the  golden, 

With  milk  and  honey  blest, 
Beneath  thy  contemplation 
Sink  heart  and  voice  oppress’d  : 
I  know  not,  oh  I  know  not, 

What  social  joys  are  there ; 
What  radiancy  of  glory, 

What  light  beyond  compare  ! 
And  when  I  fain  would  sing  them, 
My  spirit  fails  and  faints; 

And  vainly  would  it  image 
The  assembly  of  the  Saints. 
They  stand,  those  halls  of  Sion, 
Conjubilant  with  song, 

And  bright  with  many  an  angel, 
And  all  the  martyr  throng: 

The  Prince  is  ever  in  them  ; 

The  daylight  is  serene  ; 

The  pastures  of  the  Blessed 
Are  deck’d  in  glorious  sheen. 
There  is  the  Throne  of  David, — 
And  there,  from  care  released, 
The  song  of  them  that  triumph, 
The  shout  of  them  that  feast ; 


608 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


And  they  who,  with  their  Leader, 
Have  conquer’d  in  the  fight, 

For  ever  and  for  ever 

Are  clad  in  robes  of  white  ! 

0  holy,  placid  harp-notes 
Of  that  eternal  hymn  ! 

O  sacred,  sweet  refection, 

And  peace  of  Seraphim  ! 

O  thirst  for  ever  ardent, 

Yet  evermore  content! 

O  true  peculiar  vision 
Of  God  cunctipotent ! 

Ye  know  the  many  mansions 
For  many  a  glorious  name, 

And  divers  retributions 
That  divers  merits  claim  : 

For  midst  the  constellations 
That  deck  our  earthly  sky, 

This  star  than  that  is  brighter, — 
And  so  it  is  on  high. 

Jerusalem  the  glorious ! 

The  glory  of  the  Elect ! 

O  dear  and  future  vision 
That  eager  hearts  expect : 

Even  now  by  faith  I  see  thee : 
Even  here  thy  walls  discern  : 

To  thee  my  thoughts  are  kindled, 
And  strive  and  pant  and  yearn  : 

Jerusalem  the  onely, 

That  look’st  from  heaven  below, 

In  thee  is  all  my  glory  ; 

In  me  is  all  my  woe  : 

And  though  my  body  may  not, 

My  spirit  seeks  thee  fain, 

Till  flesh  and  earth  return  me 
To  earth  and  flesh  again. 

Oh  none  can  tell  thy  bulwarks, 
How  gloriously  they  rise  : 

Oh  none  can  tell  thy  capitals 
Of  beautiful  device  : 

Thy  loveliness  oppresses 

All  human  thought  and  heart : 

And  none,  O  Peace,  O  Sion, 

Can  sing  thee  as  thou  art. 

New  mansion  of  new  people, 
Whom  God’s  own  love  and  light 

Promote,  increase,  make  holy, 
Identify,  unite. 

Thou  City  of  the  Angels  ! 

Thou  Citv  of  the  Lord ! 

* 


Whose  everlasting  music 
Is  the  glorious  decachord  ! 

And  there  the  band  of  Prophets 
United  praise  ascribes, 

And  there  the  twelvefold  chorus 
Of  Israel’s  ransom’d  tribes : 

The  lily-beds  of  virgins, 

The  roses’  martyr-glow, 

The  cohort  of  the  Fathers 
Who  kept  the  faith  below. 

And  there  the  Sole-Begotten 
Is  Lord  in  regal  state ; 

He,  Judah’s  mystic  Lion, 

He,  Lamb  Immaculate. 

O  fields  that  know  no  sorrow ! 

O  state  that  fears  no  strife ! 

O  princely  bow’rs  !  0  land  of  flow’rs ! 
0  realm  and  home  of  life  ! 

Jerusalem,  exulting 
On  that  securest  shore, 

I  hope  thee,  wish  thee,  sing  thee, 

And  love  thee  evermore  ! 

I  ask  not  for  my  merit : 

I  seek  not  to  deny 
My  merit  is  destruction, 

A  child  of  wrath  am  I : 

But  yet  with  Faith  I  venture 
And  Hope  upon  my  way  ; 

For  those  perennial  guerdons 
I  labor  night  and  day. 

The  best  and  dearest  Father 
Who  made  me,  and  who  saved, 

Bore  with  me  in  defilement, 

And  from  defilement  laved  ; 

When  in  His  strength  I  struggle, 

For  very  joy  I  leap, 

When  in  my  sin  I  totter, 

I  weep,  or  try  to  weep  ; 

And  grace,  sweet  grace  celestial, 

Shall  all  its  love  display, 

And  David’s  royal  Fountain 
Purge  every  sin  away. 

O  mine,  my  golden  Sion  ! 

O  lovelier  far  than  gold ! 

With  laurel-girt  battalions, 

And  safe  victorious  fold  ; 

O  sweet  and  blessed  country, 

Shall  I  ever  see  thy  face  ? 

O  sweet  and  blessed  country, 

Shall  I  ever  win  thy  grace? 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


609 


I  have  the  hope  within  me 
To  comfort  and  to  bless  ! 

Shall  I  ever  win  the  prize  itself? 

Oh,  tell  me,  tell  me,  Yes ! 

Exult,  0  dust  and  ashes ! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part ; 

His  only,  His  for  ever, 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art ! 
Exult,  O  dust  and  ashes ! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part ; 

His  only,  His  for  ever, 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art ! 

Bernard  of  Cluny. 
(Translation  of  John  Mason  Neale.) 


Quantus  tremor  est  futurus, 
Quando  Judex  est  venturus, 
Cuncta  stricte  discussurus. 

Tuba  mirum  spargens  sonum 
Per  sepulcra  regionum, 

Goget  omnes  ante  thronum. 

Mors  stupebit,  et  natura, 
Quum  resurget  creatura, 
Judicanti  responsura. 

Liber  scriptus  proferetur, 

In  quo  totum  continetur, 
Unde  mundus  judicetur. 


- K>« - 

Christ  will  Gather  in  His 

0  WN. 


Judex  ergo  cum  sedebit, 
Quidquid  latet,  apparebit : 
Nil  inultum  remanebit. 


Christ  will  gather  in  His  own 
To  the  place  where  He  is  gone, 

Where  their  heart  and  treasure  lie, 
Where  our  life  is  hid  on  high. 

Day  by  day  the  voice  saith,  “  Come, 
Enter  this  eternal  home;” 

Asking  not  if  we  can  spare 
This  dear  soul  its  summons  there. 

Had  He  ask’d  us,  well  we  know 
We  should  cry,  “Oh  spare  this  blow!” 
Yes,  with  streaming  tears  should  pray, 
Lord,  we  love  him  ;  let  him  stay.” 

But  the  Lord  doth  naught  amiss, 

And,  since  He  hath  ordered  this, 

We  have  naught  to  do  but  still 
Rest  in  silence  on  His  will. 

Many  a  heart  no  longer  here, 

Ah  !  was  all  too  inly  dear : 

Yet,  O  Love,  ’tis  Thou  dost  call, 

Thou  wilt  be  our  all  in  all. 

Author  Unknown. 

-  •<>♦  ■  — 

Dies  Irte. 


Quid  sum,  miser  !  tunc  dicturus, 
Quern  patronum  rogaturus, 
Quum  vix  justus  sit  securus  ? 

Rex  tremendoe  majestatis, 

Qui  salvandos  salvas  gratis, 
Salva  me,  fons  pietatis  ! 

• 

Recordare,  Jesu  pie, 

Quod  sum  causa  tuse  vise  ; 

Ne  me  perdas  ilia  die  ! 

Quserens  me,  sedisti  lassus, 
Redemisti,  crucem  passus  : 
Tantus  labor  non  sit  cassus. 

Juste  Judex  ultionis, 

Donum  fac  remissionis 
Ante  diem  rationis. 

Ingemisco  tanquam  reus, 

Culpa  rubet  vultus  meus, 
Supplicanti  parce,  Deus  ! 

Qui  Mariam  absolvisti, 

Et  latronem  exaudisti, 

Mihi  quoque  spem  dedisti. 


Dies  Irae,  Dies  Ilia,  dies  tribulationis  et  angustiae, 
dies  calamitatis  et  miseriae,  dies  tenebrarum  et  cali- 
ginis,  dies  nebulae  et  turbinis,  dies  tubae  et  clangoris 
super  civitatis  munitas,  et  super  angulos  excelsos ! — 
Sophonia ,  i.  15,  16. 

Dies  Irse,  Dies  Ilia ! 

Solvet  sseclum  in  favilla, 

Teste  David  cum  Sybilla. 

39 


Preces  mese  non  sunt  dignse, 
Sed  Tu  bonus  fac  benig-ne 
Ne  perenni  cremer  igne  ! 

Inter  oves  locum  prsesta, 

Et  ab  hsedis  me  sequestra, 
Statuens  in  parte  dextra. 


610 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Confutatis  maledictis, 

Flammis  acribus  addictis, 

Voca  me  cum  benedictis  ! 

Oro  supplex  et  acclinis, 

Cor  contritum  quasi  cinis, 

Gere  curam  mei  finis. 

Lacrymosa  dies  ilia ! 

Qua  resurget  ex  favilla. 

Judicandus  homo  reus  ; 

Huic  ergo  parce,  Deus  ! 

Thomas  de  Celano. 

- - 

Dies  Ire. 

Translation  of  William  J.  Irons. 

Day  of  wrath  !  0  day  of  mourning  ! 

See!  once  more  the  Cross  returning, 
Heaven  and  earth  in  ashes  burning  ! 

Oh  what  fear  man’s  bosom  rendeth 
When  from  Heaven  the  Judge  descendeth, 
On  whose  sentence  all  dependeth  ! 

Wondrous  sound  the  Trumpet  flingeth, 
Through  earth’s  sepulchres  it  ringeth, 

All  before  the  throne  it  bringeth  ! 

Death  is  struck,  and  Nature  quaking, 

All  creation  is  awaking, 

To  its  Judge  an  answer  making  ! 

Lo,  the  Book,  exactly  worded  ! 

Wherein  all  hath  been  recorded  ; 

Thence  shall  judgment  be  awarded. 

When  the  Judge  His  seat  attaineth, 

And  each  hidden  deed  arraigneth, 

Nothing  unavenged  remaineth. 

What  shall  I,  frail  man,  be  pleading, 

Who  for  me  be  interceding, 

When  the  just  are  mercy  needing? 

King  of  Majesty  tremendous, 

Who  dost  free  salvation  send  us, 

Fount  of  pity!  then  befriend  us! 

Think  !  kind  Jesu,  my  salvation 
Caused  Thy  wondrous  incarnation  ; 

Leave  me  not  to  reprobation! 

Faint  and  weary  Thou  hast  sought  me, 

On  the  Cross  of  suffering  bought  me, 

Shall  such  grace  be  vainly  brought  me? 


Righteous  Judge  of  retribution, 

Grant  Thy  gift  of  absolution, 

Ere  that  reck’ning  day’s  conclusion  ! 

Guilty,  now  I  pour  my  moaning, 

All  my  shame  with  anguish  owning ; 
Spare,  0  God,  Thy  suppliant  groaning  ! 

Thou  the  sinful  woman  savedst, 

Thou  the  dying  thief  forgavest  ; 

And  to  me  a  hope  vouchsafest ! 

Worthless  are  my  prayers  and  sighing, 
Yet,  good  Lord,  in  grace  complying, 
Rescue  me  from  fires  undying ! 

With  Thy  favor’d  sheep,  oh  place  me ! 
Nor  among  the  goats  abase  me ; 

But  to  Thy  right  hand  upraise  me. 

While  the  wicked  are  confounded, 
Doom’d  to  flames  of  woe  unbounded, 
Call  me  !  with  Thy  saints  surrounded. 

Low  I  kneel  with  heart  submission  ; 

See,  like  ashes,  my  contrition  ; 

Help  me,  in  my  last  condition ! 

Ah !  that  Day  of  tears  and  mourning ! 
From  the  dust  of  earth  returning, 

Man  for  judgment  must  prepare  him  ; 
Spare,  O  God,  in  mercy  spare  him ! 

Lord,  who  didst  our  souls  redeem, 

Grant  a  blessed  Requiem  !  Amen. 

♦0« - 

Dies  Ire. 

Paraphrase  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away. 
What  power  shall  be  the  sinner’s  stay  ? 
How  shall  he  meet  that  dreadful  day  ? 

When,  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll ; 

When  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  dread, 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes  the  dead  ? 

Oh,  on  that  day,  that  wrathful  day, 

When  man  to  judgment  wakes  from  clay, 
Be  Thou  the  trembling  sinner’s  stay, 
Though  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away ! 


“PSALMS  AND  HYMNS  AND  SPIRITUAL  SONGS.” 


611 


Dies  Ira:. 

Translation  of  John  A.  Dix. 

Day  of  vengeance,  without  morrow ! 
Earth  shall  end  in  flame  and  sorrow, 

As  from  saint  and  seer  we  borrow. 

Ah  !  what  terror  is  impending, 

When  the  Judge  is  seen  descending, 
And  each  secret  veil  is  rending ! 

To  the  throne,  the  trumpet  sounding, 
Through  the  sepulchres  resounding, 
Summons  all,  with  voice  astounding. 

Death  and  Nature,  ’mazed,  are  quaking, 
When,  the  grave’s  long  slumber  breaking, 
Man  to  judgment  is  awaking. 

On  the  written  volume’s  pages 
Life  is  shown  in  all  its  stages, — 
Judgment-record  of  past  ages  ! 

Sits  the  Judge,  the  raised  arraigning, 
Darkest  mysteries  explaining, 

Nothing  unavenged  remaining. 

What  shall  I  then  say,  unfriended, 

By  no  advocate  attended, 

When  the  just  are  scarce  defended? 

King  of  majesty  tremendous, 

By  Thy  saving  grace  defend  us, 

Fount  of  pity,  safety  send  us ! 

Holy  Jesus,  meek,  forbearing, 

For  my  sins  the  death-crown  wearing, 
Save  me,  in  that  day,  despairing. 

Worn  and  weary,  Thou  hast  sought  me, 
By  Thy  cross  and  passion  bought  me, — 
Spare  the  hope  Thy  labors  brought  me. 

• 

Righteous  Judge  of  retribution, 

Give,  oh,  give  me  absolution 
Ere  the  day  of  dissolution. 

As  a  guilty  culprit  groaning, 

Flush’d  my  face,  my  errors  owning, 
Hear,  O  God,  my  spirit’s  moaning ! 

Thou  to  Mary  gav’st  remission, 

Heard’st  the  dying  thief’s  petition, 
Bad’st  me  hope  in  my  contrition. 


In  my  prayers  no  grace  discerning, 

Yet  on  me  Thy  favor  turning, 

Save  my  soul  from  endless  burning. 

Give  me,  when  thy  sheep  confiding 
Thou  art  from  the  goats  dividing, 

On  Thy  right  a  place  abiding ! 

When  the  wicked  are  confounded, 

And  by  bitter  flames  surrounded, 

Be  my  joyful  pardon  sounded. 

Prostrate,  all  my  guilt  discerning, 

Heart  as  though  to  ashes  turning, 

Save,  oh,  save  me  from  the  burning ! 

Day  of  weeping,  when  from  ashes 
Man  shall  rise  ’mid  lightning-flashes, 
Guilty,  trembling  with  contrition, 

Save  him,  Father,  from  perdition! 

- KX - - 

Loi  He  Comes,  with  Clouds 
Descending: 

Lo  !  He  comes,  with  clouds  descending  ! 

Hark  !  the  trump  of  God  is  blown, 
And  th’  Archangel’s  voice  attending 
Makes  the  high  procession  known  : 
Sons  of  Adam ! 

Rise,  and  stand  before  your  God  ! 

Crowns  and  sceptres  fall  before  Him, 
Kings  and  conquerors  own  His  sway ; 
Haughtiest  monarchs  now  adore  Him, 
While  they  see  His  lightnings  play : 

How  triumphant 
Is  the  world’s  Redeemer  now! 

Hear  His  voice,  as  mighty  thunder 
Sounding  in  eternal  roar, 

While  its  echo  rends  in  sunder 

Rocks  and  mountains,  sea  and  shore : 

Hark  !  His  accents 
Through  tli’  unfathom’d  deep  resound ! 

Come,  Lord  Jesus!  Oh  come  quickly!” 

Oft  has  pray’d  the  mourning  Bride : 
Lo!”  He  answers,  “I  come  quickly!” 
Who  Thy  coming  may  abide? 

All  who  loved  Him, 

All  who  long’d  to  see  His  day. 


612 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Come,”  he  saith,  “  ye  heirs  of  glory  ; 
Come,  ye  purchase  of  my  blood ; 
Claim  the  Kingdom  now  before  you, 
Kise,  and  fill  the  mount  of  God, 
Fix’d  for  ever 

Where  the  Lamb  on  Sion  stands.” 

See !  ten  thousand  burning  seraphs 
From  their  thrones  as  lightnings  fly; 
“Take,”  they  cry,  “  your  seats  above  us, 
Nearest  Him  that  rules  the  sky!” 

Patient  sufferers, 

How  rewarded  are  ye  now  ! 

Now  their  trials  all  are  ended: 

Now  the  dubious  warfare’s  o’er; 

Joy  no  more  with  sorrow  blended, 
They  shall  sigh  and  weep  no  more ; 
God  for  ever 

Wipes  the  tear  from  every  eye. 

Through  His  passion  all  victorious 
Now  they  drink  immortal  wine ; 

In  Emmanuel’s  likeness  glorious 
As  the  firmanent  they  shine ; 

Shine  for  ever, 

With  the  bright  and  morning  Star. 

Shout  aloud,  ye  ethereal  choirs ! 

Triumph  in  Jehovah’s  praise! 

Kindle  all  your  heavenly  fires, 

All  your  palms  of  victory  raise ! 

Shout  His  conquests, 

Shout  salvation  to  the  Lamb ! 

In  full  triumph  see  them  marching 
Through  the  gates  of  massy  light, 
While  the  City  walls  are  sparkling 
With  meridian  glory  bright ; 

Oh  how  lovely 

Are  the  dwellings  of  the  Lamb ! 


Hosts  angelic  all  adore  Him 
Circling  round  His  orient  seat  ; 
Elders  cast  their  crowns  before  Him, 
Fall  and  worship  at  His  feet ; 

O  how  holy 

And  how  reverend  is  Thy  Name! 

Hail,  Thou  Alpha  and  Omega  ! 

First  and  Last,  of  all  alone ! 

He  that  is,  and  was,  and  shall  be, 

And  beside  whom  there  is  none  ! 

Take  the  Glory, 

Great  Eternal  Three  in  One ! 

Thomas  Olivers. 

- ■  - 

Lord ,  Dismiss  us  with  Thy 
Blessing. 

Lord,  dismiss  us  with  Thy  blessing, 
Fill  our  hearts  with  joy  and  peace  ; 
Let  us  each,  Thy  love  possessing, 
Triumph  in  redeeming  grace ; 

Oh  refresh  us, 

Travelling  through  this  wilderness. 

Thanks  we  give,  and  adoration, 

For  Thy  gospel’s  joyful  sound; 

May  the  fruit  of  Thy  salvation 
In  our  hearts  and  lives  abound : 

May  Thy  presence 
With  us  evermore  be  found. 

So,  whene’er  the  signal’s  given 
Us  from  earth  to  call  away, 

Borne  on  angels’  wings  to  heaven, 

Glad  the  summons  to  obey, 

May  we  ever 

Reign  with  Christ  in  endless  day. 

Walter  Shirlit 


/  'UrfLc  cLtrid*-  sU^^c+aJ/  C^ec^s 


UjJ  /fc  a^Lji^ 

s?l~  tfjDjUu* 


djUL^jt 


r  /r^adi^ 


Moral  and  Didactic  Poetry. 


♦ 


Life. 

The  World’s  a  bubble,  and  the  Life  of  Man 
Less  than  a  span  : 

In  his  conception  wretched,  from  the  womb, 
So  to  the  tomb ; 

Curst  from  his  cradle,  and  brought  up  to 
years 

With  cares  and  fears. 

Who  then  to  frail  mortality  shall  trust, 
But  limns  on  water,  or  but  writes  in  dust. 

Yet  whilst  with  sorrow  here  we  live  opprest, 
What  life  is  best  ? 

Courts  are  but  only  superficial  schools 
To  dandle  fools  : 

The  rural  parts  are  turn’d  into  a  den 
Cf  savage  men  : 

And  where’s  a  city  from  foul  vice  so  free. 
But  may  be  term’d  the  worst  of  all  the 
three  ? 

Domestic  cares  afflict  the  husband’s  bed, 
Cr  pains  his  head  : 

Those  that  live  single,  take  it  for  a  curse, 
Cr  do  things  worse  : 

Some  would  have  children :  those  that 
have  them,  moan 
Or  wish  them  gone : 

What  is  it,  then,  to  have,  or  have  no  wife, 
But  single  thraldom,  or  a  double  strife  ? 

Our  own  affection  still  at  home  to  please 
Is  a  disease : 

To  cross  the  seas  to  any  foreign  soil, 

Peril  and  toil : 

Wars  with  their  noise  affright  us;  when 
they  cease, 

We  are  worse  in  peace  ; — 

What  then  remains,  but  that  we  still 
should  cry 

For  being  born,  or,  being  born,  to  die? 

Lord  Bacon. 


Life. 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 

But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 

And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met 
I  own  to  me’s  a  secret  yet. 

Life!  we’ve  been  long  together, 

Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy 
weather ; 

’Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear — 
Perhaps  ’twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear  ; 

— Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 
Choose  thine  own  time  ; 

Say  not  Good-Night, — but  in  some  brighter 
clime 

Bid  me  Good-Morning. 

Anna  L.etitia  Barbauld. 

- - 

My  Psalm. 

I  mourn  no  more  my  vanish’d  years : 
Beneath  a  tender  rain, 

An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 

The  west  winds  blow,  and,  singing  low, 

I  hear  the  glad  streams  run  ; 

The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 
Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 
I  look  in  hope  or  fear ; 

But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 

To  harvest  weed  and  tare  ; 

% 

The  manna  dropping  from  God’s  hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff, — I  lay 
Aside  the  toiling  oar  ; 


613 


614 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  angel  sought  so  far  away 
I  welcome  at  mv  door. 

V 

The  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 
Among  the  ripening  corn, 

Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 
Blow  through  the  autumn  morn  ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringed  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given  ; — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of  praise, 
The  south  wind  softly  sigh, 

And  sweet,  calm  days,  in  golden  haze 
Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 
Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong  ; 

The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the 
sword 

Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But  smiting  hands  shall  learn  to  heal, — 

To  build  as  to  destroy; 

Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 
That  I  the  more  enjoy. 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wiselv  heeds 
To  give  or  to  withhold, 

And  knoweth  more  of  all  mv  needs 
Than  all  my  prayers  have  told ! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 
Have  mark’d  my  erring  track; — 

That  wheresoe’er  my  feet  have  swerved, 
His  chastening  turn’d  me  back  ; — 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 
Of  love  is  understood, 

Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 
Sweet  with  eternal  good  ; — 

That  death  seems  but  a  cover’d  way 
Which  opens  into  light, 

Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 
Beyond  the  Father’s  sight ; — 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 

Through  Memory’s  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 

In  purple  distance  fair  ; — 


That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 

And  so  the  west  winds  play ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Sonnet. 

Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 
Crumbling  away  beneath  our  very  feet ; 

Sad  is  our  life,  for  onward  it  is  flowing 
In  current  unperceived,  because  so  fleet; 

Sad  are  our  hopes,  for  they  were  sweet  in 
sowing — 

But  tares,  self-sown,  have  overtopp’d  the 
wheat ; 

Sad  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet  in 
blowing — 

And  still,  oh  still,  their  dying  breath  is 
sweet ; 

And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath  be¬ 
reft  us 

Of  that  which  made  our  childhood 
sweeter  still  ; 

And  sweet  is  middle  life,  for  it  hath  left  us 
A  nearer  good  to  cure  an  older  ill ; 

And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we  learn  to 
prize  them 

Not  for  their  sake,  but  His  who  grants 

them  or  denies  them  ! 

Aubrey  de  Vere. 


The  Stream  of  Life. 

O  stream  descending  to  the  sea, 
Thv  mossv  banks  between. 

The  flow’rets  blow,  the  grasses  grow, 
The  leafy  trees  are  green. 

In  garden-plots  the  children  play, 
The  fields  the  laborers  till, 

And  houses  stand  on  either  hand, 
And  thou  descendest  still. 

0  life  descending  into  death, 

Our  waking  eyes  behold 
Parent  and  friend  thy  lapse  attend, 
Companions  young  and  old. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


615 


Strong  purposes  our  minds  possess, 
Our  hearts  affections  fill ; 

We  toil  and  earn,  we  seek  and  learn, 
And  thou  descendest  still. 

O  end  to  which  our  currents  tend, 
Inevitable  sea 

To  which  we  flow,  what  do  we  know, 
What  shall  we  guess  of  thee  ? 

A  roar  we  hear  upon  thy  shore, 

As  we  our  course  fulfil ; 

Scarce  we  divine  a  sun  will  shine 
And  be  above  us  still. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 

- KX - 

A  Psalm  of  Life. 

What  the  Heart  of  the  Young  Man 
said  to  the  Psalmist. 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers, 

“  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  !” 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !  Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 

“  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,” 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Finds  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 
Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world’s  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle, 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  future,  howe’er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead  ! 

Act — act  in  the  living  present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o’erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time — 


Footprints  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o’er  life’s  solemn  main 
A  forlorn  and  shipwreck’d  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

.  ■  >o> 

Life. 

We  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep  ; 

We  love ;  we  droop  ;  we  die  ! 

Ah  !  wherefore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Why  do  we  live  or  die  ? 

Who  knows  that  secret  deep  ? 

Alas,  not  I ! 

Why  doth  the  violet  spring 
Unseen  by  human  eye? 

Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 
Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  ? 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 
To  things  that  die  ? 

We  toil — through  pain  and  wrong ; 

W  e  fight — and  fly  ; 

We  love  ;  we  lose  ;  and  then,  ere  long, 
Stone-dead  we  lie. 

O  life  !  is  all  thy  song 
“  Endure  and — die  ?” 

Bryan  Waller  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall.) 


The  Shortness  of  Life. 

“  He  cometh  forth  like  a  flower,  and  is  cut  down.” — 
Job  xiv.  2. 

Behold, 

How  short  a  span 
Was  long  enough  of  old 
To  measure  out  the  life  of  man  ; 

In  those  well-temper’d  days!  his  time 
was  then 

Survey’d,  cast  up,  and  found  but  three¬ 
score  years  and  ten. 

Alas  ! 

And  what  is  that? 

They  come,  and  slide,  and  pass, 
Before  my  pen  can  tell  thee  what. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  posts  of  time  are  swift,  which  hav¬ 
ing  run 

Their  seven  short  stages  o’er,  their  short¬ 
lived  task  is  done. 

Our  days 
Begun  we  lend 
To  sleep,  to  antic  plays 
And  toys,  until  the  first  stage  end  : 

Twelve  waning  moons,  twice  five  times 
told,  we  give 

To  unrecover’d  loss:  we  rather  breathe 
than  live. 

We  spend 

A  ten  years’  breath 
Before  we  apprehend 
What  ’tis  to  live,  or  fear  a  death  : 

Our  childish  dreams  are  fill’d  with 
painted  joys, 

Which  please  our  sense  a  while,  and  wak¬ 
ing,  prove  but  toys. 

How  vain , 

How  wretched,  is 
Poor  man,  that  doth  remain 
A  slave  to  such  a  state  as  this  ! 

His  days  are  short,  at  longest ;  few  at 
most  : 

They  are  but  bad,  at  best ;  yet  lavish’d  out, 
or  lost. 

They  he 

The  secret  springs 
That  make  our  minutes  flee 
On  wheels  more  swift  than  eagles’ 
wings  : 

Our  life’s  a  clock,  and  every  gasp  of 
breath 

Breathes  forth  a  warning  grief,  till  Time 
shall  strike  a  death. 

How  soon 

Our  new-born  light 
Attains  to  full-aged  noon  ! 

And  this,  how  soon  to  gray-hair’d 
night ! 

We  spring,  we  bud,  we  blossom,  and  wre 
blast, 

Ere  we  can  count  our  days,  our  days  they 
flee  so  fast. 


They  end 

When  scarce  begun ; 

And  ere  we  apprehend 
That  we  begin  to  live,  our  life  is 
done  : 

Man,  count  thy  days  ;  and,  if  they  fly 
too  fast 

For  thy  dull  thoughts  to  count,  count 
every  day  the  last. 

Francis  Quarles. 

- *o* - 

Stanzas. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 
That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 

But,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scatter’d  on  the  ground — to  die  ! 

Yet  on  the  rose’s  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 

As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see — 

But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon’s  pale  ray ; 
Its  hold  is  frail — its  date  is  brief, 

Restless — and  soon  to  pass  away  ! 

Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 

The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 

The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree — 

But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa’s  desert  strand  ; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 

All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand  ; 
Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea — 

But  none,  alas  !  shall  mourn  for  me  ! 

Richard  Henry  Wilde. 

■-•<>•  - 

The  Me  a  ns  to  At  t a  in  Ha  pp  y  Life 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 
The  happy  life  be  these,  I  find — 

The  riches  left,  not  got  with  pain  ; 

The  fruitful  ground,  the  quiet  mind ; 

The  equal  friend;  no  grudge,  no  strife; 

No  charge  of  rule,  nor  governance ; 
Without  disease,  the  healthful  life ; 

The  household  of  continuance  ; 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


617 


The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare ; 

True  wisdom  joined  with  simpleness ; 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care, 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress ; 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate ; 

Such  sleeps  as  may  beguile  the  night. 
Contented  with  thine  own  estate, 

Ne  wish  for  Death,  ne  fear  his  might. 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. 

♦C>« 

The  Web  of  Life. 

My  life,  which  was  so  straight  and  plain, 
Has  now  become  a  tangled  skein, 

Yet  God  still  holds  the  thread  ; 

Weave  as  I  may,  His  hand  doth  guide 
The  shuttle’s  course,  however  wide 
The  chain  in  woof  be  wed. 

One  weary  night,  when  months  went  by, 

I  plied  my  loom  with  tear  and  sigh, 

In  grief  unnamed,  untold  ; 

But  when  at  last  the  morning’s  light 
Broke  on  my  vision,  fair  and  bright 
There  gleamed  a  cloth  of  gold. 

And  now  I  never  lose  my  trust, 

Weave  as  I  may — and  weave  I  must — 
That  God  doth  hold  the  thread  ; 

He  guides  my  shuttle  on  its  way, 

He  makes  complete  my  task  each  day  ; 

What  more,  then,  can  be  said  ? 

Clara  J.  Moore. 

- K»  —  - 

There  be  Those. 

There  be  those  who  sow  beside 
The  waters  that  in  silence  glide, 

Trusting  no  echo  will  declare 
Whose  footsteps  ever  wandered  there. 

The  noiseless  footsteps  pass  away, 

The  stream  flows  on  as  yesterday ; 

Nor  can  it  for  a  time  be  seen 
A  benefactor  there  had  been. 

Yet  think  not  that  the  seed  is  dead 
Which  in  the  lonely  place  is  spread; 

It  lives,  it  lives — the  spring  is  nigh, 

And  soon  its  life  shall  testify. 

That  silent  stream,  that  desert  ground, 

No  more  unlovely  shall  be  found ; 

But  scattered  flowers  of  simplest  grace 
Shall  spread  their  beauty  round  the  place. 


And  soon  or  late  a  time  will  come 

When  witnesses,  that  now  are  dumb, 

With  grateful  eloquence  shall  tell 

From  whom  the  seed,  there  scattered,  fell. 

Bernard  Barton. 

- *o* - 

END  FRANCE. 

How  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and  yet  not 
break ! 

How  much  the  flesh  may  suffer,  and  not 
die  ! 

I  question  much  if  any  pain  or  ache 

Of  soul  or  body  brings  our  end  more  nigh : 

Death  chooses  his  own  time:  till  that  is 
sworn, 

All  evils  may  be  borne. 

We  shrink  and  shudder  at  the  surgeon’s 
knife, 

Each  nerve  recoiling  from  the  cruel  steel 

Whose  edge  seems  searching  for  the  quiver¬ 
ing  life, 

Yet  to  our  sense  the  bitter  pangs  reveal, 

That  still,  although  the  trembling  flesh  be 
torn, 

This  also  can  be  borne. 

We  see  a  sorrow  rising  in  our  way, 

And  try  to  flee  from  the  approaching  ill ; 

We  seek  some  small  escape;  we  weep  and 
pray; 

But  when  the  blow  falls,  then  our  hearts 
are  still; 

Not  that  the  pain  is  of  its  sharpness  shorn, 

But  that  it  can  be  borne. 

We  wind  our  life  about  another  life  ; 

We  hold  it  closer,  dearer  than  our  own  : 

Anon  it  faints  and  fails  in  deathly  strife, 

Leaving  us  stunned,  and  stricken,  and 
alone ; 

But  ah !  we  do  not  die  with  those  we 
mourn, — 

This  also  can  be  borne. 

Behold,  we  live  through  all  things — famine, 
thirst, 

Bereavement,  pain  ;  all  grief  and  misery, 

All  woe  and  sorrow ;  life  inflicts  its  worst 

On  soul  and  body — but  we  cannot  die. 

Though  we  be  sick,  and  tired,  and  faint, 
and  worn, 

Lo,  all  things  can  be  borne. 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Good-Night. 

Good-night  to  all  the  world !  there’s  none 
Beneath  the  “  over-going”  sun 
To  whom  I  feel  or  hate  or  spite, 

And  so  to  all  a  fair  good-night. 

Would  I  could  say  good-night  to  pain, 
Good-night  to  conscience  and  her  train, 

To  cheerless  poverty,  and  shame 
That  I  am  yet  unknown  to  fame ! 

Would  I  could  say  good-night  to  dreams 
That  haunt  me  with  delusive  gleams, 

That  through  the  sable  future’s  veil 
Like  meteors  glimmer,  but  to  fail ! 

Would  I  could  say  a  long  good-night 
To  halting  between  wrong  and  right, 

And,  like  a  giant  with  new  force, 

Awake  prepared  to  run  my  course ! 

But  time  o’er  good  and  ill  sweeps  on, 

And  when  few  years  have  come  and  gone, 
The  past  will  be  to  me  as  naught, 

Whether  remember’d  or  forgot. 

Yet  let  me  hope  one  faithful  friend 
O'er  my  last  couch  shall  tearful  bend  ; 

And,  though  no  day  for  me  was  bright, 

Shall  bid  me  then  a  long  good-night. 

Robert  C.  Sands. 


IIis  Last  Verses. 

I  AM !  yet  what  I  am  who  cares,  or  knows? 
My  friends  forsake  me  like  a  memory 
lost. 

I  am  the  self-consumer  of  my  woes, 

They  rise  and  vanish,  an  oblivious  host, 
Shadows  of  life,  whose  very  soul  is  lost. 
And  yet  I  am — I  live — though  I  am 
toss’ d 

Into  the  nothingness  of  scorn  and  noise, 
Into  the  living  sea  of  waking  dream, 
Where  there  is  neither  sense  of  life  nor 

j°ys, 

But  the  huge  shipwreck  of  my  own  es¬ 
teem, 

And  all  that’s  dear.  Even  those  I  loved  the 
best 

Are  strange — nay,  they  are  stranger  than 
the  rest. 


I  long  for  scenes  where  man  has  never 
trod, 

For  scenes  where  woman  never  smiled 
or  wept ; 

There  to  abide  with  my  Creator,  God, 

And  sleep  as  I  in  childhood  sweetly 
slept, 

Full  of  high  thoughts,  unborn.  So  let  me 
lie, 

The  grass  below  ;  above,  the  vaulted  sky, 

John  Clare. 

- »<>♦ -  ■ 

The  Death  of  the  Virtuous. 

Sweet  is  the  scene  .when  virtue  dies ! 

When  sinks  a  righteous  soul  to  rest, 
How  mildly  beam  the  closing  eyes, 

How  gently  heaves  th’  expiring  breast! 

So  fades  a  summer  cloud  away, 

So  sinks  the  gale  when  storms  are  o’er, 
So  gently  shuts  the  eye  of  day, 

So  dies  a  wave  along  the  shore. 

Triumphant  smiles  the  victor  brow, 

Fanned  by  some  angel’s  purple  wing: — 
Where  is,  O  grave !  thy  victory  now  ? 

And  where,  insidious  death  !  thy  sting  ? 

Farewell,  conflicting  joys  and  fears, 

Where  light  and  shade  alternate  dwell! 
How  bright  th’  unchanging  morn  ap¬ 
pears! — 

Farewell,  inconstant  world,  farewell! 

Its  duty  done, — as  sinks  the  day, 

Light  from  its  load  the  spirit  flies ; 
"While  heaven  and  earth  combine  to  say 
“  Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies !” 

Anna  L^etitia  Barbauld. 


The  Common  Lot. 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 

There  liv’d  a  man;  and  who  was  he? 
Mortal !  howe’er  thv  lot  be  cast, 

That  man  resembled  thee. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth, 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown; 
His  name  has  perish’d  from  the  earth, 
This  truth  survives  alone  : 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


619 


That  joy,  and  grief,  and  hope,  and  fear, 
Alternate  triumph’d  in  his  breast ; 

His  bliss  and  woe, — a  smile,  a  tear  ! 
Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

He  suffer’d, — but  his  pangs  are  o’er  ; 

Enjoy’d, — but  his  delights  are  fled  ; 

Had  friends, — his  friends  are  now  no 
more ; 

And  foes, — his  foes  are  dead. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Encounter’d  all  that  troubles  thee  : 

He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been  ; 

He  is  what  thou  shalt  be. 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night, 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  earth  and 
main, 

Erewhile  his  portion,  life,  and  light, 

To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o’er  his  eye 
That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw, 
Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 
No  vestige  wrhere  they  flew. 

The  annals  of  the  human  race, 

Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began, 

Of  him  afford  no  other  trace 
Than  this, — there  lived  a  man  ! 

James  Montgomery. 

»o« - 

The  Three  Warnings. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground  : 
’Twas  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages, 

That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
Bo  much,  that  in  our  later  stages, 

When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  rages, 
The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 

This  great  affection  to  believe, 

Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 

If  old  assertions  can’t  prevail, — 

Be  pleased  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 

When  sports  \yent  round,  and  all  were 

gay, 

On  neighbor  Dodson’s  wedding-day, 

Death  call’d  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room, 

And  looking  grave — “You  must,”  says  he, 
“  Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with 
me.” 


“With  you!  and  quit  my  Susan’s  side! 
With  you  !”  the  hapless  husband  cried  ; 

“  Young  as  I  am,  ’tis  monstrous  hard ! 
Besides,  in  truth,  I’m  not  prepared  : 

My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go: 

This  is  my  wTedding-day,  you  know.” 

What  more  he  urged,  I  have  not  heard  ; 

His  reasons  could  not  wTell  be  stronger ; 
So  Death  the  poor  delinquent  spared, 
And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 

Yet  calling  up  a  serious  look — 

His  hour-glass  trembled  wThile  he  spoke — 
“Neighbor,”  he  said,  “farewell!  No  more 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour ; 
And  farther,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name, 

To  give  you  time  for  preparation, 

And  fit  you  for  your  future  station, 

Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have, 
Before  you’re  summon’d  to  the  grave. 
Willing  for  once  I’ll  quit  my  prey, 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve, 

In  hopes  you’ll  have  no  more  to  say, 

But,  when  I  call  again  this  way, 

Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave.” 

To  these  conditions  both  consented, 

And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell. 

r 

How  long  he  lived,  how  wise,  how  well, 
How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course, 

And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked  his 
horse, 

The  willing  Muse  shall  tell. 

He  chaffer’d  then,  he  bought,  he  sold, 

Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old, 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near; 

His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew, 
Many  his  gains,,  his  children  few, 

He  pass’d  his  hours  in  peace. 

But  while  he  view’d  his  wealth  increase, 
While  thus  along  Life’s  dusty  road 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, 

Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares, 
Uncall’d,  unheeded,  unawares, 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 

And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood 
As  all  alone  he  sate, 

Th’  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 
Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half  kill’d  with  anger  and  surprise, 

“So  soon  return’d!”  old  Dodson  cries. 

“So  soon,  d’ye  call  it?”  Death  replies : 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Surely,  my  friend,  you’re  but  in  jest! 

Since  I  was  here  before 
’Tis  six-and-thirty  years  at  least, 

And  you  are  now  fourscore.” 

“So  much  the  worse,”  the  clown  re¬ 
join’d; 

“To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind: 
However,  see  your  search  be  legal ; 

And  your  authority — is’t  regal? 

Else  you  are  come  on  a  fool’s  errand, 

With  but  a  secretary’s  warrant. 

Besides,  you  promised  me  Three  Warn¬ 
ings, 

Which  I  have  look’d  for  nights  and  morn- 
ings ; 

But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease, 

I  can  recover  damages.” 

“  I  know,”  cries  Death,  “  that  at  the 
best 

I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest; 

But  don’t  be  captious,  friend,  at  least : 

I  little  thought  you’d  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable; 
Your  years  have  run  to  a  great  length  ; 

I  wish  you  joy,  though,  of  your  strength!” 

“  Hold,”  says  the  farmer,  “  not  so  fast ! 

I  have  been  lame  these  four  years  past.” 
“And  no  great  wonder,”  Death  re¬ 
plies: 

“  However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes  ; 

And  sure,  to  see  one’s  loves  and  friends, 
For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends.” 

“  Perhaps,”  says  Dodson,  “  so  it  might, 
But  latterly  I’ve  lost  my  sight.” 

“  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  ’tis  true, 

But  still  there’s  comfort  left  for  you  : 

Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse ; 

I  warrant  you  hear  all  the  pews.” 

“There’s  none,”  cries  he;  “and  if  there 
were, 

I’m  grown  so  deaf  I  could  not  hear.” 

“  Nay,  then,”  the  spectre  stern  rejoin’d, 

“  These  are  unwarrantable  yearnings  ; 

If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind, 
You’ve  had  your  three  sufficient  warn¬ 
ings  ; 

So,  come  along,  no  more  we’ll  part ;” 

He  said,  and  touch’d  him  with  his  dart. 
And  now  old  Dodson,  turning  pale, 

Yields  to  his  fate — so  ends  my  tale. 

Hester  Thrale  Piozzi. 

- »o» 


Now  and  After  wards. 

“  Two  hands  upon  the  breast,  and  labor  is  past.” 

Russian  Proverb. 

“  Two  hands  upon  the  breast, 

And  labor’s  done ; 

Two  pale  feet  cross’d  in  rest, — 

The  race  is  won  ; 

Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut, 

And  all  tears  cease  ; 

Two  lips  where  grief  is  mute, 

Anger  at  peace :” 

So  pray  we  oftentimes,  mourning  our  lot ; 
God  in  His  kindness  answereth  not. 

“  Two  hands  to  work  addrest 
Aye  for  His  praise  ; 

Two  feet  that  never  rest 
Walking  His  ways  ; 

Two  eyes  that  look  above 
Through  all  their  tears  ; 

Two  lips  still  breathing  love, 

Not  wrath,  nor  fears  :” 

So  pray  we  afterwards,  low  on  our  knees  ; 
Pardon  those  erring  prayers  !  Father,  hear 
these ! 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik. 
- ♦<>♦ - 

Tommy's  Dead. 

You  may  give  over  plough,  boys, 

You  may  take  the  gear  to  the  stead, 

All  the  sweat  o’  your  brow,  boys, 

Will  never  get  beer  and  bread. 

The  seed’s  waste,  I  know,  boys, 

There’s  not  a  blade  will  grow,  boys. 

’Tis  cropp’d  out,  I  trow,  boys, 

And  Tommy’s  dead. 

Send  the  colt  to  fair,  boys, 

He’s  going  blind,  as  I  said, 

My  old  eyes  can’t  bear,  boys, 

To  see  him  in  the  shed  ; 

The  cow’s  dry  and  spare,  boys, 

She’s  neither  here  nor  there,  boys, 

I  doubt  she’s  badly  bred  ; 

Stop  the  mill  to-morn,  boys, 

There’ll  be  no  more  corn,  boys, 

Neither  white  nor  red  ; 

There’s  no  sign  of  grass,  boys, 

You  may  sell  the  goat  and  the  ass,  boys. 
The  land’s  not  what  it  was,  boys, 

And  the  beasts  must  be  fed ; 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY . 


621 


You  may  turn  Peg  away,  boys, 

You  may  pay  off  old  Ned, 

We’ve  had  a  dull  day,  boys, 

And  Tommy’s  dead. 

Move  my  chair  on  the  floor,  boys, 

Let  me  turn  my  head ; 

She’s  standing  there  in  the  door,  boys, 
Your  sister  Winifred ! 

Take  her  away  from  me,  boys, 

Your  sister  Winifred ! 

Move  me  round  in  my  place,  boys, 

Let  me  turn  my  head, 

Take  her  away  from  me,  boys, 

As  she  lay  on  her  death-bed, 

The  bones  of  her  thin  face,  boys, 

As  she  lay  on  her  death-bed ! 

I  don’t  know  how  it  be,  boys, 

When  all’s  done  and  said, 

But  I  see  her  looking  at  me,  boys, 
Wherever  I  turn  my  head ; 

Out  of  the  big  oak  tree,  boys, 

Out  of  the  garden  bed, 

And  the  lily  as  pale  as  she,  boys, 

And  the  rose  that  used  to  be  red. 

There’s  something  not  right,  boys, 

But  I  think  it’s  not  in  my  head, 

I’ve  kept  my  precious  sight,  boys, — 
The  Lord  be  hallowed ! 

Outside  and  in 

The  ground  is  cold  to  my  tread, 

The  hills  are  wizen  and  thin, 

The  skv  is  shrivell’d  and  shred. 

The  hedges  down  by  the  loan 
I  can  count  them  bone  by  bone, 

The  leaves  are  open  and  spread, 

But  I  see  the  teeth  of  the  land, 

And  hands  like  a  dead  man’s  hand, 
And  the  eyes  of  a  dead  man’s  head. 
There’s  nothing  but  cinders  and  sand, 
The  rat  and  the  mouse  have  fed, 
And  the  summer’s  empty  and  cold ; 
Over  valley  and  wold 

Wherever  I  turn  my  head 
There’s  a  mildew  and  a  mould, 

The  sun’s  going  out  overhead, 

And  I’m  very  old, 

And  Tommy’s  dead. 

What  am  I  staying  for,  boys  ? 

You’re  all  born  and  bred, 


’Tis  fifty  years  and  more,  boys, 

Since  wife  and  I  were  wed, 

And  she’s  gone  before,  boys, 

And  Tommy’s  dead. 

She  was  always  sweet,  boys, 

Upon  his  curly  head, 

She  knew  she’d  never  see’t,  boys, 

And  she  stole  off  to  bed  ; 

I’ve  been  sitting  up  alone,  boys, 

For  he’d  come  home,  he  said, 

But  it’s  time  I  was  gone,  boys, 

For  Tommy’s  dead. 

Put  the  shutters  up,  boys, 

Bring  out  the  beer  and  bread, 

Make  haste  and  sup,  boys, 

For  my  eyes  are  heavy  as  lead ; 

There’s  something  wrong  i’  the  cup,  boy3, 
There’s  something  ill  wi’  the  bread, 

I  don’t  care  to  sup,  boys, 

And  Tommy’s  dead. 

I’m  not  right,  I  doubt,  boys, 

I’ve  such  a  sleepy  head, 

I  shall  nevermore  be  stout,  boys, 

You  may  carry  me  to  bed. 

What  are  you  about,  boys  ? 

The  prayers  are  all  said, 

The  fire’s  raked  out,  boys, 

And  Tommy’s  dead. 

The  stairs  are  too  steep,  boys, 

You  may  carry  me  to  the  head, 

The  night’s  dark  and  deep,  boys, 

Your  mother’s  long  in  bed, 

’Tis  time  to  go  to  sleep,  boys, 

And  Tommy’s  dead. 

I’m  not  used  to  kiss,  boys, 

You  may  shake  my  hand  instead. 

All  things  go  amiss,  boys, 

You  may  lay  me  where  she  is,  boys, 

And  I’ll  rest  my  old  head : 

’Tis  a  poor  world,  this,  boys, 

And  Tommy’s  dead. 

Sidney  Dobell. 

The  Barons  Last  Banquet. 

O’er  a  low  couch  the  setting  sun 
Had  thrown  its  latest  ray, 

Where  in  his  last  strong  agony 
A  dying  warrior  lay, 


622 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  stern,  old  Baron  Rudiger, 

Whose  frame  had  ne’er  been  bent 
By  wasting  pain,  till  time  and  toil 
Its  iron  strength  had  spent. 

“  They  come  around  me  here,  and  say 
My  days  of  life  are  o’er, 

That  I  shall  mount  my  noble  steed 
And  lead  my  band  no  more  ; 

They  come,  and  to  my  beard  they  dare 
To  tell  me  now,  that  I, 

Their  ow-n  liege  lord  and  master  born, — 
That  I — ha  !  ha  ! — must  die. 

“And  what  is  Death?  I’ve  dared  him 
oft 

Before  the  Paynim  spear, — 

Think  ye  he’s  enter’d  at  my  gate, 

Has  come  to  seek  me  here  ? 

I’ve  met  him,  faced  him,  scorn’d  him, 
When  the  fight  was  raging  hot, — 

I’ll  try  his  might — I’ll  brave  his  power  ; 
Defy,  and  fear  him  not. 

“  Ho  !  sound  the  tocsin  from  my  tower, — 
And  fire  the  culverin, — 

Bid  each  retainer  arm  with  speed, — 

Call  every  vassal  in  ; 

Up  with  my  banner  on  the  wall, — 

The  banquet-board  prepare, — 

Throw  wide  the  portal  of  my  hall, 

And  bring  my  armor  there  !” 

A  hundred  hands  were  busy  then, — 

The  banquet  forth  was  spread, — 

And  rung  the  heavy  oaken  floor 
With  many  a  martial  tread, 

While  from  the  rich,  dark  tracery 
Along  the  vaulted  wall, 

Lights  gleam’d  on  harness,  plume,  and 
spear, 

O’er  the  proud  old  Gothic  hall. 

Fast  hurrying  through  the  outer  gate, 

The  mail’d  retainers  pour’d, 

On  through  the  portal’s  frowning  arch, 
And  throng’d  around  the  board. 

While  at  its  head,  within  his  dark, 

Carved  oaken  chair  of  state, 

Armed  cap-a-pie,  stern  Rudiger, 

With  girded  falchion,  sate. 


“  Fill  every  beaker  up,  my  men, 

Pour  forth  the  cheering  wine; 

There’s  life  and  strength  in  every  drop, — 
Thanksgiving  to  the  vine ! 

Are  ye  all  there,  my  vassals  true  ? — 

Mine  eyes  are  waxing  dim  ; — 

Fill  round,  my  tried  and  fearless  ones. 
Each  goblet  to  the  brim. 

“  Ye’re  there,  but  yet  I  see  ye  not. 

Draw  forth  each  trusty  sword, — 

And  let  me  hear  your  faithful  steel 
Clash  once  around  my  board : 

I  hear  it  faintly  : — Louder  yet ! — 

What  clogs  my  heavy  breath  ? 

Up  all, — and  shout  for  Rudiger, 

1  Defiance  unto  Death  !’  ” 

Bowl  rang  to  bowl, — steel  clang’d  to  steel 
— And  rose  a  deafening  cry 
That  made  the  torches  flare  around, 

And  shook  the  flags  on  high: — 

“  Ho  !  cravens,  do  ye  fear  him? — 

Slaves,  traitors  !  have  ye  flown  ? 

Ho  !  cowards,  have  ye  left  me 
To  meet  him  here  alone  ? 

“  But  I  defy  him: — let  him  come!” 

Down  rang  the  massy  cup, 

While  from  its  sheath  the  ready  blade 
Came  flashing  half-way  up  ; 

And,  with  the  black  and  heavy  plumes 
Scarce  trembling  on  his  head, 

There,  in  his  dark,  carved,  oaken  chair, 
Old  Rudiger  sat,  dead. 

Albert  G.  Greene, 

- ♦<>♦  1  ■  1  ■ 

The  Sleep. 

“  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” — Psalm  cxxvii.  2. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar 
Along  the  Psalmist’s  music  deep, 

Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 

For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this, — 

“  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep  ”  9 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero’s  heart  to  be  unmoved, 

The  poet’s  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot’s  voice  to  teach  and  rouse, 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


623 


The  monarch’s  crown  to  light  the  brows  ? 

“  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep, 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake. 

“  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

“  Sleep  soft,  beloved  !”  we  sometimes  say, 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids 
creep. 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 
4<  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises ! 

O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 

O  delved  gold,  the  wailers  heap  ! 

O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o’er  it  fall ! 

God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 

And  “  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 

His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 

Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 

Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

“  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man, 

Confirm’d  in  such  a  rest  to  keep  ; 

But  angels  say — and  through  the  word 
I  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard — 

“  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

For  me,  my  heart,  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 

That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers 
leap, 

Would  now  its  weary  vision  close, 

Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose 
Who  “  giveth  His  beloved  sleep  !” 

And,  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  bo 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 

And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 

Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 

Say,  “  Not  a  tear  must  o’er  her  fall, — 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


Death’s  Final  Conquest. 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 
Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things  ; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate ; 

Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings ; 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 

And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 

With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill, 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still ; 

Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring 
breath 

When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow ; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds; 
Upon  Death’s  purple  altar  now 
See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds ; 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb  ; 

Only  the  actions  of  the  just 

Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 

James  Shirley, 

- •<>« - 

The  Last  Conqueror. 

Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more 
Proclaim  how  wide  your  empires  are  ; 
Though  you  bind  in  every  shore 
And  your  triumphs  reach  as  far 
As  night  or  day, 

Yet  you,  proud  monarchs,  must  obey, 
And  mingle  with  forgotten  ashes,  when 
Death  calls  ye  to  the  crowd  of  common 
men. 

Devouring  Famine,  Plague,  and  War, 

Each  able  to  undo  mankind, 

Death’s  servile  emissaries  are ; 

Nor  to  these  alone  confined, 

He  hath  at  will 

More  quaint  and  subtle  ways  to  kill ; 

A  smile  or  kiss,  as  he  will  use  the  art, 

Shall  have  the  cunning  skill  to  break  a 
heart. 


James  Shirley. 


624 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Than  a  tops  is. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she 
speaks 

A  various  language;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.  When 
thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow 
house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at 
heart; — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature’s  teachings,  while  from  all 
around — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of 
air, — 

Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and 
thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold 
ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many 
tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.  Earth,  that  nourish’d  thee, 
shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude 
swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon. 
The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce 
thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone, — nor  couldst  thou 
wish 

Couch  more  magnificent.  Thou  shalt  lie 
down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with 
kings, 


The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the 
good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.  The  hills 
Rock-ribb’d  and  ancient  as  the  sun;  the 
vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 
The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  pour’d 
round  all, 

Old  Ocean’s  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.  The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of 
heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.  All  that 
tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the 
wings 

Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  Avoods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no 
sound 

Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are 
there  : 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them 
down 

In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there 
alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  Avith- 
draAV 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?  All  that 
breathe 

Will  share  thy  destiny.  The  gay  Avill 
laugh 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of 
care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall 
leave 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and 
shall  come, 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.  As  the 
long  train 

Of  ages  glide  aAATay,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth  in  life’s  green  spring,  and  he 
Avho  goes 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


625 


In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and 
maid, 

The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed 
man, — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gather’d  to  thy  side, 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow 
them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes 
to  join 

The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall 
take 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at 
night, 

Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustain’d  and 
soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy 
grave 

Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his 
couch 

About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant 
dreams. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

- +o+ - 

When  Coldness  Wraps  this 
Suffering  Clay. 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay, 
Ah,  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind  ? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay, 

But  leaves  its  darken’d  dust  behind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet’s  heavenly  way  ? 

Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey  ? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecay’d, 

A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  all, 

All,  all  in  earth  or  skies  display’d, 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 

Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds 
So  darkly  of  departed  years, 

In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds, 

And  all  that  was  at  once  appears. 

Before  creation  peopled  earth, 

Its  eye  shall  roll  through  chaos  back  ; 
And  where  the  farthest  heaven  had  birth, 
The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 

And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes, 

Its  glance  dilate  o’er  all  to  be, 

40 


While  sun  is  quench’d  or  system  breaks, 
Fix’d  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  love,  hope,  hate,  or  fear, 

It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure  : 

An  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year ; 

Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 
Away,  away,  without  a  wing, 

O’er  all,  through  all,  its  thoughts  shall 

fly — 

A  nameless  and  eternal  thing, 

Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 

Lord  Byron. 

-  ♦<>♦• - 

A  Death-bed. 

Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day  ; 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 

And  breathed  the  long,  long  night  away, 
In  statue-like  repose. 

But  when  the  sun,  in  all  his  state, 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 

She  pass’d  through  glory’s  morning-gate. 
And  walk’d  in  Paradise ! 

James  Aldrich. 


The  Death-bed. 

We  watch’d  her  breathing  through  the 
night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 

As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seem’d  to  .speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 

As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 
To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 

Thomas  Hood. 


Coronach. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 

Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 
When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 


626 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  font,  reappearing, 

From  the  raindrops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 

But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 
Wails  manhood  in  glory. 

The  autumn  winds,  rushing,  • 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  serest ; 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 
When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 

Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 

Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 

Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 
Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


The  Knight’s  Tomb. 

Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O’Kel- 
lyn  ? 

Where  may  the  grave  of  that  good  man 
be?— 

By  the  side  of  a  spring,  on  the  breast  of 
Helvellyn, 

Under  the  twigs  of  a  young  birch  tree ! 

The  oak  that  in  summer  was  sweet  to  hear, 

And  rustled  its  leaves  in  the  fall  of  the 
year, 

And  whistled  and  roar’d  in  the  winter 
alone, 

Is  gone,  —  and  the  birch  in  its  stead  is 
grown. — 

The  knight’s  bones  are  dust, 

And  his  good  sword  rust ; — 

His  soul  is  with  the  saints,  I  trust. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


The  Voiceless. 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 
Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber, 
But  o’er  their  silent  sister’s  breast 

The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to  num¬ 
ber? 


A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win 
them  : — 

Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them  ! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts’  sad 
story- 

Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 
The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory ! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 
O’er  Sappho’s  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 
On  nameless  sorrow’s  churchyard  pil¬ 
low. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 
Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 
Slow-dropp’d  from  Misery’s  crushing 

presses, — 

If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 
To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 

What  endless  melodies  were  pour’d, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven  ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

- 40 - 

MAN’S  MORTALITY. 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see, 

Or  like  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 

Or  like  the  dainty  flower  in  May. 

Or  like  the  morning  of  the  day, 

Or  like  the  sun,  or  like  the  shade, 

Or  like  the  gourd  which  Jonas  had,-- 
E’en  such  is  man;' — whose  thread  is 
spun, 

Drawn  out,  and  cut,  and  so  is  done. — 
The  rose  withers,  the  blossom  blasteth, 
The  flower  fades,  the  morning  hasteth, 

The  sun  sets,  the  shadow  flies, 

The  gourd  consumes, — and  man  he  dies  ! 

Like  to  the  grass  that’s  newly  sprung, 
Or  like  a  tale  that’s  new  begun, 

Or  like  the  bird  that’s  here  to-day 
Or  like  the  pearled  dew  of  May, 

Or  like  an  hour,  or  like  a  span, 

Or  like  the  singing  of  a  swan, — 

E’en  such  is  man ; — who  lives  by  breath, 
Is  here,  now  there,  in  life  and  death  — 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


627 


The  grass  withers,  the  tale  is  ended, 

The  bird  is  flown,  the  dew’s  ascended. 

The  hour  is  short,  the  span  is  long, 

The  swan’s  near  death, — man’s  life  is  done ! 

Simon  Wastell. 

- »o» - 

On  WHY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT  OF 

Mortal  be  Proud? 

Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be 
proud  ? 

Like  a  fast-flitting  meteor,  a  fast-flying 
cloud, 

A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the 

wave, 

%  ' 

He  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the 
grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall 
fade, 

Be  scatter’d  around  and  together  be  laid ; 

And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low 
and  the  high, 

Shall  moulder  to  dust  and  together  shall 
lie. 

The  child  that  a  mother  attended  and 
loved, 

The  mother  that  infant’s  affection  who 
proved, 

The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  who 
bless’d, — 

Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwellings  of 
rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow, 
in  whose  eye, 

Shone  beauty  and  pleasure, — her  triumphs 
are  by ; 

And  the  memory  of  those  who  have  loved 
her  and  praised, 

Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living 
erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre  hath 
borne, 

The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre  hath 
worn, 

The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the 
brave, 

A.re  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the 
grave. 


The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to 
reap, 

The  herdsman  who  climb’d  with  his  goats 
to  the  steep, 

The  beggar  who  wander’d  in  search  of  his 
bread, 

Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we 
tread. 

The  saint  who  enjoy’d  the  communion  of 
heaven, 

The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unfor¬ 
given, 

The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and 
just, 

Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the 
dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flower  and 
the  weed, 

That  wither  away  to  let  others  succeed ; 

So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  be¬ 
hold, 

To  repeat  every  tale  that  hath  often  been 
told. 

For  we  are  the  same  things  our  fathers 
have  been ; 

We  see  the  same  sights  that  our  fathers 
have  seen, — 

We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we  feel  the 
same  sun, 

And  run  the  same  course  that  our  fathers 
have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers 
would  think ; 

From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  from, 
they  too  would  shrink  ; 

To  the  life  we  are  clinging  to,  they  too 
would  cling ; 

But  it  speeds  from  the  earth  like  a  bird  on 
the  wing. 

They  loved,  but  their  story  we  cannot  un¬ 
fold  ; 

They  scorn’d,  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty 
is  cold  ; 

They  grieved,  but  no  wail  from  their  slum¬ 
bers  will  come ; 

They  joy’d,  but  the  voice  of  their  gladness 
is  dumb. 


628 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


They  died, — ay  !  they  died ;  and  we  things 
that  are  now, 

Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their 
brow, 

Who  make  in  their  dwellings  a  transient 
abode, 

Meet  the  changes  they  met  on  their  pil¬ 
grimage  road. 

Yea,  hope  and  despondence,  and  pleasure 
and  pain, 

Are  mingled  together  in  sunshine  and 
rain  ; 

And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  the  song  and 
the  dirge, 

Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon 
surge. 

’Tis  the  twink  of  an  eye,  ’tis  the  draught 
of  a  breath, 

From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness 
of  death, 

From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the 
shroud, — 

Oh  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be 
proud  ? 

William  Knox. 

- KX - 

Passing  Away. 

Was  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell 

That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear, 

Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy’s  shell 
That  he  winds,  on  the  beach,  so  mellow 
and  clear, 

When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  to¬ 
gether  asleep, 

And  the  Moon  and  the  Fairy  are  watching 
the  deep, 

She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 

And  he  his  notes  as  silvery  quite, 

While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his 
oar, 

To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the 
shore? 

Hark  !  the  notes  on  my  ear  that  play 

Are  set  to  words ;  as  they  float,  they  say, 

“  Passing  away  !  passing  away !” 

But  no ;  it  was  not  a  fairy’s  shell, 

Blown  on  the  beach,  so  melkrw  and 
clear ; 

Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell, 
Striking  the  hour,  that  fill’d  my  ear 


As  I  lay  in  my  dream ;  yet  was  it  a  chime 

That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of 
time. 

For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling 
hung, 

And  a  plump  little  girl,  for  a  pendulum, 
swung 

(As  you’ve  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 

That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  canary-bird 
swing)  ; 

And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding 
bouquet, 

And,  as  she  enjoy’d  it,  she  seem’d  to  say, 

“  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !” 

Oh  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 

Of  the  lapse  of  time,  as  they  moved 
round  slow ; 

And  the  hands,  as  they  swept  o’er  the  dial 
of  gold, 

Seem’d  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 

And  lo  !  she  had  changed :  in  a  few  short 
hours 

Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of 
flowers, 

That  she  held  in  her  outstretch’d  hands, 
and  flung 

This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 

In  the  fulness  of  grace  and  of  womanly 
pride, 

That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride ; 

Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest 
day, 

In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  sav, 

“  Passing  away  !  passing  away !” 

While  I  gazed  at  that  fair  one’s  cheek,  a 
shade 

Of  thought  or  care  stole  softly  over, 

Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer’s  day 
made, 

Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming 
clover. 

The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its 
flush 

Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush ; 

And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on 
the  wheels, 

That  march’d  so  calmlv  round  above  her, 

Was  a  little  dimm’d, — as  -when  Evening 
steals 

LTpon  Noon’s  hot  face.  Yet  one  couldn’t 
but  love  her, 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


629 


For  she  look’d  like  a  mother  whose  first 
babe  lay 

Rock’d  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day ; 
And  she  seem’d,  in  the  same  silver  tone, 
to  say, 

“  Passing  away  !  passing  away !” 

While  yet  I  look’d,  wdiat  a  change-  there 
came ! 

Her  eye  wTas  quench’d,  and  her  cheek 
was  wTan; 

Stooping  and  (staff’d  was  her  wither’d 
frame, 

Yet  just  as  busily  swung  she  on  ; 

The  garland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to 
dust  ; 

The  wheels  above  her  -were  eaten  with 
rust ; 

The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 

Grew  crooked  and  tarnish’d,  but  on  they 
kept, 

And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  slirivell’d  lips  of  the  toothless 
crone 

(Let  me  never  forget  till  my  dying  day 
The  tone  or  the  burden  of  her  lay), 

“  Passing  away  !  passing  away !” 

John  Pierpont. 

- K>« - 

Her  Last  Verses. 

Earth,  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills, 
Recedes  and  fades  away ; 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills, 
Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  whisper’d  song, 

My  blindness  is  my  sight ; 

The  shadows  that  I  fear’d  so  long 
Are  all  alive  writh  light. 

The  wThile  my  pulses  faintly  beat, 

My  faith  doth  so  abound, 

I  feel  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 
The  green  immortal  ground. 

That  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives, 

Low  as  the  grave  to  go ; 

I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives : 

That  I  shall  live  I  know. 

The  palace-walls  I  almost  see, 

Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King; 

*0  grave,  wrhere  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  death,  where  is  thy  sting? 

Alice  Cary. 


Over  the  River. 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me, — 
Loved  ones  who’ve  cross’d  to  the  farther 
side ; 

The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  drown’d  in  the 
rushing  tide. 

There’s  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold, 
And  eyes,  the  reflection  of  heaven’s  own 
blue ; 

He  cross’d  in  the  twilight,  gray  and  cold, 
And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal 
view. 

We  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there ; 
The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see ; 

Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me ! 

Over  the  river,  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another, — the  household  pet : 

Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle 
gale — 

Darling  Minnie  !  I  see  her  yet. 

She  cross’d  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled 
hands, 

And  fearlessly  enter’d  the  phantom 
bark ; 

We  watch’d  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 
And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely 
dark. 

We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  farther  side, 
Where  all  the  ransom’d  and  angels  be ; 

Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river, 

My  childhood’s  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 
Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and 
pale ; 

We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail, — 

And  lo  !  they  have  pass’d  from  our  yearn¬ 
ing  heart ; 

They  cross  the  stream,  and  are  gone  for 
aye; 

We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart, 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of 
day. 

We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 
Mav  sail  with  us  o’er  life’s  stormv  sea  ; 

Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen 
shore, 

They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 


630 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  I  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset’s  gold 

Is  flushing  river,  and  hill,  and  shore, 

I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold, 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman’s 
oar  ; 

I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping 
sail ; 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the 
strand  ; 

I  shall  pass  from  sight,  with  the  boatman 
pale, 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land  ; 

I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  be¬ 
fore, — 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  Angel  of  Death  shall  carry  me. 

Nancy  A.  W.  Wakefield. 

- »<>♦  - 

The  Hour  of  Death. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind’s 
breath, 

And  stars  to  set, — but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0 
Death ! 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 

Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous 
hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice 
of  prayer, — 

But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth ! 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 

Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song,  and 
wine  ; 

There  comes  a  day  for  grief’s  o’erwhelm- 
ing  power, — 

A  time  for  softer  tears, — but  all  are  thine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for 
decay, 

And  smile  at  thee, — but  thou  art  not  of 
those 

That  wait  the  ripen’d  bloom  to  seize  their 
prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind’s 
breath, 


And  stars  to  set, — but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O 
Death  ! 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 

When  summer  birds  from  far  shall  cross 
the  sea, 

When  autumn’s  hues  shall  tinge  the 
golden  grain, — 

But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for 
thee  ? 

Is  it  when  Spring’s  first  £ale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets 
lie? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow 
pale  ? — 

They  have  one  season, — all  are  ours  to  die ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam. 

Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the 
air  ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful 
home ; 

And  the  world  calls  us  forth, — and  thou 
art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest, — 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trum¬ 
pets  rend 

The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the 
princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind’s 
breath, 

And  stars  to  set, — but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O 
Death ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 

- - 

Elegy. 

Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting 
day, 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o’er  the 

lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary 
way,  # 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to 
me. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY . 


631 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on 
the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning 
flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant 
folds : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  com¬ 
plain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret 
bower, 

Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew  tree’s 
shade, 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moul¬ 
dering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw- 
built  shed, 

The  cock’s  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing 
horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their 
lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall 
burn 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care : 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire’s  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to 
share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has 
broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team 
afield ! 

How  bow’d  the  woods  beneath  their 
sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful 
smile 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the 
poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e’er 
gave, 


Await  alike  th’  inevitable  hour : — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the 
fault 

If  Memory  o’er  their  tomb  no  trophies 
raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and 
fretted  vault 

The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of 
praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting 
breath  ? 

Can  Honor’s  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of 
Death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial 
fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 
sway’d, 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  : 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample 
page 

Bich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne’er 
unroll ; 

Chill  Penury  repress’d  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathom’d  caves  of  ocean 
bear : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  un¬ 
seen, 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert 
air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  daunt¬ 
less  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may 
rest, 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country’s 
blood. 

Th’  applause  of  list’ning  senates  to  com¬ 
mand, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o’er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation’s 
eyes, 


632 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes 
confined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a 
throne, 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  man¬ 
kind  ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to 
hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous 
shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse’s 
flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd’s  ignoble 
strife 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learn’d  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequester’d  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their 
way. 

Yet  e’en  these  bones  from  insult  to  pro¬ 
tect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculp¬ 
ture  deck’d, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th’  unlet¬ 
ter’d  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  : 

And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e’er  re¬ 
sign’d, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful 
day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  be¬ 
hind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  re¬ 
quires  ; 

E’en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature 
cries, 

E’en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th’  unhonor’d 

7  7 

dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  re¬ 
late, 


If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy 
fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
“  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of 
dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn; 

“  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so 
high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he 
stretch, 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

“  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in 
scorn, 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would 
rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woeful- wan,  like  one  for¬ 
lorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross’d  in  hope¬ 
less  love. 

“  One  morn  I  miss’d  him  on  the  ’custom’d 
hill, 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite 
tree ; 

Another  came,  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was 
he ; 

“  The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
Slow  through  the  church  way  path  we 
saw  him  borne ; 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read) 
the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged 
thorn.” 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  vouth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  un- 
known  ; 

Fair  Science  frown’d  not  on  his  humble 
birth, 

And  Melancholy  mark’d  him  for  her 
own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sin¬ 
cere  ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely 
send : 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


633 


a  i 

He  gave  to  Misery  all  lie  had, — a  tear, 

He  gain’d  from  Heaven — ’twas  all  he 
wish’d — a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread 
abode 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  re¬ 
pose), 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Gray. 

- *o* - 

Lines  Written  in  Richmond 
Churchyard ,  Yorkshire. 

Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here ; 

If  thou  wilt,  let  us  build, — but  for  whom  ? 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear, 

But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass  the 
gloom, 

The  abode  of  the  dead  and  the  place  of  the 
tomb. 

» 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ?  Oh,  no  ! 

Affrighted,  he  shrinketh  away ; 

For,  see!  they  would  pin  him  below, 

In  a  small,  narrow  cave,  and,  begirt  with 
cold  clay, 

To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a 
prey. 

To  Beauty?  ah,  no!  She  forgets 

The  charms  which  she  wielded  before, 

Nor  knows  the  foul  worm  that  he  frets 

The  skin  which  but  yesterday  fools  could 
adore, 

For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tint 
which  it  wore. 


Shall  we  build  to  the  purple  of  Pride, 
The  trappings  which  ’dizen  the  proud? 

Alas !  they  are  all  laid  aside, 

And  here’s  neither  dress  nor  adornment 
allow’d, 

But  the  long  winding-sheet  and  the  fringe 
of  the  shroud. 

To  Riches?  alas  !  ’tis  in  vain  ; 

Who  hid,  in  their  turn  have  been  hid; 

The  treasures  are  squander’d  again, 

And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals  for¬ 
bid, 

But  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the  dark  cof¬ 
fin-lid. 


To  the  pleasures  which  Mirth  can  afford, — 

The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer? 

Ah  !  here  is  a  plentiful  board  ! 

But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful 
cheer, 

And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller  here. 

Shall  we  build  to  Affection  and  Love? 

Ah,  no !  they  have  wither’d  and  died, 

Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above  : 

Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters  are  laid  side 
by  side, 

Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  re¬ 
plied. 

Unto  Sorrow? — The  dead  cannot  grieve; 

Not  a  sob,  not  a  sigh  meets  mine  ear, 

Which  compassion  itself  could  relieve. 

Ah !  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  hope,  love, 
nor  fear, — 

Peace,  peace  is  the  watchword,  the  only 
one  here ! 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarchs  must 
bow  ? 

Ah,  no  !  for  his  empire  is  known, 

And  here  there  are  trophies  enow ! 

Beneath,  the  cold  dead,  and  around,  the 
dark  stone, 

Are  the  signs  of  a  scejttre  that  none  may 
disown ! 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will 
build, 

And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to 
rise ; 

The  second  to  Faith,  which  ensures  it 
fulfill’d ; 

And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  great 
sacrifice, 

Who  bequeathed  us  them  both  when  he 
rose  to  tlie#skies. 

Herbert  Knoavles. 

- - 

Hall  o  wed  Gr o  und. 

What’s  hallow’d  ground?  Has  earth  a 
clod 

Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 

By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 

Unscourged  by  superstition’s  rod 
To  bow  the  knee? 


634 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


That’s  hallow’d  ground  where,  mourn’d  and 
miss’d, 

The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kiss’d  : — 

But  where’s  their  memory’s  mansion?  Is’t 
Yon  churchyard’s  bowers? 

No!  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 
Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound ; 
The  spot  where  love’s  first  links  were 
wound, 

That  ne’er  are  riven, 

Is  hallow’d,  down  to  earth’s  profound, 

And  up  to  heaven! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old ; 

The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were 
told 

Bun  molten  still  in  memory’s  mould ; 

And  will  not  cool 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 
In  Lethe’s  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
’Tis  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap  ! — 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 
Their  turf  may  bloom, 

Or  genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 
Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 
Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  man¬ 
kind — 

And  is  he  dead  whose  glorious  mind 
Lifts  thine  on  high  ? — 

To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind 
Is  not  to  die. 

Is’t  death  to  fall  for  Freedom’s  right? 

He’s  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light! 

And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven’s  sight 
The  sword  he  draws  : — 

What  can  alone  ennoble  fight? 

A  noble  cause ! 

Give  that !  and  welcome  War  to  b^ace 
Her  drums,  and  rend  Heaven’s  reeking 
space ! 

The  colors  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer, 

Though  Death’s  pale  horse  lead  on  the 
chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 


And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven ! — But  Heaven  rebukes  my 
zeal. 

The  cause  of  truth  and  human  weal, 

O  God  above ! 

Transfer  it  from  the  sword’s  appeal 
To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace !  Love  ! — the  cherubim  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o’er  Devotion’s  shrine ! 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 
Where  they  are  not ; 

The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 
Religion’s  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 

And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august? 

See  mouldering  stones  and  metal’s  rust 
Belie  the  vaunt, 

That  men  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 
With  chime  or  chaunt. 

The  ticking  wood- worm  mocks  thee,  man ! 
Thy  temples — creeds  themselves  grow  wan ! 
But  there’s  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 

Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban — 

Its  space  is  Heaven ! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature’s  ceiling, 
Where,  trancing  the  rapt  spirit’s  feeling, 
And  God  Himself  to  man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Make  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 
By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars  !  are  not  your  beings  pure  ? 

Can  sin,  can  death,  your  worlds  obscure? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 
Aspect  above? 

Ye  must  be  heavens  that  make  us  sure 
Of  heavenly  love ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time : 

That  man’s  regenerate  soul  from  crime 
Shall  yet  be  drawn, 

And  reason,  on  his  mortal  clime, 

Immortal  dawn. 

What’s  hallow’d  ground?  ’Tis  what  gives 
birth 

To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth ! — 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


635 


Peace  !  Independence  !  Truth  !  go  forth, 
Earth’s  compass  round ; 

And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make 
earth 

All  hallow’d  ground! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


Epitaph  upon  Husband  and 
Wife 

who  Died  and  were  Buried  together. 

To  these,  whom  death  again  did  wed, 
This  grave’s  the  second  marriage-bed, 
For  though  the  hand  of  fate  could  force 
’Twixt  soul  and  bodv  a  divorce, 

It  could  not  sever  man  and  wife, 

Because  they  both  lived  but  one  life. 
Peace,  good  reader,  do  not  weep 
Peace,  the  lovers  are  asleep  ! 

They  (sweet  turtles)  folded  lie, 

In  the  last  knot  love  could  tie. 

Let  them  sleep,  let  them  sleep  on, 

Till  this  stormy  night  be  gone, 

And  the  eternal  morrow  dawn  ; 

Then  the  curtains  will  be  drawn, 

And  they  wake  into  a  light 
Whose  day  shall  never  end  in  night. 

Richard  Crashaw. 

- KX - 

Elegy  to  the  Memory  of  an 
Unfortunate  Lady. 

What  beck’ning  ghost,  along  the  moon¬ 
light  shade, 

Invites  my  steps,  and  points  to  yonder 
glade  ? 

’Tis  she  ! — but  why  that  bleeding  bosom 
gored  ? 

Why  dimly  gleams  the  visionary  sword  ? 

O  ever  beauteous  !  ever  friendly  !  tell, 

Is  it  in  Heav’n  a  crime  to  love  too  well? 
To  bear  too  tender  or  too  firm  a  heart, 

To  act  a  lover’s  or  a  Roman’s  part? 

Is  there  no  bright  reversion  in  the  sky 
For  those  who  greatly  think  or  bravely 
die  ? 

Why  bade  ye  else,  ye  pow’rs  !  her  soul 
aspire 

Above  the  vulgar  flight  of  low  desire  ? 
Ambition  first  sprung  from  your  blest 
abodes, 

The  glorious  fault  of  angels  and  of  gods  : 


Thence  to  their  images  on  earth  it  flows, 
And  in  the  breasts  of  kings  and  heroes 
glows. 

Most  souls,  ’tis  true,  but  peep  out  once  an 
age, 

Dull  sullen  pris’ners  in  the  body’s  cage  : 
Dim  lights  of  life,  that  burn  a  length  of 
years, 

Useless,  unseen,  as  lamps  in  sepulchres  ; 
Like  Eastern  kings,  a  lazy  state  they  keep, 
And,  close  confined  to  their  own  palace, 
sleep. 

From  these  perhaps  (ere  Nature  bade 
her  die) 

Fate  snatch’d  her  early  to  the  pitying  sky. 
As  into  air  the  purer  spirits  flow, 

And  sep’rate  from  their  kindred  dregs 
below  ; 

So  flew  the  soul  to  its  congenial  place, 

Nor  left  one  virtue  to  redeem  her  race. 

But  thou,  false  guardian  of  a  charge  too 
good, 

Thou  mean  deserter  of  thy  brother’s  blood ! 
See  on  these  ruby  lips  the  trembling- 
breath, 

These  cheeks  now  fading  at  the  blast  of 
death  ! 

Cold  is  that  breast  which  warm’d  the 
world  before, 

And  those  love-darting  eyes  must  roll  no 
more. 

Thus,  if  eternal  justice  rules  the  ball, 

Thus  shall  your  wives,  and  thus  your  chil¬ 
dren  fall  : 

On  all  the  line  a  sudden  vengeance  waits, 
And  frequent  hearses  shall  besiege  your 
gates  : 

There  passengers  shall  stand,  and  pointing 
say 

(While  the  long  fun’rals  blacken  all  the 
way), 

“  Lo  !  these  were  they,  whose  souls  the 
Furies  steel’d, 

And  cursed  with  hearts  unknowing  how  to 
yield.” 

Thus  unlamented  pass  the  proud  away, 
The  gaze  of  fools,  and  pageant  of  a  day ! 
So  perish  all,  whose  breast  ne’er  learn’d  to 
glow 

For  others’  good,  or  melt  at  others’  woe. 

What  can  atone  (O  ever-injured  shade!) 
Thy  fate  unpitied  and  thy  rites  unpaid? 


636 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


No  friend’s  complaint,  no  kind  domestic 
tear 

Pleased  thy  pale  ghost,  or  graced  thy 
mournful  bier  ; 

By  foreign  hands  thy  dying  eyes  were 
closed, 

By  foreign  hands  thy  decent  limbs  com¬ 
posed, 

By  foreign  hands  thy  humble  grave 
adorn’d, 

By  strangers  honor’d  and  by  strangers 
mourn’d. 

What  though  no  friends  in  sable  weeds 
appear, 

Grieve  for  an  hour,  perhaps,  then  mourn  a 
year, 

And  bear  about  the  mockery  of  woe 

To  midnight  dances  and  the  public 
show  ? 

What  though  no  weeping  Loves  thy  ashes 
grace, 

Nor  polish’d  marble  emulate  thy  face  ? 

What  though  no  sacred  earth  allow  thee 
room, 

Nor  hallow’d  dirge  be  mutter’d  o’er  thy 
tomb  ? 

Yet  shall  thy  grave  with  rising  flowers  be 
dress’d, 

And  the  green  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy 
breast : 

There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears 
bestow, 

There  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall 
blow  : 

While  angels  with  their  silver  wings  o’er- 
shade 

The  ground  now  sacred  by  thy  relics 
made. 

So  peaceful  rests,  without  a  stone,  a 
name, 

What  once  had  beauty,  titles,  wealth,  and 
fame. 

How  loved,  how  honor’d  once,  avails  thee 
not, 

To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot ; 

A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee, 

’Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall 
be  ! 

Poets  themselves  must  fall  like  those 
they  sung, 

Deaf  the  praised  ear,  and  mute  the  tune¬ 
ful  tongue. 


Ev’n  he,  whose  soul  now  melts  in  mourn¬ 
ful  lavs, 

Shall  shortly  want  the  gen’rous  tear  he 
pays; 

Then  from  his  closing  eyes  thy  form  shall 
part, 

And  the  last  pang  shall  tear  thee  from  his 
heart ; 

Life’s  idle  business  at  one  gasp  be  o’er, 

The  Muse  forgot,  and  thou  beloved  no 
more ! 

Alexander  Pope. 


-*<>♦- 


The  Land  o’  the  Leal. 

I’m  wearin’  awa’,  Jean, 

Like  sn  aw- wreaths  in  thaw,  Jean, 
I’m  wearin’  awa’ 

To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

There’s  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There’s  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 
In  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Our  bonnie  bairn’s  there,  Jean, 

She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  Jean, 
And  oh  !  we  grudged  her  sair 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

But  sorrow’s  sel’  wears  past,  Jean, 
And  joy’s  a-comin’  fast,  Jean, 

The  joy  that’s  aye  to  last 
In  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Sae  dear  that  joy  was  bought,  Jean, 
Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  Jean, 
That  sinfu’  man  e’er  brought 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Oh  !  dry  your  glistening  e’e,  Jean, 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean, 

And  angels  beckon  me 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Oh  !  haud  ye  leal  and  true,  Jean, 
Your  day  it’s  wearin’  thro’,  Jean, 
And  I’ll  welcome  you 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean, 

This  warld’s  cares  are  vain,  Jean, 
We’ll  meet,  and  we’ll  be  fain, 

In  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Lady  Carolina  Nairne. 


-♦O* 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


637 


Stanzas. 

Farewell,  life  !  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim  ; 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night, — 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 

Upward  steals  a  vapor  chill ; 

Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows, — 

I  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose  ! 

Welcome,  life  !  the  spirit  strives  ! 
Strength  returns  and  hope  revives  : 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn, — 

O’er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom  ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom, 

Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold, — 

I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 

- -■  - 

The  Dying  Man  in  ms  Garden. 

Why,  Damon,  with  the  forward  day 
Dost  thou  thy  little  spot  survey, 

From  tree  to  tree,  with  doubtful  cheer, 
Pursue  the  progress  of  the  year, 

What  winds  arise,  what  rains  descend, 
When  thou  before  that  year  shalt  end  ? 

What  do  thy  noontide  walks  avail, 

To  clear  the  leaf,  and  pick  the  snail, 
Then  wantonly  to  death  decree 
An  insect  usefuller  than  thee  ? 

Thou  and  the  worm  are  brother-kind, 

As  low,  as  earthy,  and  as  blind. 

Vain  wretch  !  canst  thou  expect  to  see 
The  downy  peach  make  court  to  thee  ? 
Or  that  thy  sense  shall  ever  meet 
The  bean-flower’s  deep-embosom’d  sweet 
Exhaling  with  an  evening  blast  ? 

Thy  evenings  then  will  all  be  past ! 

Thy  narrow  pride,  thy  fancied  green 
(For  vanity’s  in  little  seen), 

All  must  be  left  when  Death  appears, 

In  spite  of  wishes,  groans,  and  tears  ; 
Nor  one  of  all  thy  plants  that  grow 
But  Rosemary  will  with  thee  go. 

George  Sewell. 


Dirge. 

From  “  Cymbeline.” 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o’  the  sun, 

Nor  the  furious  winter’s  rages ; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta’en  thy  wages : 
Golden  lads  and  lasses  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o’  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant’s  stroke  ; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat  ; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak : 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

« 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning  flash 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone; 
Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 

Thou  hast  finish’d  joy  and  moan  : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must, 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- *0* - 

DIRGE  IN  C YMBELINE. 

Sung  by  Guiderus  and  Arviragus  over 
Fidele,  supposed  to  be  Dead/ 

To  fair  Fidele’s  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet  of  earliest  bloom, 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear, 

To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove ; 
But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 

And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  wither’d  witch  shall  here  be  seen — 

No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew ; 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew. 

The  redbreast  oft,  at  evening  hours, 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 

With  hoary  moss,  and  gather’d  flowers, 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds  and  beating  rain 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell, 

Or  ’midst  the  chase,  on  every  plain, 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell, 


638 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore, 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed  ; 

Beloved  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 

And  mourn’d  till  Pity’s  self  be  dead. 

William  Collins. 

■  ♦<>•  - 

Dirge. 

From  “  The  White  Devil.” 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 
Since  o’er  shady  groves  they  hover, 

And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 
Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 
The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole, 

To  raise  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him 
warm. 

And,  when  gay  tombs  are  robb’d,  sustain 
no  harm  ; 

But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that’s  foe  to 
men, 

For  with  his  nails  he’ll  dig  them  up  again. 

John  Webster. 

- KX - 

Dirge. 

Softly ! 

She  is  lying 
With  her  lips  apart; 

Softly ! 

She  is  dying  of  a  broken  heart. 

Whisper ! 

She  is  going 

To  her  final  rest ; 

Whisper ! 

Life  is  growing 
Dim  within  her  breast. 

Gently  ! 

She  is  sleeping  ; 

She  has  breathed  her  last ! 

Gently ! 

While  you’re  weeping, 

She  to  heaven  has  pass’d. 

Charles  Gamage  Eastman. 

—  >Cx - 

Friend  after  Friend  Departs. 

Friend  after  friend  departs: 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend? 

There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 
That  finds  not  here  an  end  ; 


Were  this  frail  world  our  only  rest, 

Living  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

Beyond  the  flight  of  time, 

Beyond  this  vale  of  death, 

There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime 
Where  life  is  not  a  breath, 

Nor  life’s  affections  transient  fire, 

Whose  sparks  fly  upward  to  expire. 

There  is  a  world  above, 

Where  parting  is  unknown ; 

A  whole  eternity  of  love, 

Form’d  for  the  good  alone; 

And  faith  beholds  the  dying  here 
Translated  to  that  happier  sphere. 

Thus  star  by  star  declines, 

Till  all  are  pass’d  away, 

As  morning  high  and  higher  shines, 

To  pure  and  perfect  day ; 

Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night; 

They  hide  themselves  in  heaven’s  own 
light. 

James  Montgomery 
—  »o« - 

Gane  were  but  the  Winter 
Ca  uld. 

Gane  were  but  the  winter  cauld, 

And  gane  were  but  the  snaw, 

I  could  sleep  in  the  wild  woods, 
Where  primroses  blaw. 

Cauld’s  the  snaw  at  my  head, 

And  cauld  at  my  feet, 

And  the  finger  o’  Death’s  at  my  e’en, 
Closing  them  to  sleep. 

Let  nane  tell  my  father 
Or  my  mither  sae  dear  ; 

I’ll  meet  them  baith  in  heaven 
At  the  spring  o’  the  year. 

Allan  Cunningham. 

- »0« - 

The  Alpine  Sheep. 

When  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knell’d, 
And  tender  sympathy  upburst, 

A  little  spring  from  memory  well’d, 

Which  once  had  quench’d  my  bittei 
thirst. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


639 


And  I  was  fain  to  bear  to  you 
A  portion  of  its  mild  relief, 

That  it  might  be  as  healing  dew, 

To  steal  some  fever  from  your  grief. 

After  our  child’s  untroubled  breath 
Up  to  the  Father  took  its  way, 

And  on  our  home  the  shade  of  Death 
Like  a  long  twilight  haunting  lay, 

And  friends  came  round,  with  us  to  weep 
Her  little  spirit’s  swift  remove, 

The  story  of  the  Alpine  sheep 
Was  told  to  us  by  one  we  love. 

They,  in  the  valley’s  sheltering  care, 

Soon  crop  the  meadow’s  tender  prime, 
And  when  the  sod  grows  brown  and  bare, 
The  shepherd  strives  to  make  them  climb 

To  airy  shelves  of  pasture  green, 

That  hang  along  the  mountain’s  side, 
Where  grass  and  flowers  together  lean, 
And  down  through  mist  the  sunbeams 
slide. 

But  naught  can  tempt  the  timid  things 
The  steep  and  rugged  paths  to  try, 
Though  sweet  the  shepherd  calls  and  sings, 
And  sear’d  below  the  pastures  lie, 

Till  in  his  arms  their  lambs  he  takes, 
Along  the  dizzy  verge  to  go  ; 

Then,  heedless  of  the  rifts  and  breaks, 
They  follow  on,  o’er  rock  and  snow. 

And  in  those  pastures,  lifted  fair, 

More  dewy-soft  than  lowland  mead, 

The  shepherd  drops  his  tender  care, 

And  sheep  and  lambs  together  feed. 

This  parable,  by  Nature  breathed, 

Blew  on  me  as  the  south  wind  free 
O’er  frozen  brooks,  that  flow  unsheathed 
From  icy  thraldrom  to  the  sea. 

A  blissful  vision,  through  the  night, 
Would  all  my  happy  senses  sway, 

Of  the  good  Shepherd  on  the  height, 

Or  climbing  up  the  starry  way, 

Holding  our  little  lamb  asleep, — 

While,  like  the  murmur  of  the  sea, 
Sounded  that  voice  along  the  deep, 
Saying,  “  Arise  and  follow  me  !” 

Maria  White  Lowell. 


Tom  Bowling. 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 
The  darling  of  our  crew  ; 

No  more  he’ll  hear  the  tempest  howling — 
For  Death  has  broach’d  him  to. 

His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty ; 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft ; 

Faithful  below  he  did  his  duty; 

But  now  he’s  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed — 

His  virtues  were  so  rare ; 

His  friends  were  many  and  true-hearted ; 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair. 

And  then  he’d  sing  so  blithe  and  jolly — 
Ah,  many’s  the  time  and  oft ! 

But  mirth  is  turn’d  to  melancholy, 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather, 
When  He,  who  all  commands, 

Shall  give,  to  call  life’s  crew  together, 

The  word  to  pipe  all  hands. 

Thus  Death,  who  kings  and  tars  despatches, 
In  vain  Tom’s  life  has  doff’d ; 

For,  though  his  body’s  under  hatches, 

His  soul  is  gone  aloft. 

Charles  Dibdin. 


Only  Waiting. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 
Are  a  little  longer  grown, 

Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 
Of  the  day’s  last  beam  is  flown  ; 

Till  the  night  of  earth  is  faded 
From  the  heart  once  full  of  day; 

Till  the  stars  of  Heaven  are  breaking 
Through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray. 

Only  waiting  till  the  reapers 

Have  the  last  sheaf  gather’d  home. 

For  the  summer-time  is  faded, 

And  the  autumn  winds  have  come. 

Quickly,  reapers  !  gather  quickly 
The  last  ripe  hours  of  my  heart, 

For  the  bloom  of  life  is  wither’d, 

And  I  hasten  to  depart. 

Only  waiting  till  the  angels 
Open  wide  the  mystic  gate, 

At  whose  feet  I  long  have  linger’d, 
Weary,  poor,  and  desolate. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Even  now  I  hear  the  footsteps, 

And  their  voices  far  away  ; 

If  they  call  me  I  am  waiting, 

Only  waiting  to  obey. 

* 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 
Are  a  little  longer  grown, 

Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 
Of  the  day’s  last  beam  is  flown. 

Then  from  out  the  gather’d  darkness, 
Holy,  deathless  stars  shall  rise, 

By  whose  light  my  soul  shall  gladly 
Tread  its  pathway  to  the  skies. 

Frances  Laughton  Mace. 

-  -  ■  ♦<>♦ 

The  Closing  Scene. 

Within  his  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees 

The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air  ; 

Like  some  tann’d  reaper  in  his  hour  of 
ease, 

When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and 
bare. 

The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy 
hills 

O’er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the 
vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 

On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellow’d  and  all  sounds 
subdued, 

The  hills  seem’d  farther  and  the  streams 
sang  low ; 

As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hew’d 

His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled 
blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  arm’d  in 
gold, 

Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial 
hue, 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of 
old, 

Withdrawn  afar  in  Time’s  remotest  blue. 

On  slumb’rous  wings  the  vulture  held  his 
flight ; 

The  dove  scarce  heard  its  sighing  mate’s 
complaint ; 

And  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church-vane  seem’d  to  pale 
and  faint. 


The  sentinel-cock  upon  the  hillside  crew. 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  be¬ 
fore, — 

Silent  till  some  replying  warder  blew 
His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no 
more. 

Where  erst  the  jay,  within  the  elm’s  tall 
crest, 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  un¬ 
fledged  young, 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying 
nest, 

By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer 
swung ; — 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 
The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near, 

Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 
An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous 
year 

Where  every  bird  which  charm’d  the  ver¬ 
nal  feast, 

Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings 
at  morn, 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east, — 

All  now  was  songless,  empty,  and  for¬ 
lorn. 

Alone  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the 
quail, 

And  croak’d  the  crow  through  all  the 
dreamy  gloom  ; 

Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale. 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom,  upon  the 
bowers  ; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds 
night  by  night ; 

The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 
Sail’d  slowly  by,  pass’d  noiseless  out  of 
sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air, 
And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the 
porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  Year  stood 
there 

Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch  ; 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The  white-hair’d  matron  with  monoto¬ 
nous  tread, 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


641 


Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless 
mien, 

Sat,  like  a  Fate,  and  watch’d  the  flying 
thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow, — he  had  walk’d 
with  her, 

Oft  supp’d  and  broke  the  bitter  ashen 
crust ; 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the 
stir 

Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the 
dust.  • 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  sum¬ 
mer  bloom, 

Her  country  summon’d  and  she  gave  her 
all; 

And  twice  War  bow’d  to  her  his  sable 
plume, — 

Regave  the  swords  to  rust  upon  her 
wall. 

Regave  the  swords, — but  not  the  hand  that 
drew 

And  struck  for  Liberty  its  dying  blow, 

Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 

Fell  ’mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel 
went  on, 

Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon  ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the 
gone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and 
tremulous  tune. 

« 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapp’d  :  her  head 
was  bow’d  : 

Life  dropt  the  distaff  through  his  hands 
serene ; 

And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  care¬ 
ful  shroud, 

While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the 
autumn  scene. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 

- K>« - 

The  Grave. 

There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 

A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found  ; 

They  softly  lie  and  sweetly  sleep 

Low  in  the  ground. 


The  storm  that  wrecks  the  winter  skv 
No  more  disturbs  their  deep  repose 

Than  summer  evening’s  latest  sigh 
That  shuts  the  rose. 

I  long  to  lay  this  painful  head 

And  aching  heart  beneath  the  soil, 

To  slumber  in  that  dreamless  bed 

From  all  my  toil. 

For  Misery  stole  me  at  my  birth, 

And  cast  me  helpless  on  the  wild : 

I  perish  ; — 0  my  mother  Earth, 

Take  home  thy  child. 

On  thy  dear  lap  these  limbs  reclined, 

Shall  gently  moulder  into  thee  ; 

Nor  leave  one  wretched  trace  behind 
Resembling  me. 

Hark! — a  strange  sound  affrights  mine  ear, 
My  pulse, — my  brain  runs  wild, — I  rave : 

— Ah  !  who  art  thou  whose  voice  I  hear  ? 

“  I  am  the  Grave  ! 

“  The  Grave,  that  never  spake  before, 
Hath  found  at  length  a  tongue  to  chide: 

Oh  listen  ! — I  will  speak  no  more  : — 

Be  silent,  Pride  ! 

“Art  thou  a  Wretch  of  hope  forlorn, 

The  victim  of  consuming  care  ? 

Is  thy  distracted  conscience  torn 
By  fell  despair  ? 

“  Do  foul  misdeeds  of  former  times 
Wring  with  remorse  thy  guilty  breast? 

And  ghosts  of  unforgiven  crimes 
Murder  thy  rest  ? 

“  Lash’d  by  the  furies  of  the  mind, 

From  Wrath  and  Vengeance  wouldst 
thou  flee? 

Ah  !  think  not,  hope  not,  fool,  to  find 
A  friend  in  me. 

“  By  all  the  terrors  of  the  tomb, 

Beyond  the  power  of  tongue  to  tell ; 

By  the  dread  secrets  of  my  womb  ; 

By  Death  and  Hell ; 

“  I  charge  thee  live  ! — repent  and  pray, 

In  dust  thine  infamy  deplore  ; 

There  yet  is  mercy — go  thy  way, 

And  sin  no  more. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Art  thou  a  Mourner? — Hast  thou  known 
The  joy  of  innocent  delights, 

Endearing  days  for  ever  flown, 

And  tranquil  nights  ? 

“  Oh  live  ! — and  deeply  cherish  still 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  past : 

Rely  on  Heaven’s  unchanging  will 
For  peace  at  last. 

u  Art  thou  a  Wanderer? — Hast  thou  seen 
O’erwhelming  tempests  drown  thy  bark? 

A  shipwreck’d  sufferer  hast  thou  been, 
Misfortune’s  mark  ? 

“  Though  long  of  winds  and  waves  the 
sport, 

Condemn’d  in  wretchedness  to  roam, 

Live ! — thou  shalt  reach  a  sheltering  port, 
A  quiet  home. 

11  To  Friendship  didst  thou  trust  thy  fame, 
And  was  thy  friend  a  deadly  foe, 

Who  stole  into  thy  breast  to  aim 
A  surer  blow  ? 

“  Live  ! — and  repine  not  o’er  his  loss, 

A  loss  unworthv  to  be  told, 

Thou  hast  mistaken  sordid  dross 

For  friendship’s  gold. 

“  Seek  the  true  treasure  seldom  found, 

Of  power  the  fiercest  griefs  to  calm, 

And  soothe  the  bosom’s  deepest  wound 
With  heavenly  balm. 

“  Did  Woman’s  charm  thy  youth  beguile, 
And  did  the  Fair  One  faithless  prove? 

Hath  she  betray’d  thee  with  a  smile, 

And  sold  thy  love? 

“  Live  !  ’Twas  a  false  bewildering  fire : 
Too  often  Love’s  insidious  dart 

Thrills  the  fond  soul  with  wild  desire, 

But  kills  the  heart. 

Thou  yet  shalt  know  how  sweet,  how 
dear, 

To  gaze  on  listening  Beauty’s  eye  ; 

To  ask, — and  pause  in  hope  and  fear 
Till  she  reply. 

“  A  nobler  flame  shall  warm  thy  breast, 

A  brighter  maiden  faithful  prove ; 

Thy  youth,  thine  age,  shall  yet  be  blest 
In  woman’s  love. 


“  — Whate’er  thy  lot, — whoe’er  thou  be — 
Confess  thy  folly,  kiss  the  rod, 

And  in  thy  chastening  sorrows  see 
The  hand  of  God. 

“  A  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break  ; 

Afflictions  all  his  children  feel ; 

He  wounds  them  for  His  mercy’s  sake, 

He  wounds  to  heal. 

“  Humbled  beneath  His  mighty  hand, 
Prostrate  His  Providence  adore  : 

’Tis  done  ! — Arise  !  Hje  bids  thee  stand, 
To  fall  no  more. 

“  Now,  Traveller  in  the  vale  of  tears 
To  realms  of  everlasting  light, 

Through  Time’s  dark  wilderness  of  years, 
Pursue  thy  flight. 

“  There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 

A  rest  for  weary  Pilgrims  found ; 

And  while  the  mouldering  ashes  sleep 
Low  in  the  ground, 

“  The  Soul,  of  origin  divine, 

God’s  glorious  image,  freed  from  clay, 
In  heaven’s  eternal  sphere  shall  shine 
A  star  of  day. 

“  The  Sun  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, 

A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky  ; 

The  Soul,  immortal  as  its  Sire, 

Shall  never  die.” 

James  Montgomery. 

- *0* - 

To  a  Skeleton. 

Behold  this  ruin  !  ’Twas  a  skull 
Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full. 

This  narrow  cell  was  Life’s  retreat, 

This  space  was  Thought’s  mysterious  seat 
What  beauteous  visions  fill’d  this  spot! 
What  dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot ! 

Nor  hope,  nor  joy,  nor  love,  nor  fear, 

Have  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 

Beneath  this  mouldering  canopy 
Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye, 

But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void, — 

If  social  love  that  eye  employ’d, 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleam’d, 

But  through  the  dews  of  kindness  beam’d, 
That  eye  shall  be  for  ever  bright 
When  stars  and  sun  are  sunk  in  night. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


643 


Within  this  hollow  cavern  hung 
The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue ; 

If  Falsehood’s  honey  it  disdain’d, 

And  when  it  could  not  praise  was  chain’d ; 
If  bold  in  Virtue’s  cause  it  spoke, 

Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke, — 

This  silent  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 
When  Time  unveils  Eternity  1 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine? 

Or  with  the  envied  rubies  shine? 

To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  a  gem 
Can  little  now  avail  to  them. 

But  if  the  page  of  Truth  they  sought, 

Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought, 

These  hands  a  richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  wait  on  Wealth  and  Fame. 

Avails  it  whether  bare  or  shod 
These  feet  the  paths  of  duty  trod  ? 

If  from  the  bowers  of  Ease  they  fled, 

To  seek  Affliction’s  humble  shed  ; 

If  Grandeur’s  guilty  bribe  they  spurn’d, 
And  home  to  Virtue’s  cot  return’d, — 
These  feet  with  angel  wings  shall  vie, 

And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky! 

Author  Unknown. 

«Cx - 

The  Last  Man. 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 
The  Sun  himself  must  die, 

Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 
Its  immortality ! 

I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 

That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 
Adown  the  gulf  of  Time ! 

I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould 
That  shall  Creation’s  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime ! 

The  Sun’s  eye  bad  a  sickly  glare, 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan ; 

The  skeletons  of  nations  were 
Around  that  lonely  man! 

Some  had  expired  in  fight, — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands, 

In  plague  and  famine  some  ! 

Earth’s  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread ; 

And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 
To  shores  where  all  was  dumb ! 


Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 
With  dauntless  words  and  high, 

That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood, 
As  if  a  storm  pass’d  by, 

Saying,  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun  ! 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

’Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go  ; 

For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 
His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill ; 

And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and  earth 
The  vassals  of  his  will? 

Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway, 

Thou  dim,  discrowned  king  of  day; 

For  all  those  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Heal’d  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 
Entail’d  on  human  hearts. 

Go,  let  oblivion’s  curtain  fall 
Upon  the  stage  of  men, 

Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 
Life’s  tragedy  again  : 

Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 

Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 
Of  pain  anew  to  writhe ; 

Stretch’d  in  disease’s  shapes  abhorr’d, 

Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

Even  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 
To  watch  thy  fading  fire  ; 

Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 

My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death, 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 
To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 

The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall, 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 
Receive  my  parting  ghost ! 

This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 
Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark  ; 

Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 
When  thou  thyself  art  dark ! 

No !  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  Him  recall’d  to  breath, 

Who  captive  led  captivity, 

Who  robb’d  the  grave  of  Victory, 

And  took  the  sting  from  Death! 


644 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up 
On  Nature’s  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 
Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste, — 

Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw’st  the  last  of  Adam’s  race, 
On  Earth’s  sepulchral  clod, 

The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


Ode. 

Intimations  of  Immortality  from 
Eecollections  of  Early  Childhood. 

i. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove, 
and  stream, 

The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparell’d  in  celestial  light, 

The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; 
Turn  wheresoe’er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 

The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can 
see  no  more. 

II. 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 

The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are 
bare, 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 

But  yet  I  know,  where’er  I  go, 

That  there  hath  pass’d  away  a  glory  from 
the  earth. 

ill. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous 
song, 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor’s  sound, 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of 
grief : 

A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  re¬ 
lief, 

And  I  again  am  strong: 


The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the 
steep  ; 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season 
wrong ; 

I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains 
throng, 

The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of 
sleep, 

And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 

Land  and  sea 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday  ; — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts, 
thou  happy 
Shepherd  boy  ! 

IY. 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 
Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 

The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 
0  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May  morning, 

And  the  Children  are  culling 
On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother’s 
arm : — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 

— But  there’s  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 

A  single  Field  which  I  have  look’d  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is 
gone : 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

v. 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  : 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life’s 
Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  cometli  from  afar  : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


645 


But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 
Upon  the  growing  Boy, 

But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it 
flows, 

He  see^  it  in  his  joy  ; 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature’s  Priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 

At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her 
own ; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural 
kind, 

And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother’s 
mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

VII. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born 
blisses, 

A  six  years’  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size ! 
See,  where ’mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he 
lies, 

Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother’s  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father’s 
eyes ! 

See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of 
human  life, 

Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learnkd 
art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song : 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 
But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part  ; 


Filling  from  time  to  time  his  “  humorous 
stage  ” 

With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  pal&ied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 
As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 
The  Soul’s  immensitv ; 

Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read’st  the  eternal 
deep, 

Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 
Mighty  Prophet !  Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 

Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 

Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o’er  a 
Slave, 

A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by  ; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the 
might 

Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being’s 
height, 

Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou 
provoke 

The  vears  to  bring  the  inevitable  voke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at 
strife? 

Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earth! v 
freight, 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

IX. 

Oh  joy!  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me 
doth  breed 

Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in 
his  breast : — 

Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise: 


G46 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 

High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal 
Nature 

Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  : 
But  for  those  first  affections 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 

Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to 
make 

Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the 
being 

Of  the  eternal  Silence :  truths  that  wake, 
To  perish  never ; 

Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  en¬ 
deavor, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 

Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 

Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 

Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 

And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the 
shore, 

And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  ever¬ 
more. 

x. 

Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous 
song ! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor’s  sound  ; 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once 
so  bright 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  mv  sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the 
flower ; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be  ; 


In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering ; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death. 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI. 

And  0  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and 
Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves? 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might  ; 
I  only  have  relinquish’d  one  delight 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  chan¬ 
nels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripp’d  lightly  as 
thev ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born 
Day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting 
sun 

Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o’er  man’s  mortal¬ 
ity  ; 

Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms 
are  won. 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we 
live, 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and 
fears, 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can 
give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for 
tears. 

William  Wordsworth. 

- *>♦ - 

Resignation. 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watch’d  and 
tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there ! 

There  is  no  fireside,  liowsoe’er  defended, 
But  has  one  vacant  chair ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 
And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 

The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 
Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient !  These  severe  afflictions 
Not  from  the  ground  arise, 

But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 
Assume  this  dark  disguise. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


647 


We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  aud 
vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven’s  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  !  What  seems  so  is  tran¬ 
sition  : 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Wrhose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead, — the  child  of  our  affec¬ 
tion, — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  pro¬ 
tection, 

And  Christ  Himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister’s  stillness  and  seclu¬ 
sion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 

Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin’s  pollu¬ 
tion, 

She  lives  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  un¬ 
broken 

The  bond  which  Nature  gives, 

Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though 
unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child  : 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father’s  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 

And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul’s  expan¬ 
sion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though,  at  times,  impetuous  with 
emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppress’d, 

The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like 
the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest, — 


We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feel¬ 
ing 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 

By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

- - 

The  Crowded  Street. 

Let  me  move  slowly  through  the  street, 
Fill’d  with  an  ever-shifting  train, 

Amid  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat 

The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  rain. 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come  ! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face — 
Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles,  and 
some 

Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace. 

They  pass  to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest — 

To  halls  in  which  the  feast  is  spread — 
To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 
In  silence  sits  beside  the  dead. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair, 

Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to  cheek, 
With  mute  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 

And  some,  who  walk  in  calmness  here, 
Shall  shudder  as  they  reach  the  door 
Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling  dear, 
Its  flower,  its  light,  is  seen  no  more. 

Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  slender  frame, 
And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine  eye  ! 
Go’st  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 

Or  early  in  the  task  to  die  ? 

Keen  son  of  trade  with  eager  brow  ! 

Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare  ? 

Thy  golden  fortunes,  tower  they  now, 

Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air  ? 

Who  of  this  crowd  to-night  shall  tread 
The  dance  till  daylight  gleam  again  ? 
i  Who  sorrow  o’er  the  untimely  dead  ? 

Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal  pain  ? 

Some,  famine-struck,  shall  think  how  long 
The  cold,  dark  hours,  how  slow  the 
light  ; 

And  some,  who  flaunt  amid  the  throng, 
Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to-night. 


648 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Each  where  his  tasks  or  pleasures  call, 

They  pass,  and  heed  each  other  not. 

There  is  Who  heeds,  Who  holds  them  all 

In  His  large  love  and  boundless  thought. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life,  that  seem 

In  wayward,  aimless  course  to  tend, 

Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 

That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

- K>« - 

The  Hermit. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet 
is  still, 

And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness 
prove, 

When  naught  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on 
the  hill, 

And  naught  but  the  nightingale’s  song 
in  the  grove, 

’Twas  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain 
afar, 

While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a 
hermit  began  ; 

No  more  with  himself  or  with  Nature  at 
war, 

He  thought  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as 
a  man  : 

“  Ah  !  why,  all  abandon’d  to  darkness  and 
'  woe, 

Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing 
fall  ? 

For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  be¬ 
stow, 

And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  in¬ 
thrall. 

But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad 

iay> — 

Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls 
thee  to  mourn  ; 

Oh,  soothe  him  whose  pleasures  like  thine 
pass  away  ! 

Full  quickly  they  pass, — but  they  never 
return. 

‘‘Now,  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the 
skv, 

The  moon,  half  extinguish’d,  her  cres¬ 
cent  displays  ; 


But  lately  I  mark’d  when  majestic  on 
high 

She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in 
her  blaze. 

Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness 
pursue 

The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendor 
again  ! 

But  man’s  faded  glory  what  change  shall 
renew  ? 

Ah,  fool !  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 

“  ’Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely 
no  more. 

I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn 
not  for  you  ; 

For  morn  is  approaching  your  charms  to 
restore, 

Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glit¬ 
tering  with  dew. 

Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I 
mourn, — 

Kind  Nature  the  embryo  blossom  will 
save ; 

But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  moulder¬ 
ing  urn  ? 

Oh,  when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night 
of  the  grave  ? 

“  ’Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science 
betray’d, 

That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to 
blind, 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade  on¬ 
ward  to  shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  be¬ 
hind. 

‘Oh  pity,  great  Father  of  light,’  then  I 
cried, 

‘  Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wan¬ 
der  from  Thee ! 

Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my 
pride  ; 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  Thou 
only  canst  free !’ 

“  And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying 
away ; 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of 


morn. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


649 


See  truth,  love,  and  mercy  in  triumph 
descending, 

And  Nature  all  glowing  in  Eden’s  first 
bloom ! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and 
roses  are  blending, 

1  And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the 
tomb.” 

James  Beattie. 

^  % 

THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  WISHES. 

In  Imitation  of  the  Tenth  Satire  of 
Juvenal. 

Let  Observation,  with  extensive  view,  - 

Survey  mankind  from  China  to  Peru  ; 

Remark  each  anxious  toil,  each  eager 
strife, 

And  watch  the  busy  scenes  of  crowded 
life; 

Then  say  how  hope  and  fear,  desire  and 
hate, 

O’erspread  with  snares  the  clouded  maze 
of  fate, 

Where  wavering  man,  betray’d  by  ventur¬ 
ous  pride 

To  chase  the  dreary  paths  without  a 
guide, 

As  treacherous  phantoms  in  the  midst 
delude, 

Shuns  fancied  ills,  or  chases  airy  good  ; 

How  rarely  reason  guides  the  stubborn 
choice, 

Rules  the  bold  hand,  or  prompts  the  sup¬ 
pliant  voice ; 

How  nations  sink,  by  darling  schemes  op¬ 
press’d, 

When  Vengeance  listens  to  the  fool’s  re¬ 
quest. 

Fate  wings  with  every  wish  th’  afflictive 
dart, 

Each  gift  of  Nature  and  each  grace  of 
•  art ; 

With  fatal  heat  impetuous  courage  glows, 

With  fatal  sweetness  elocution  flows, 

Impeachment  stops  the  speaker’s  powerful 
breath, 

Arid  restless  fire  precipitates  on  death. 

But,  scarce  observed,  the  knowing  and 
the  bold 

Fall  in  the  general  massacre  of  gold  ; 


Wide  wasting  pest !  that  rages  unconfined 
And  crowds  with  crimes  the  records  of 
mankind ; 

For  gold  his  sword  the  hireling  ruffian 
draws, 

For  gold  the  hireling  judge  distorts  the 
laws  ; 

Wealth  heap’d  on  wealth,  nor  truth  nor 
safety  buys, 

The  dangers  gather  as  the  treasures  rise. 

Let  History  tell  where  rival  kings  com¬ 
mand, 

And  dubious  title  shakes  the  madded  land, 
When  statutes  glean  the  refuse  of  the 
sword, 

How  much  more  safe  the  vassal  than  the 
lord  ! 

Low  skulks  the  hind  below  the  rage  of 
power, 

And  leaves  the  wealthy  traitor  in  the 
Tower  ; 

Untouch’d  his  cottage,  and  his  slumbers 
sound, 

Though  Confiscation’s  vultures  hover 
round. 

The  needy  traveller,  serene  and  gay, 
Walks  the  wild  heath,  and  sings  his  toil 
away. 

Does  envy  seize  thee?  crush  th’  upbraid¬ 
ing  joy, 

Increase  his  riches,  and  his  peace  de¬ 
stroy  : 

Now  fears  in  dire  vicissitude  invade, 

The  rustling  brake  alarms,  and  quivering 
shade, 

Nor  light  nor  darkness  bring  his  pain 
relief, 

One  shows  the  plunder  and  one  hides  the 
thief. 

Yet  still  one  general  cry  the  skies  assails, 
And  gain  and  grandeur  load  the  tainted 
gales ; 

Few  know  the  toiling  statesman’s  fear  or 
care, 

The  insidious  rival  anti  the  gaping  heir. 

Once  more,  Democritus,  arise  on  earth, 
With  cheerful  wisdom  and  instructive 
mirth ; 

See  motley  life  in  modern  trappings  dress’d, 
And  feed  with  varied  fools  th’  eternal  jest: 


650 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Thou  who  couldst  laugh,  where  want  en¬ 
chain’d  caprice, 

Toil  crush’d  conceit,  and  man  was  of  a 
piece  ; 

Where  wealth  unloved  without  a  mourner 
died, 

And  scarce  a  sycophant  was  fed  by  pride  ; 

Where  ne’er  was  known  the  form  of  mock 
debate, 

Or  seen  a  new-made  mayor’s  unwieldy 
state  ; 

Where  change  of  favorites  made  no  change 
of  laws, 

And  senates  heard  before  they  judged  a 
cause ; 

How  woulds.t  thou  shake  at  Britain’s 
modish  tribe, 

Dart  the  quick  taunt  and  edge  the  piercing 
gibe? 

Attentive  truth  and  nature  to  descrv, 

v  7 

And  pierce  each  scene  with  philosophic 
eye, 

To  thee  were  solemn  toys,  or  empty  show, 

The  robes  of  pleasure,  and  the  veils  of 
woe : 

All  aid  the  farce,  and  all  thy  mirth  main¬ 
tain, 

Whose  joys  are  causeless,  or  whose  griefs 
are  vain. 

Such  was  the  scorn  that  fill’d  the  sage’s 
mind, 

Renew’d  at  every  glance  on  human 
kind ; 

How  just  that  scorn  ere  yet  thy  voice  de¬ 
clare, 

Search  every  state,  and  canvass  every 
prayer. 

Unnumber’d  suppliants  crowd  Prefer¬ 
ment’s  gate, 

Athirst  for  wealth,  and  burning  to  be 
great ; 

Delusive  Fortune  hears  th’  incessant  call, 

They  mount,  they  shine,  evaporate  and 
fall. 

On  every  stage  the  foes  of  peace  attend, 

Hate  dogs  their  flight,  and  insult  mocks 
their  end. 

Love  ends  with  hope,  the  sinking  states¬ 
man’s  door 

Pours  in  the  morning  worshipper  no 
more ; 


For  growing  names  the  weekly  scribbler 
lies, 

To  growing  wealth  the  dedicator  flies; 

From  every  room  descends  the  painted 
face 

That  hung  the  bright  palladium  of  the 
place, 

And,  smoked  in  kitchens,  or  in  auctions 
sold, 

To  better  features  yields  the  frame  of  gold  ; 

For  now  no  more  we  trace  in  every  line 

Heroic  worth,  benevolence  divine  ; 

The  form  distorted  justifies  the  fall, 

And  detestation  rids  th’  indignant  wall. 

But  will  not  Britain  hear  the  last  appeal, 

Sign  her  foes’  doom,  or  guard  the  favorite’s 
zeal? 

Through  Freedom’s  sons  no  more  remon¬ 
strance  rings, 

Degrading  nobles  and  controlling  kings; 

Our  supple  tribes  repress  their  patriot 
throats, 

And  ask  no  questions  but  the  price  of 
votes  ; 

With  weekly  libels  and  septennial  ale, 

Their  wish  is  full  to  riot  and  to  rail. 

In  full-flown  dignity  see  Wolsey  stand, 

Law  in  his  voice,  and  fortune  in  his  hand; 

To  him  the  church,  the  realm,  their  powers 
consign, 

Through  him  the  rays  of  regal  bounty 
shine, 

Turn’d  by  his  nod  the  stream  of  honor 
flows, 

His  smile  alone  security  bestows ; 

Still  to  new  heights  his  restless  wishes 
tower, 

Claim  leads  to  claim,  and  power  advances 
power  ; 

Till  conquest  unresisted  ceased  to  please, 

And  rights  submitted  left  him  none  to 
seize ; 

At  length  his  sovereign  frowns — the  train 
of  state 

Mark  the  keen  glance,  and  watch  the  sign 
to  hate. 

Where’er  he  turns,  he  meets  a  stranger’s 
eye, 

His  suppliants  scorn  him,  and  his  followers 

fly; 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


651 


Now  drops  at  once  the  pride  of  awful 
state, 

The  golden  canopy,  the  glittering  plate, 

The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board, 

The  liveried  army,  and  the  menial  lord  ; 

With  age,  with  cares,  with  maladies  op¬ 
press’d, 

He  seeks  the  refuge  of  monastic  rest. 

Grief  aids  disease,  remember’d  folly  stings, 

And  his  last  sighs  reproach  the  faith  of 
kings. 

Speak,  thou  whose  thoughts  at  humble 
peace  repine, 

Shall  Wolsey’s  wealth  with  Wolsey’s  end 
be  thine? 

Or  liv’st  thou  now,  with  safer  pride  content, 

The  wisest  justice  on  the  banks  of  Trent? 

For  why  did  Wolsey,  near  the  steeps  of 
fate, 

On  weak  foundations  raise  th’  enormous 
weight  ? 

Why  but  to  sink  beneath  misfortune’s  blow, 

With  louder  ruin  to  the  gulfs  below  ? 

What  gave  great  Villiers  to  the  assassin’s 
knife, 

And  fixed  disease  on  Harley’s  closing  life? 

What  murder’d  Wentworth,  and  what 
exiled  Hyde, 

By  kings  protected  and  to  kings  allied  ? 

What  but  their  wish  indulged  in  courts  to 
shine 

And  power  too  great  to  keep  or  to  resign  ? 

When  first  the  college  rolls  receive  his 
name, 

The  young  enthusiast  quits  his  ease  for 
fame ; 

Resistless  burns  the  fever  of  renown, 

Caught  from  the  strong  contagion  of  the 
gown  ; 

O’er  Bodley’s  dome  his  future  labors 
spread, 

And  Bacon’s  mansion  trembles  o’er  his 
head. 

Are  these  thy  views  ?  Proceed,  illustrious 
youth, 

And  Virtue  guard  thee  to  the  throne  of 
Truth  ! 

Yet  should  thy  soul  indulge  the  generous 
heat 

Till  captive  Science  yields  her  last  retreat  ; 


Should  Reason  guide  thee  with  her  bright¬ 
est  ray, 

And  pour  on  misty  Doubt  resistless  day  ; 
Should  no  false  kindness  lure  to  loose  de¬ 
light, 

Nor  praise  relax,  nor  difficulty  fright ; 
Should  tempting  Novelty  thy  cell  refrain. 
And  Sloth  diffuse  her  opiate  fumes  in  vain ; 
Should  Beauty  blunt  on  fops  her  fatal  dart, 
Nor  claim  the  triumph  of  a  letter’d  heart; 
Should  no  disease  thy  torpid  veins  invade, 
Nor  Melancholy’s  phantoms  haunt  thy 
shade ; 

Yet  hope  not  life  from  grief  or  danger 
free, 

Nor  think  the  doom  of  man  reversed  for 
thee. 

Deign  on  the  passing  world  to  turn  thine 
eyes, 

And  pause  a  while  from  letters  to  be  wise ; 
There  mark  what  ills  the  scholar’s  life 
assail, 

Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail. 
See  nations,  slowly  wise  and  meanly  just, 
To  buried  merit  raise  the  tardy  bust. 

If  dreams  yet  flatter,  yet  again  attend, 
Hear  Lydiat’s  life  and  Galileo’s  end. 

Nor  deem,  when  Learning  her  last  prize 
bestows, 

The  glittering  eminence  exempt  from  foes; 
See,  when  the  vulgar  ’scapes,  despised  or 
awed, 

Rebellion’s  vengeful  talons  seize  on  Laud. 
From  meaner  minds,  though  smaller  fines 
content 

The  plunder’d  palace,  or  sequester’d  rent, 
Mark’d  out  by  dangerous  parts,  he  meets 
the  shock, 

And  fatal  Learning  leads  him  to  the  block ; 
Around  his  tomb  let  Art  and  Genius  weep, 
But  hear  his  death,  ye  blockheads,  hear 
and  sleep. 

The  festal  blazes,  the  triumphal  show, 
The  ravish’d  standard,  and  the  captive  foe, 
The  senate’s  thanks,  the  Gazette’s  pompous 
tale, 

With  force  resistless  o’er  the  brave  prevail. 
Such  bribes  the  rapid  Greek  o’er  Asia 
whirl’d, 

For  such  the  steady  Romans  shook  the 
world  ; 


652 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


For  such  in  distant  lands  the  Britons 
shine, 

And  stain  with  blood  the  Danube  or  the 
Rhine  ; 

This  power  has  praise,  that  virtue  scarce 
can  warm 

Till  Fame  supplies  the  universal  charm. 

Yet  Reason  frowns  on  War’s  unequal  game, 

Where  wasted  nations  raise  a  single  name ; 

And  mortgaged  states  their  grandsire’s 
wreaths  regret, 

From  age  to  age  in  everlasting  debt ; 

Wreaths  which  at  last  the  dear-bought 
right  convey 

To  rust  on  medals,  or  on  stones  decay. 

On  what  foundation  stands  the  warrior’s 
pride, 

How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles 
decide : 

A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire, 

No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labors  tire; 

O’er  love,  o’er  fear,  extends  his  wide 
domain, 

Unconquer’d  lord  of  pleasure  and  of 
pain ; 

No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield, 

War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the 
field ; 

Behold  surrounding  kings  their  powers 
combine, 

And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign ; 

Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her 
charms  in  vain  ; 

“  Think  nothing  gain’d,”  he  cries,  “  till 
naught  remain, 

On  Moscow’s  walls  till  Gothic  standards 

And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky!” 

The  march  begins  in  military  state, 

And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait  ; 

Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast, 

And  Winter  barricades  the  realms  of 
Frost ; 

He  comes,  nor  want  nor  cold  his  course 
delay ; — 

Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide  Pultowa’s  day  : 

The  vanquish’d  hero  leaves  his  broken 
bands, 

And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands  ; 

Condemn’d  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait, 

While  ladies  interpose,  and  slaves  debate. 


But  did  not  Chance  at  length  her  error 
mend  ? 

Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end? 

Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound  ? 

Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the 
ground  ? 

His  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 

A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand  ; 

He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew 
pale, 

To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 

All  times  their  scenes  of  pompous  woes 
afford, 

From  Persia’s  tyrant  to  Bavaria’s  lord. 

In  gay  hostility  and  barbarous  pride, 

With  half  mankind  embattled  at  his  side, 

Great  Xerxes  comes  to  seize  the  certain 

P^y, 

And  starves  exhausted  regions  in  his  way ; 

Attendant  Flattery  counts  his  myriads  o’er, 

Till  counted  myriads  soothe  his  pride  no 
more ; 

Fresh  praise  is  tried  till  madness  fires  his 
mind, 

The  waves  he  lashes,  and  enchains  the 
wind, 

New  powers  are  claim’d,  new  powers  are 
still  bestow’d, 

Till  rude  resistance  lops  the  spreading 
god. 

The  daring  Greeks  deride  the  martial 
show, 

And  heap  their  valleys  with  the  gaudy 
foe ; 

Th’  insulted  sea  with  humbler  thought  he 
gains, 

A  single  skiff  to  speed  his  flight  remains  ; 

Th’  encumber’d  oar  scarce  leaves  the 
dreaded  coast 

Through  purple  billows  and  a  floating  host. 

The  bold  Bavarian,  in  a  luckless  hour, 

Tries  the  dread  summits  of  Ciesarean 
power, 

With  unexpected  legions  bursts  away, 

And  sees  defenceless  realms  receive  his 
sway ; 

Short  sway !  fair  Austria  spreads  her 
mournful  charms, 

The  queen,  the  beauty,  sets  the  world  in 
arms ; 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


653 


From  hill  to  hill  the  beacon’s  rousing 
blaze 

Spreads  wide  the  hope  of  plunder  and  of 
praise ; 

The  fierce  Croatian  and  the  wild  Hussar, 

With  all  the  sons  of  ravage  crowd  the 
war  ; 

The  baffled  prince,  in  honor’s  flattering 
bloom 

Of  hasty  greatness,  finds  the  fatal  doom, 

His  foes’  derision,  and  his  subjects’  blame, 

And  steals  to  death  from  anguish  and  from 
shame. 

“  Enlarge  my  life  wfith  multitude  of 
days  !” 

In  health,  in  sickness,  thus  the  suppliant 
prays  ; 

Hides  from  himself  his  state,  and  shuns  to 
know 

That  life  protracted  is  protracted  wroe. 

Time  hovers  o’er,  impatient  to  destroy, 

And  shuts  up  all  the  passages  of  joy. 

In  vain  their  gifts  the  bounteous  seasons 
pour, 

The  fruit  autumnal  and  the  vernal  flower  ; 

With  listless  eyes  the  dotard  views  the 
store, 

He  views,  and  wronders  that  they  please  no 
more  ; 

Nowr  pall  the  tasteless  meats,  and  joyless 
wfines, 

And  Luxury  with  sighs  her  slave  resigns. 

Approach,  ye  minstrels,  try  the  soothing 
strain, 

Diffuse  the  tuneful  lenitives  of  pain  : 

No  sounds,  alas  !  would  touch  th’  imper¬ 
vious  ear, 

Though  dancing  mountains  witness’d  Or¬ 
pheus  near : 

Nor  lute  nor  lyre  his  feeble  powers  at¬ 
tend, 

Nor  swreeter  music  of  a  virtuous  friend ; 

But  everlasting  dictates  crowd  his  tongue, 

Perversely  grave,  or  positively  wrrong. 

The  still  returning  tale,  and  lingering 
jest 

Perplex  the  fawning  niece  and  pamper’d 
guest, 

While  growing  hopes  scarce  awe  the  gath¬ 
ering  sneer, 

And  scarce  a  legacy  can  bribe  to  hear ; 


The  watchful  guests  still  hint  the  last 
offence  ; 

The  daughter’s  petulance,  the  son’s  ex¬ 
pense  ; 

Improve  his  heady  rage  with  treacherous 
skill, 

And  mould  his  passions  till  they  make  his 
will. 

Unnumber’d  maladies  his  joints  invade, 
Lay  siege  to  life,  and  press  the  dire 
blockade  ; 

But  unextinguish’d  Avarice  still  remains, 
And  dreaded  losses  aggravate  his  pains  ; 
He  turns,  with  anxious  heart  and  crippled 
hands, 

His  bonds  of  debt,  and  mortgages  of  lands; 
Or  views  his  coffers  with  suspicious  eyes, 
Unlocks  his  gold,  and  counts  it  till  he 
dies. 

But  grant,  the  virtues  of  a  temperate 
prime 

Bless  with  an  age  exempt  from  scorn  or 
crime ; 

An  age  that  melts  with  unperceived  decay, 
And  glides  in  modest  innocence  away  ; 
Whose  peaceful  day  Benevolence  endears, 
Whose  night  congratulating  Conscience 
cheers  ; 

The  general  favorite  as  the  general  friend; 
Such  age  there  is,  and  who  shall  wish  its 
end? 

Yet  even  on  this  her  load  Misfortune 
flings, 

To  press  the  weary  minutes’  flagging  wings  ; 
New  sorrow  rises  as  the  day  returns, 

A  sister  sickens,  or  a  daughter  mourns ; 
Now  kindred  Merit  fills  the  sable  bier, 
Nowr  lacerated  Friendship  claims  a  tear; 
Year  chases  year,  decay  pursues  decay, 
Still  drops  some  joy  from  withering  life 
awrav ; 

New  forms  arise,  and  different  views  en¬ 
gage, 

Superfluous  lags  the  veteran  on  the  stage, 
Till  pitying  Nature  signs  the  last  release, 
And  bids  afflicted  worth  retire  to  peace. 

But  few  there  are  whom  hours  like  these 
await, 

Who  set  unclouded  in  the  gulfs  of  Fate. 


654 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


From  Lydia’s  monarch  should  the  search 
descend, 

By  Solon  caution’d  to  regard  his  end, 

In  life’s  last  scene  what  prodigies  surprise, 

Fears  of  the  brave,  and  follies  of  the  wise : 

From  Marlborough’s  eyes  the  streams  of 
dotage  flow, 

And  Swift  expires  a  driveller  and  a  show ! 

The  teeming  mother,  anxious  for  her 

race, 

Begs  for  each  birth  the  fortune  of  a  face ; 

Yet  Vane  could  tell  what  ills  from  beauty 
spring ; 

And  Sedley  cursed  the  form  that  pleased  a 
king. 

Ye  nymphs  of  rosy  lips  and  radiant  eyes, 

Whom  Pleasure  keeps  too  busy  to  be  wise ; 

Whom  joys  with  soft  varieties  invite, 

By  day  the  frolic,  and  the  dance  by  night ; 

Who  frown  with  vanity,  who  smile  with 
art, 

And  ask  the  latest  fashion  of  the  heart ; 

What  care,  what  rules,  your  heedless 
charms  shall  save, 

Each  nymph  your  rival,  and  each  youth 
your  slave? 

Against  your  fame  with  fondness  hate 
combines, 

The  rival  batters,  and  the  lover  mines : 

With  distant  voice  neglected  Virtue  calls, 

Less  heard  and  less,  the  faint  remonstrance 
falls ; 

Tired  with  contempt,  she  quits  the  slippery 
reign, 

And  Pride  and  Prudence  take  her  seat  in 
vain. 

In  crowd  at  once,  where  none  the  pass  de¬ 
fend, 

The  harmless  freedom,  and  the  private 
friend ; 

The  guardians  yield,  by  force  superior 
plied : 

To  Interest,  Prudence;  and  to  Flattery, 
Pride. 

Here  Beauty  falls  betray’d,  despised,  dis¬ 
tress’d, 

And  hissing  Infamy  proclaims  the  rest 

Where  then  shall  Hope  and  Fear  their 
objects  find  ? 

Must  dull  suspense  corrupt  the  stagnant 
mind  ? 


Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  sedate, 
Poll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate  ? 
Must  no  dislike  alarm,  no  wishes  rise, 

No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies  ? 
Inquirer,  cease ;  petitions  yet  remain 
Which  Heaven  may  hear,  nor  deem  Re¬ 
ligion  vain. 

Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating  voice, 
But  leave  to  Heaven  the  measure  and  the 
choice. 

Safe  in  His  power  whose  eyes  discern 
afar 

The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  prayer, 
Implore  His  aid,  in  His  decisions  rest, 
Secure,  whate’er  He  gives,  He  gives  the 
best. 

Yet,  when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence 
fires, 

And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  aspires, 
Pour  forth  thy  fervors  for  a  healthful 
mind, 

Obedient  passions,  and  a  will  resign’d ; 

For  love,  which  scarce  collective  man  can 
fill; 

For  patience,  sovereign  o’er  transmuted 

m ; 

For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happier 
seat, 

Counts  death  kind  Nature’s  signal  of  re¬ 
treat. 

These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of  Heaven 
ordain  ; 

These  goods  He  grants  who  grants  the 
power  to  gain  ; 

With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms  the 
mind, 

And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not 
find. 

Samuel  Johnson. 

- K>« - 

The  Vanity  of  the  World. 

False  world,  thou  ly’st ;  thou  canst  not  lend 
The  least  delight : 

Thy  favors  cannot  gain  a  friend, 

They  are  so  slight  : 

Thy  morning  pleasures  make  an  end 
To  please  at  night : 

Poor  are  the  wants  that  thou  supply ’st, 
And  yet  thou  vaunt’st,  and  vet  thou  vy’st 
With  heaven  ;  fond  earth,  thou  boast’st ; 
false  world,  thou  ly’st. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


65 5 


Thy  babbling  tongue  tells  golden  tales 
Of  endless  treasure ; 

Thy  bounty  offers  easy  sales 
Of  lasting  pleasure ; 

Thou  ask’st  the  conscience  what  she  ails, 
And  swear’st  to  ease  her  ; 

There’s  none  can  want  where  thou  sup- 
ply’st : 

There’s  none  can  give  where  thou  deny’st. 
Alas!  fond  world,  thou  boast’st;  false  world, 
thou  ly’st. 

What  well-advised  ear  regards 
What  earth  can  say  ? 

Thy  words  are  gold,  but  thy  rewards 
Are  painted  clay : 

Thy  cunning  can  but  pack  the  cards, 

Thou  canst  not  play  : 

Thy  game  at  weakest,  still  thou  vy’st ; 

If  seen,  and  then  revy’d,  deny’st : 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem’st ;  false 
world,  thou  ly’st. 

Thy  tinsel  bosom  seems  a  mint 
Of  new-coin’d  treasure : 

A  paradise,  that  has  no  stint, 

No  change,  no  measure  ; 

A  painted  cask,  but  nothing  in’t, 

Nor  wealth,  nor  pleasure  : 

.Vain  earth  !  that  falsely  thus  comply’st 
With  man  ;  vain  man,  that  thou  rely’st 
On  earth;  vain  man,  thou  doat’st;  vain 
earth,  thou  ly’st. 

What  mean  dull  souls,  in  this  high  meas¬ 
ure, 

To  haberdash 

In  earth’s  base  wares,  whose  greatest  treas¬ 
ure 

Is  dross  and  trash  ; 

The  height  of  whose  enchanting  pleasure 
Is  but  a  flash  ? 

Are  these  the  goods  that  thou  supply’st 
Us  mortals  with  ?  Are  these  the  high’st? 
Can  these  bring  cordial  peace?  False 
world,  thou  ly’st. 

Francis  Quarles. 


The  Lie. 

Go,  soul,  the  body’s  guest, 

Upon  a  thankless  arrant ; 

Fear  not  to  touch  the  best, 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant : 


Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 

And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  court  it  glows 
And  shines  like  rotten  wood ; 

Go,  tell  the  Church  it  shows 
What’s  good,  and  doth  no  good. 

If  Church  and  court  reply, 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates  they  live 
Acting  by  others’  action, 

Not  loved  unless  they  give, 

Not  strong  but  by  a  faction. 

If  potentates  reply, 

Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition 
That  rule  affairs  of  state, 

Their  purpose  is  ambition. 

Their  practice  only  hate. 

And  if  they  once  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most,, 

They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 

Who,  in  their  greatest  cost, 

Seek  nothing  but  commending. 
And  if  they  make  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  lacks  devotion, 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust, 

Tell  time  it  is  but  motion, 

Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust  ; 

And  wish  them  not  reply, 

For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth, 

Tell  honor  how  it  alters, 

Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth, 

Tell  favor  how  it  falters. 

And  as  they  shall  reply, 

Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  niceness  ; 

Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness. 

And  when  they  do  reply, 
Straight  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness, 

Tell  skill  it  is  pretension, 

Tell  charity  of  coldness, 

Tell  law  it  is  contention. 


656 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  as  they  do  reply, 

So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness, 

Tell  Nature  of  decay, 

Tell  friendship  of  unkindness, 

Tell  justice  of  delay. 

And  if  they  will  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundness, 

But  vary  by  esteeming  ; 

Tell  schools  they  want  profoundness, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming. 
If  arts  and  schools  reply, 

Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  faith  it’s  fled  the  city; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth  ; 

Tell,  manhood  shakes  off  pity; 

Tell,  virtue  least  preferreth. 

And  if  they  do  reply, 

Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing, 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing, 
Yet,  stab  at  thee  who  will, 

No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 
- •<>• - 

ARMSTRONG'S  GOOD-NlGHT. 

This  night  is  my  departing  night, 

For  here  nae  langer  must  I  stay; 
There’s  neither  friend  nor  foe  o’  mine 
But  wishes  me  away. 

What  I  have  done  thro’  lack  o’  wit 
I  never,  never  can  recall. 

I  hope  ye’re  a’  my  friends  as  yet : 

Good-night !  and  joy  be  wi’  you  all ! 

Author  Unknown. 


Melancholia. 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 

As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly: 
There’s  naught  in  this  life  sweet 
If  man  were  wise  to  see’t, 

But  only  Melancholy, 

O  sweetest  Melancholy ! 


Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes, 

A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 

A  look  that’s  fasten’d  to  the  ground, 

A  tongue  chain’d  up  without  a  sound  * 
Fountain-heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves  ! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls ! 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan ! 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon ; 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy 
valley ; 

Nothing’s  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  Melan¬ 
choly. 

John  Fletcher. 


Sonnet. 

A  GOOD  that  never  satisfies  the  mind, 

A  beauty  fading  like  the  April  showers, 

A  sweet  with  floods  of  gall  that  runs  com¬ 
bined, 

A  pleasure  passing  ere  in  thought  made 
ours, 

A  honor  that  more  fickle  is  than  wind, 

A  glory  at  opinion’s  frown  that  lowers, 

A  treasury  which  bankrupt  time  de¬ 
vours, 

A  knowledge  than  grave  ignorance  more, 
blind, 

A  vain  delight  our  equals  to  command, 

A  style  of  greatness  in  effect  a  dream, 

A  swelling  thought  of  holding  sea  and 
land, 

A  servile  lot  deck’d  with  a  pompous  name : 
Are  the  strange  ends  we  toil  for  here 
below 

Till  wisest  death  make  us  our  errors 
know. 

W illtam  Drummond. 

- K>* - 

THERE'S  NOT  A  JOY  THE  WORLD 
can  Give. 

There’s  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like 
that  it  takes  away 

When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines 
in  feeling’s  dull  decay ; 

’Tis  not  on  youth’s  smooth  cheek  the  blush 
alone  which  fades  so  fast, 

But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere 
youth  itself  be  past. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


657 


Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the 
wreck  of  happiness 

Are  driven  o’er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean 
of  excess : 

The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only 
points  in  vain 

The  shore  to  which  their  shiver’d  sail  shall 
never  stretch  again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like 
death  itself  comes  down; 

It  cannot  feel  for  others’  woes,  it  dare  not 
dream  its  own ; 

That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o’er  the  foun¬ 
tain  of  our  tears, 

And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  ’tis 
where  the  ice  appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and 
mirth  distract  the  breast, 

Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more 
their  former  hope  of  rest ; 

’Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin’d 
turret  wreathe, 

All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but 
worn  and  gray  beneath. 

Oh  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt,  or  be  what  I 
have  been, 

Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept  o’er 
many  a  vanish’d  scene, — 

As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all 
brackish  though  they  be, 

So,  midst  the  wither’d  waste  of  life,  those 
tears  would  flow  to  me ! 

Lord  Byron. 

-  -  »o« 

Good-Bye. 

Good-bye,  proud  world!  I’m  going  home; 

Thou  art  not  my  friend,  and  I’m  not  thine. 
Long  through  thy  weary  crowds  I  roam ; 

A  river-ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 

Long  I’ve  been  toss’d  like  the  driven  foam, 
But  now,  proud  world,  I’m  going  home. 

Good-bye  to  flattery’s  fawning  face, 

To  grandeur,  with  his  wise  grimace, 

To  upstart  wealth’s  averted  eye, 

To  supple  office,  low  and  high, 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street, 

To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet, 

To  those  who  go  and  those  who  come, — 

Good-bye,  proud  world  !  I’m  going  home. 

*  42 


I  am  going  to  my  own  hearthstone, 
Bosom’d  in  yon  green  hills  alone — 

A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land, 

Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  plann’d, 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 
Echo  the  blackbird’s  roundelay, 

And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod, — 

A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

Oh,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 

I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
And  when  I  am  stretch’d  beneath  the 
pines, 

Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 

I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  pride  of  man, 

At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learned 
clan ; 

For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit. 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may 
meet? 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

- - 

JNo  Age  Content  with  his  Own 
Esta  te. 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed, 

In  study  as  I  wTere, 

I  saw  within  my  troubled  head 
A  heap  of  thoughts  appear. 

And  every  thought  did  show 
So  lively  in  mine  eyes, 

That  now  I  sigh’d,  and  then  I  smiled, 

As  cause  of  thought  did  rise. 

I  saw  the  little  bov 

In  thought,  how  oft  that  he 
Did  wish  of  God  to  ’scape  the  rod, 

A  tall  young  man  to  be. 

The  young  man  eke  that  feels 
His  bones  with  pains  oppress’d, 

How  he  would  be  a  rich  old  man, 

To  live  and  lie  at  rest. 

The  rich  old  man  that  sees 
His  end  draw  on  so  sore, 

How  he  would  be  a  boy  again, 

To  live  so  much  the  more. 

Whereat  full  oft  I  smiled, 

To  see  how  all  these  three, 

From  boy  to  man,  from  man  to  boy. 
Would  chop  and  change  degree. 


058 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  musing  thus,  I  think, 

The  case  is  very  strange, 

That  man  from  wealth,  to  live  in  woe, 
Doth  ever  seek  to  change. 

Thus  thoughtful  as  I  lay, 

I  saw  my  wither’d  skin, 

How  it  doth  show  my  dented  chews, 
The  flesh  was  worn  so  thin ; 

And  eke  my  toothless  chaps, 

The  gates  of  my  right  way, 

That  opes  and  shuts  as  I  do  speak, 

Do  thus  unto  me  say  : 

“  Thy  white  and  hoarish  hairs, 

The  messengers  of  age, 

That  show,  like  lines  of  true  belief, 
That  this  life  doth  assuage  ; 

“  Bid  thee  lay  hand,  and  feel 
Them  hanging  on  thy  chin. 

The  which  do  write  two  ages  past, 

The  third  now  coming  in. 

“  Hang  up,  therefore,  the  bit 
Of  thy  young  wanton  time, 

And  thou  that  therein  beaten  art, 

The  happiest  life  define.” 

Whereat  I  sigh’d,  and  said, 

“Farewell  my  wonted  joy! 

Truss  up  thy  pack,  and  trudge  from  me, 
To  every  little  boy, 

“  And  tell  them  thus  from  me, 

Their  time  most  happy  is, 

If  to  their  time  they  reason  had, 

To  know  the  truth  of  this.” 

Henry  Howard 

(Earl  of  Surrey). 

-  . •<>♦ - 

Different  Minds. 

Some  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear 
And  wholly  bright  to  view, 

If  one  small  speck  of  dark  appear 
In  their  great  heaven  of  blue; 

And  some  with  thankful  love  are  fill’d 
If  but  one  streak  of  light, 

One  ray  of  God’s  good  mercy,  gild 
The  darkness  of  their  night. 

In  palaces  are  hearts  that  ask, 

In  discontent  and  pride, 


Why  life  is  such  a  dreary  task, 

And  all  good  things  denied  ; 

And  hearts  in  poorest  huts  admire 
How  Love  has  in  their  aid 
(Love  that  not  ever  seems  to  tire) 

Such  rich  provision  made. 

Richard  Chenevix  Trench. 


The  Praise  of  a  Solitary  Life. 

Thrice  happy  he,  who  by  some  shady 
grove, 

Far  from  the  clamorous  world,  doth  live 
his  own  ; 

Though  solitary,  who  is  not  alone, 

But  doth  converse  with  that  eternal  Love. 

Oh  how  more  sweet  is  bird’s  harmonious 
moan, 

Or  the  hoarse  sobbings  of  the  widow’d  dove, 

Than  those  smooth  whisperings  near  a 
prince’s  throne, 

Which  good  make  doubtful,  do  the  evil 
approve ! 

Oh  !  how  more  sweet  is  Zephyr’s  whole¬ 
some  breath, 

And  sighs  embalm’d,  which  new-born 
flowers  unfold. 

Than  that  applause  vain  honor  doth  be¬ 
queath  ! 

How  sweet  are  streams  to  poison  drank  in 
gold ! 

The  world  is  full  of  horrors,  troubles, 
slights  : 

Woods’  harmless  shades  have  only  true 
delights. 

William  Drummond. 

- - 

On  a  Contented  Mind. 

When  all  is  done  and  said, 

In  the  end  this  shall  you  find  : 

He  most  of  all  doth  bathe  in  bliss 
That  hath  a  quiet  mind ; 

And,  clear  from  worldly  cares, 

To  deem  can  be  content 

The  sweetest  time  in  all  his  life 
In  thinking  to  be  spent. 

The  body  subject  is 

To  fickle  Fortune’s  power, 

And  to  a  million  of  mishaps 
Is  casual  every  hour ; 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


659 


And  Death  in  time  doth  change 
It  to  a  clod  of  clay, 

When  as  the  mind,  which  is  divine, 
Runs  never  to  decay. 

Companion  none  is  like 
Unto  the  mind  alone, 

For  many  have  been  harm’d  by 
speech, 

Through  thinking,  few  or  none. 

Fear  oftentimes  restraineth  words, 

But  makes  not  thoughts  to  cease, 

And  he  speaks  best  that  hath  the  skill 
When  for  to  hold  his  peace. 

Our  wealth  leaves  us  at  death, 

Our  kinsmen  at  the  grave, 

But  virtues  of  the  mind  unto 
The  heavens  with  us  we  have ; 
Wherefore,  for  virtue’s  sake, 

I  can  be  well  content 
The  sweetest  time  of  all  my  life 

To  deem  in  thinking  spent. 

Thomas,  Lord  Vaux. 


A  Hymn  to  Contentment. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind  ! 
Sweet  delight  of  human  kind  ! 
Heavenly  born,  and  bred  on  high, 

To  crown  the  favorites  of  the  sky 
With  more  of  happiness  below, 

Than  victors  in  a  triumph  know  ! 
Whither,  oh  whither  art  ‘thou  fled, 

To  lay  thy  meek,  contented  head? 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease  ? 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 
Of  pomp  and  state,  to  meet  thee  there. 
Increasing  Avarice  would  find 
Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrined. 

The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way, 
Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming  sea, 
To  gain  thy  love  ;  and  then  perceives 
Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves. 
The  silent  heart,  which  grief  assails, 
Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o’er  the  vales, 
See  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 

And  seeks  (as  I  have  vainly  done) 
Amusing  thought ;  but  learns  to  know 
That  Solitude’s  the  nurse  of  woe. 


No  real  happiness  is  found 
In  trailing  purple  o’er  the  ground  : 

Or  in  a  soul  exalted  high, 

To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky, 

Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 
All  Nature  in  its  forms  below  ; 

The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies, 

And  doubts  at  last  for  knowledge  rise. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace,  appear  ! 

This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 

Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 

And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

’Twas  thus,  as  under  shade  I  stood, 

I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood, 

And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceived 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  waved  : 

It  seem’d  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confess’d  the  presence  of  the  Grace. 
When  thus  she  spoke — Go  rule  thy  will, 
Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still, 

Know  God — and  bring  thy  heart  to  know 
The  joys  which  from  religion  flow  : 

Then  every  Grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
And  I’ll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest. 

Oh  !  by  yonder  mossy  seat, 

In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat, 

Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ 
With  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy  : 

Raised  as  ancient  prophets  were, 

In  heavenly  vision,  praise  and  prayer  ; 
Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none, 

Pleased  and  bless’d  with  God  alone  : 

Then  while  the  gardens  take  my  sight, 
With  all  the  colors  of  delight ; 

While  silver  waters  glide  along, 

To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song  ; 

I’ll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string, 

And  Thee,  great  Source  of  Nature,  sing. 

The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way, 

To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day ; 

The  moon  that  shines  with  borrow’d  light; 
The  stars  that  gild  the  gloomy  night  ; 

The  seas  that  roll  unnumber’d  waves  ; 

The  wood  that  spreads  its  shady  leaves  ; 
The  field  whose  ears  conceal  the  grain, 
The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain  ; 

All  of  these,  and  all  I  see, 

Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me  : 

They  speak  their  Maker  as  they  can, 

But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 


660 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Go  search  among  your  idle  dreams, 
Your  busy  or  your  vain  extremes  ; 

And  find  a  life  of  equal  bliss, 

Or  own  the  next  begun  in  this. 

Thomas  Parnell. 

- K» - 

A  Contented  Mind. 

I  weigh  not  fortune’s  frown  or  smile ; 

I  joy  not  much  in  earthly  joys; 

I  seek  not  state,  I  reck  not  style ; 

I  am  not  fond  of  fancy’s  toys : 

I  rest  so  pleased  with  what  I  have 
I  wish  no  more,  no  more  I  crave. 

I  quake  not  at  the  thunder’s  crack ; 

I  tremble  not  at  noise  of  war ; 

I  s wound  not  at  the  news  of  wrack ; 

I  shrink  not  at  a  blazing  star ; 

I  fear  not  loss,  I  hope  not  gain, 

I  envy  none,  I  none  disdain. 

I  see  ambition  never  pleased ; 

I  see  some  Tantals  starved  in  store; 
I  see  gold’s  dropsy  seldom  eased  ; 

I  see  even  Midas  gape  for  more  : 

I  neither  want,  nor  yet  abound — 
Enough’s  a  feast,  content  is  crown’d. 

I  feign  not  friendship  where  I  hate; 

I  fawn  not  on  the  great  (in  show) ; 

I  prize,  I  praise  a  mean  estate — 
Neither  too  lofty  nor  too  low  : 

This,  this  is  all  my  choice,  my  cheer — 
A  mind  content,  a  conscience  clear. 

Joshua  Sylvester. 


Sweet  Content. 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slum¬ 
bers? 

O  sweet  content ! 

Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed? 

O  punishment ! 

Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are 
vex&d 

To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  num¬ 
bers? 

O  sweet  content !  O  sweet,  O  sweet  con¬ 
tent  ! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace ; 

Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face ; 

Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny ! 


Canst  drink  the  waters-  of  the  crisped 
spring? 

0  sweet  content ! 

Swimm’st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink’st  in 
thine  own  tears  ? 

0  punishment ! 

Then  he  that  patiently  want’s  burden 
bears 

No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king ! 

0  sweet  content!  O  sweet,  0  sweet  con¬ 
tent  ! 

W ork  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace ; 

Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face ; 

Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny ! 

Thomas  Dekker. 

- - 

Content. 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savor  of  con¬ 
tent — 

The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown ; 

Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber 
spent — 

The  poor  estate  scorns  fortune’s  angry 
frown : 

Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep, 
such  bliss, 

Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

The  homely  house  that  harbors  quiet  rest, 

The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  or 
care, 

The  mean  that  ’grees  with  country  music 
best, 

The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  music's 
fare, 

Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss : 

A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom 
is. 

Robert  Greene. 

- - •<>« - 

Careless  Content. 

I  AM  content,  I  do  not  care, 

Wag  as  it  will  the  world  for  me ; 

When  fuss  and  fret  was  all  my  fare, 

It  got  no  ground  as  I  could  see : 

So  when  away  my  caring  went, 

'  I  counted  cost,  and  was  content. 

With  more  of  thanks  and  less  of  thought, 

I  strive  to  make  my  matters  meet ; 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


661 


To  seek  what  ancient  sages  sought, 

Physic  and  food  in  sour  and  sweet: 

To  take  what  passes  in  good  part, 

And  keep  the  hiccups  from  the  heart. 

With  good  and  gentle-humor’ d  hearts 
I  choose  to  chat  where’er  I  come, 
Whate’er  the  subject  be  that  starts  ; 

But  if  I  get  among  the  glum, 

I  hold  my  tongue  to  tell  the  truth, 

And  keep  my  breath  to  cool  my  broth. 

For  chance  or  change  of  peace  or  pain, 
For  Fortune’s  favor  or  her  frown, 

For  lack  or  glut,  for  loss  or  gain, 

I  never  dodge  nor  up  nor  down  ; 

But  swing  what  way  the  ship  shall  swim, 
Or  tack  about  with  equal  trim. 

I  suit  not  where  I  shall  not  speed, 

Nor  trace  the  turn  of  every  tide; 

If  simple  sense  will  not  succeed, 

I  make  no  bustling,  but  abide  ; 

For  shining  wealth  or  scaring  woe, 

I  force  no  friend,  I  fear  no  foe. 

Of  ups  and  downs,  of  ins  and  outs, 

Of  they’re  i’  the  wrong,  and  we’re  i’ 
the  right, 

I  shun  the  rancors  and  the  routs ; 

And  wishing  well  to  every  wight, 
Whatever  turn  the  matter  takes, 

I  deem  it  all  but  ducks  and  drakes. 

With  whom  I  feast  I  do  not  fawn, 

Nor  if  the  folks  should  flout  me,  faint; 
If  wonted  welcome  be  withdrawn, 

I  cook  no  kind  of  a  complaint : 

With  none  disposed  to  disagree, 

But  like  them  best  who  best  like  me. 

Not  that  I  rate  myself  the  rule 

How  all  my  betters  should  behave  ; 

But  fame  shall  find  me  no  man’s  fool, 

Nor  to  a  set  of  men  a  slave : 

I  love  a  friendship  free  and  frank, 

And  hate  to  hang  upon  a  hank. 

Fond  of  a  true  and  trusty  tie, 

I  never  loose  where’er  I  link ; 

Though  if  a  business  budges  by, 

I  talk  thereon  just  as  I  think  ; 

My  word,  my  work,  my  heart,  my  hand, 
Still  on  a  side  together  stand. 


If  names  or  notions  make  a  noise, 
Whatever  hap  the  question  hath, 

The  point  impartially  I  poise, 

And  read  or  write,  but  without  wrath  ; 
For  should  I  burn,  or  break  my  brains, 
Pray,  who  will  pay  me  for  my  pains  ? 

I  love  my  neighbor  as  myself, 

Myself  like  him  too,  by  his  leave; 
Nor  to  his  pleasure,  power,  or  pelf 
Came  I  to  crouch,  as  I  conceive : 
Dame  Nature  doubtless  has  design’d 
A  man  the  monarch  of  his  mind. 

Now  taste  and  try  this  temper,  sirs ; 

Mood  it  and  brood  it  in  your  breast ; 
Or  if  ye  ween,  for  worldly  stirs, 

That  man  does  right  to  mar  his  rest, 
Let  me  be  deft,  and  debonair, 

I  am  content,  I  do  not  care. 

John  Byrom. 


Character  of  a  Happy  Life. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another’s  will ; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise 
Nor  vice;  hath  ever  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good : 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend ; 

• 

— This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


662 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Pulley. 

When  God  at  first  made  Man, 

Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by ; 

Let  us  (said  He)  pour  on  him  all  we  can  : 
Let  the  world’s  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 
Contract  into  a  span. 

So  strength  first  made  a  way  ; 

Then  beauty  flow’d,  then  wisdom,  honor, 
pleasure : 

When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a 
stay, 

Perceiving  that  alone  of  all  His  treasure, 
Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

For  if  I  should  (said  He) 

Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  My  creature, 

He  would  adore  My  gifts  instead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature : 
So  both  should  losers  be. 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 

But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness : 

Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 
May  toss  him  to  My  breast. 

George  Herbert. 

•o+  -- 

The  Kingdom  of  God. 

I  SAY  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat 
To  the  first  man  thou  mayest  meet, 

In  lane,  highway,  or  open  street, — ■ 

That  he,  and  we,  and  all  men  move 
Under  a  canopy  of  Love, 

As  broad  as  the  blue  sky  above : 

That  doubt  and  trouble,  fear  and  pain, 
And  anguish,  all  are  shadows  vain ; 

That  death  itself  shall  not  remain  : 

That  weary  deserts  we  may  tread, 

A  dreary  labyrinth  may  thread, 

Through  dark  ways  underground  be  led ; 

Yet,  if  we  will  one  Guide  obey, 

The  dreariest  path,  the  darkest  way, 
Shall  issue  out  in  heavenly  day  ; 

And  we,  on  divers  shores  now  cast, 

Shall  meet,  our  perilous  voyage  past, 

All  in  our  Father’s  home  at  last. 


And  ere  thou  leave  him,  say  thou  this : 
Yet  one  word  more :  They  only  miss 
The  winning  of  that  perfect  bliss 

Who  will  not  count  it  true  that  Love, 
Blessing,  not  cursing,  rules  above, 

And  that  in  it  we  live  and  move. 

And  one  thing  further  make  him  know: 
That  to  believe  these  things  are  so, 

This  firm  faith  never  to  forego, — 

Despite  of  all  which  seems  at  strife 
With  blessing,  and  with  curses  rife, — 
That  this  is  blessing,  this  is  life. 

Richard  Chenevix  Trench 

- K>« - 

Virtue. 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 

The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night  ; 

For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 

Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave — 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and 
roses, 

A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 

My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 

And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  season’d  timber,  never  gives  ; 

But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 

Then  chiefly  lives. 

George  Herbert. 

-  »Oi 

The  Good,  Great  man. 

How  seldom,  friend,  a  good  great  man  in¬ 
herits 

Honor  and  wealth,  with  all  his  worth 
and  pains ! 

It  seems  a  story  from  the  world  of  spirits 
When  any  man  obtains  that  which  he 
merits, 

Or  any  merits  that  which  he  obtains. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


663 


For  shame,  my  friend!  renounce  this  idle 
strain ! 

What  wouldst  thou  have  a  good  great  man 
obtain  ? 

W ealth,  title,  dignity,  a  golden  chain, 

Or  heap  of  corses  which  his  sword  hath 
slain  ? 

Goodness  and  greatness  are  not  means,  but 
ends. 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always 
friends, 

The  great  good  man  ?  Three  treasures, — 
love,  and  light, 

And  calm  thoughts,  equable  as  infant’s 
breath ; 

And  three  fast  friends,  more  sure  than  day 
or  night, — 

Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel 
Death. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


Sonnet  to  Hope. 

Oh,  ever  skill’d  to  wear  the  form  we  love ! 

To  bid  the  shapes  of  fear  and  grief  de¬ 
part, 

Come,  gentle  Hope !  with  one  gay  smile 
remove 

The  lasting  sadness  of  an  aching  heart. 

Thy  voice,  benign  enchantress,  let  me 
hear  ; 

Say  that  for  me  some  pleasures  yet  shall 
bloom, 

That  Fancy’s  radiance,  Friendship’s  pre¬ 
cious  tear, 

Shall  soften,  or  shall  chase,  misfortune’s 
gloom. 

But  come  not  glowing  in  the  dazzling 
ray 

Which  once  with  dear  illusions  charm’d 
my  eye, 

Oh,  strew  no  more,  sweet  flatterer,  on  my 
way 

The  flowers  I  fondly  thought  too  bright 
to  die ; 

Visions  less  fair  will  soothe  my  pensive 
breast, 

That  asks  not  happiness,  but  longs  for 
rest ! 

Helen  Maria  Williams. 


The  Problem. 

I  like  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl, 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul, 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 
Fall  like  sweet  strains  or  pensive  smiles, 
Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 
Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure  ? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought ; 
Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle  ; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  Nature  roll’d 
The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old  ; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came, 

Like  the  volcano’s  tongue  of  flame, 

Up  from  the  burning  core  below, — 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe. 

The  hand  that  rounded  Peter’s  dome, 

And  groin’d  the  aisles  of  Christian  Pome, 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity. 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free ; 

He  builded  better  than  he  knew  ; 

The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know’st  thou  what  wove  yon  wood-bird’s 
nest 

Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast  ? 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell  ? 

Or  how  the  sacred  pine  tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ? 

Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 

Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 

Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone  ; 

And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids  ; 

O’er  England’s  abbeys  bends  the  sky 
As  on  its  friends  with  kindred  eve  ; 

For,  out  of  Thought’s  interior  sphere 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air, 

And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 

And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass ; 
Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 


664 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 
To  the  vast  Soul  that  o’er  him  plann’d, 
And  the  same  power  that  rear’d  the  shrine, 
Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 

Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 
And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken  ; 

The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 

In  groves  of  oak  or  fanes  of  gold, 

Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 

Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 

One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 

I  know  what  say  the  Fathers  wise, — 

The  Book  itself  before  me  lies, — 

Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 

And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 

The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 

Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines. 

His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 

I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear, 

And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 

I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emehson. 


Abou  Ben  Ad  hem. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  in¬ 
crease  ! ) 

Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of 
peace, 

And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 

Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 

An  angel,  writing  in  a  book  of  gold  ; 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem 
bold, 

And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 

“  What  writest  thou  ?”  the  vision  raised 
its  head, 

And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 

Answer’d,  “  The  names  of  those  who  love 
the  Lord.” 

‘‘And  is  mine  one?”  said  Abou.  “Nay, 
not  so,” 

Replied  the  angel.  Abou  spoke  more  low, 

But  cheerly  still ;  and  said,  “  I  pray  thee, 
then, . 

Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow- 
men.” 


The  angel  wrote  and  vanish’d.  The 
next  night 

It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  show’d  the  names  whom  love  of  God 
had  bless’d, 

And,  lo !  Ben  Adhem’s  name  led  all  the  rest. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

—  «o» - 

% 

Ode  to  Duty. 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  ! 

O  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  Light  to  guide,  a  Rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free  ; 

And  calm’st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  hu¬ 
manity  ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 

Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 

Glad  hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot ; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 

Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last ! 

But  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach 
them  to  stand  fast ! 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 

Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to 
their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 

Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferr’d 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray  ; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly, 
if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control  ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


665 


Me  this  uncharter’d  freedom  tires  ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance  desires : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead’s  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds  ; 
And  Fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  Stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the  most  ancient  Heavens,  through 
thee,  are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 

I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour  ; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman 
let  me  live ! 

William  Wordsworth. 
—  »o« - 

The  Touchstone. 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  could 
tell, 

Bearing  a  touchstone  in  his  hand ; 

And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 
By  its  unerring  spell. 

Quick  birth  of  transmutation  smote 
The  fair  to  foul,  the  foul  to  fair; 

Purple  nor  ermine  did  he  spare, 

Nor  scorn  the  dusty  coat. 

Of  heirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much, 

Were  many  changed  to  chips  and 
clods, 

And  even  statues  of  the  gods 
Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 

Then  angrily  the  people  cried, 

“  The  loss  outweighs  the  profit  far ; 

Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are ; 

We  will' not  have  them  tried.” 

And  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  his  unrelenting  quest, 

They  seized  him,  saying,  “  Let  him  test, 
How  real  is  our  jail !” 


But,  though  they  slew  him  with  the 
sword, 

And  in  a  fire  his  touchstone  burn’d, 

Its  doings  could  not  be  o’erturn’d, 

Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm, 

They  strew’d  its  ashes  on  the  breeze ; 
They  little  guess’d  each  grain  of  these 

Convey’d  the  perfect  charm. 

William  Allingham. 

•o»- 

The  Philosopher's  Scales. 

A  monk,  when  his  rites  sacerdotal  were 
o’er, 

In  the  depths  of  his  cell  with  his  stone- 
cover’d  floor, 

Resigning  to  thought  his  chimerical  brain, 

Once  form’d  the  contrivance  we  now  shall 
explain  ; 

But  whether  by  magic’s  or  alchemy’s 
powers 

We  know  not;  indeed,  ’tis  no  business  of 
ours. 

Perhaps  it  was  only  by  patience  and  care, 

At  last,  that  he  brought  his  invention  to 
bear. 

In  youth  ’twas  projected,  but  years  stole 
away, 

And  ere  ’twas  complete  he  was  wrinkled 
and  gray  ; 

But  success  is  secure,  unless  energy  fails ; 

And  at  length  he  produced  the  philoso¬ 
pher’s  SCALES. 

“What  were  they?”  you  ask.  You  shall 
presently  see ; 

These  scales  were  not  made  to  weigh  sugar 
and  tea. 

Oh  no ;  for  such  properties  wondrous  had 
thev. 

*j  / 

That  qualities,  feelings,  and  thoughts  they 
could  weigh, 

Together  with  articles  small  or  immense, 

From  mountains  or  planets  to  atoms  of 
sense. 

Naught  was  there  so  bulky  but  there  it 
would  lay, 

And  naught  so  ethereal  but  there  it  would 
stay, 


666 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


And  naught  so  reluctant  but  in  it  must  go  : 

All  which  some  examples  more  clearly 
will  show\ 

The  first  thing  he  weigh’d  was  the  head 
of  Voltaire, 

Which  retain’d  all  the  wit  that  had  ever 
been  there. 

As  a  weight,  he  threw  in  a  torn  scrap  of  a 
leaf, 

Containing  the  prayer  of  the  penitent 
thief ; 

When  the  skull  rose  aloft  with  so  sudden 
a  spell 

That  it  bounced  like  a  ball  on  the  roof  of 
the  cell. 

One  time  he  put  in  Alexander  the  Great, 

With  the  garment  that  Dorcas  had  made 
for  a  weight ; 

And  though  clad  in  armor  from  sandals  to 
crown, 

The  hero  rose  up,  and  the  garment  went 
down. 

A  long  row  of  almshouses,  amply  endow’d 

By  a  well-esteem’d  Pharisee,  busy  and 
proud, 

Next  loaded  one  scale;  while  the  other 
was  press’d 

By  those  mites  the  poor  widow  dropp’d 
into  the  chest : 

Up  flew  the  endowment,  not  weighing  an 
ounce, 

And  down,  down  the  farthing-worth  came 
with  a  bounce. 

By  further  experiments  (no  matter  how) 

He  found  that  ten  chariots  weigh’d  less 
than  one  plough  ; 

A  sword  with  gilt  trapping  rose  up  in  the 
scale, 

Though  balanced  by  only  a  ten-penny 
nail ; 

A  shield  and  a  helmet,  a  buckler  and 
spear, 

Weigh’d  less  than  a  widow’s  uncrystal¬ 
lized  tear. 

A  lord  and  a  lady  went  up  at  full  sail, 

When  a  bee  chanced  to  light  on  the  oppo¬ 
site  scale ; 


Ten  doctors,  ten  lawyers,  two  courtiers,  one 
earl, 

Ten  counsellors’  wigs  full  of  powder  and 
curl, 

All  heap’d  in  one  balance  and  swinging 
from  thence, 

Weigh’d  less  than  a  few  grains  of  candor 
and  sense ; 

A  first-water  diamond,  with  brilliants 
begirt, 

Than  one  good  potato  just  wash’d  from 
the  dirt ; 

Yet  not  mountains  of  silver  and  gold  could 
suffice 

One  pearl  to  outweigh, — ’twas  the  pearl  of 
great  price. 

Last  of  all,  the  whole  world  was  bowl’d 
in  at  the  grate, 

With  tlie  soul  of  a  beggar  to  serve  for  a 
weight, 

When  the  former  sprang  up  with  so  strong 
a  rebuff 

That  it  made  a  vast  rent  and  escaped  at 
the  roof! 

When  balanced  in  air,  it  ascended  on  high, 

And  sailed  up  aloft,  a  balloon  in  the  sky ; 

While  the  scale  with  the  soul  in’t  so 
mightily  fell 

That  it  jerk’d  the  philosopher  out  of  his 
cell. 

Jane  Taylor. 

- K>» - 

The  Hermit. 

Far  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view, 

From  youth  to  age  a  reverend  hermit 
grew  ; 

The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble 
cell, 

His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal 
well : 

Remote  from  man,  with  God  he  pass’d  the 
days, 

Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure 
praise. 

A  life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 

Seem’d  heaven  itself,  till  one  suggestion 
rose  ; 

That  vice  should  triumph,  virtue  vice  obey, 

This  sprung  some  doubt  of  Providence’s 
sway  : 


“»  r% 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


667 


His  hopes  no  more  a  certain  prospect 
boast, 

And  all  the  tenor  of  his  soul  is  lost. 

So  when  a  smooth  expanse  receives  im¬ 
prest 

Calm  Nature’s  image  on  its  watery  breast, 

Down  bend  the  banks,  the  trees  depending 
grow, 

And  skies  beneath  with  answering  colors 
glow  ; 

But  if  a  stone  the  gentle  scene  divide, 

Swift  ruffling  circles  curl  on  every  side, 

And  glimmering  fragments  of  a  broken 
sun, 

Banks,  trees,  and  skies,  in  thick  disorder 
run. 

To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by 
sight, 

To  find  if  books,  or  swains,  report  it 
right 

(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  world  he 
knew, 

Whose  feet  came  wandering  o’er  the 
nightly  dew), 

He  quits  his  cell ;  the  pilgrim-staff  he 
bore, 

And  fix’d  the  scallop  in  his  hat  before  ; 

Then  with  the  sun  a  rising  journey  went, 

Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 

The  morn  wras  wasted  in  the  pathless 
grass, 

And  long  and  lonesome  was  the  wild  to 
pass ; 

But  when  the  southern  sun  had  warm’d 
the  day, 

A  youth  came  posting  o’er  a  crossing  way ; 

His  raiment  decent,  his  complexion  fair, 

And  soft  in  graceful  ringlets  waved  his 
hair. 

Then  near  approaching,  “Father,  hail!” 
he  cried, 

“  And  hail,  my  son,”  the  reverend  sire  re¬ 
plied  ; 

Words  follow’d  words,  from  question  an¬ 
swer  flow’d, 

And  talk  of  various  kind  deceived  the 
road  ; 

Till  each  with  other  pleased,  and  loath  to 
part, 

While  in  their  age  they  differ,  join  in 
heart : 


Thus  stands  an  aged  elm  in  ivy  bound, 

Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 

Now  sunk  the  sun ;  the  closing  hour  of 
day 

Came  onward,  mantled  o’er  with  sober 
gray  ; 

Nature  in  silence  bade  the  world  repose  : 

When  near  the  road  a  stately  palace 
rose  : 

There  by  the  moon  through  ranks  of  trees 
they  pass, 

Whose  verdure  crown’d  their  sloping  sides 
of  grass. 

It  chanced  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 

Still  made  his  house  the  wandering  stran¬ 
ger’s  home : 

Yet  still  the  kindness,  from  a  thirst  of 
praise, 

Proved  the  vain  flourish  of  expensive 
ease. 

The  pair  arrive :  the  liveried  servants 
wait ; 

Their  lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous 
gate. 

The  table  groans  with  costly  piles  of 
food, 

And  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good. 

Then  led  to  rest,  the  day’s  long  toil  they 
*  drown, 

Deep  sunk  in  sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of 
down. 

At  length  ’tis  morn,  and  at  the  dawn  of 
day, 

Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play  ; 

Fresh  o’er  the  gay  parterres  the  breezes 
creep, 

And  shake  the  neighboring  wood  to  banish 
sleep. 

Up  rise  the  guests,  obedient  to  the  call  : 

An  early  banquet  deck’d  the  splendid 
hall  ; 

Rich  luscious  wine  a  golden  goblet  graced, 

Which  the  kind  master  forced  the  guests 
to  taste. 

Then,  pleased  and  thankful,  from  the  porch 
they  go, 

And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of 
woe ; 

His  cup  was  vanish’d  ;  for  in  secret  guise 

The  younger  guest  purloin’d  the  glittering 
prize. 


668 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


As  one  who  spies  a  serpent  in  his  way, 
Glistening  and  basking  in  the  summer 
ray, 

Disorder’d  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near, 
Then  walks  with  faintness  on,  and  looks 
with  fear : 

So  seem’d  the  sire ;  when,  far  upon  the 
road, 

The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  show’d. 
He  stopp’d  with  silence,  walk’d  with  trem¬ 
bling  heart, 

And  much  he  wish’d,  but  durst  not  ask  to 
part : 

Murmuring  he  lifts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it 
hard, 

That  generous  actions  meet  a  base  reward. 

While  thus  they  pass,  the  sun  his  glory 
shrouds, 

The  changing  skies  hang  out  their  sable 
clouds  ; 

A  sound  in  air  presaged  approaching  rain, 
And  beasts  to  covert  scud  across  the  plain. 
Warn’d  by  the  signs,  the  wandering  pair 
retreat, 

To  seek  for  shelter  at  a  neighboring  seat. 
’Twas  built  with  turrets,  on  a  rising  ground, 
And  strong,  and  large,  and  unimproved 
around  ; 

Its  owner’s  temper,  timorous  and  severe, 
Unkind  and  griping,  caused  a  desert  there. 

As  near  the  miser’s  heavv  doors  they  drew, 
Fierce  rising  gusts  with  sudden  fury  blew  ; 
The  nimble  lightning  mix’d  with  showers 
began, 

And  o’er  their  heads  loud-rolling  thunder 
ran. 

Here  long  they  knock,  but  knock  or  call  in 
vain, 

Driven  by  the  wind,  and  batter’d  by  the 
rain. 

At  length  some  pity  warm’d  the  master’s 
breast 

(’Twas  then,  his  threshold  first  received  a 
guest), 

Slow  creaking  turns  the  door  with  jealous 
care, 

And  half  he  welcomes  in  the  shivering 
pair ; 

One  frugal  fagot  lights  the  naked  walls, 
And  Nature’s  fervor  through  their  limbs 
recalls : 


Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort,  with  eager 
wine 

(Each  hardly  granted),  served  them  both 
to  dine; 

And  when  the  tempest  first  appear’d  to 
cease, 

A  ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 

With  still  remark  the  pondering  hermit 
view’d 

In  one  so  rich,  a  life  so  poor  and  rude ; 

And  why  should  such  (within  himself  he 
cried) 

Lock  the  lost  wealth  a  thousand  want  be¬ 
side? 

But  what  new  marks  of  wonder  soon  took 
place 

In  every  settling  feature  of  his  face, 

When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion 
bore 

That  cup  the  generous  landlord  own’d  be¬ 
fore, 

And  paid  profusely  with  the  precious  bowl 

The  stinted  kindness  of  this  churlish  soul ! 

But  now  the  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly, 

The  sun  emerging  opes  an  azure  sky  ; 

A  fresher  green  the  smelling  leaves  display, 

And,  glittering  as  they  tremble,  cheer  the 
day: 

The  weather  courts  them  from  the  poor 
retreat, 

And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 

While  hence  they  walk,  the  pilgrim’s 
bosom  wrought 

With  all  the  travail  of  uncertain  thought; 

His  partner’s  acts  without  their  cause 
appear, 

’Twas  there  a  vice,  and  seem’d  a  madness 
here : 

Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  goes, 

Lost  and  confounded  with  the  various 
shows. 

Now  night’s  dim  shades  again  involve  the 
skv ; 

Again  the  wanderers  want  a  place  to  lie, 

Again  they  search,  and  find  a  lodging 
nigh  : 

The  soil  improved  around,  the  mansion 
neat, 

I  And  neither  poorly  low  nor  idly  great: 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


669 


It  seem’d  to  speak  its  master’s  turn  of 
mind, 

Content,  and  not  for  praise,  but  virtue 
kind. 

Hither  the  walkers  turn  with  weary  feet, 

Then  bless  the  mansion,  and  the  master 
greet : 

Their  greeting  fair  bestow’d  with  modest 
guise, 

The  courteous  master  hears,  and  thus  re¬ 
plies  : 

“  Without  a  vain,  without  a  grudging 
heart, 

To  Him  who  gives  us  all,  I  yield  a  part ; 

From  Him  you  come,  for  Him  accept  it 
here, 

A  frank  and  sober,  more  than  costly 
cheer.” 

He  spoke,  and  bid  the  welcome  table 
spread, 

Then  talk’d  of  virtue  till  the  time  of 
bed, 

When  the  grave  household  round  his  hall 
repair, 

Warn’d  by  a  bell,  and  close  the  hours  with 
prayer. 

At  length  the  world,  renew’d  by  calm  re¬ 
pose, 

Was  strong  for  toil,  the  dappled  morn 
arose  : 

Before  the  pilgrims  part,  the  younger 
crept 

Near  the  closed  cradle  where  an  infant 
slept, 

And  writhed  his  neck :  the  landlord’s 
little  pride, 

Oh  strange  return  !  grew  black,  and  gasp’d, 
and  died. 

Horror  of  horrors  !  what !  his  only  son  ! 

How  look’d  our  hermit  when  the  fact  was 
done? 

Not  hell,  though  hell’s  black  jaws  in 
sunder  part, 

And  breathe  blue  fire,  could  more  assault 
his  heart. 

Confused,  and  struck  with  silence  at  the 
deed, 

He  flies,  but  trembling  fails  to  fly  with 
speed. 


His  steps  the  youth  pursues ;  the  country 
lay 

Perplex’d  with  roads,  a  servant  show’d 
the  way : 

A  river  cross’d  the  path  ;  the  passage  o’er 

Was  nice  to  find;  the  servant  trod  be¬ 
fore  : 

Long  arms  of  oaks  an  open  bridge  sup¬ 
plied,  , 

And  deep  the  waves  beneath  the  bending 
glide. 

The  youth,  who  seem’d  to  watch  a  time 
to  sin, 

Approach’d  the  careless  guide,  and  thrust 
him  in ; 

Plunging  he  falls,  and  rising  lifts  his  head, 

Then  flashing, turns,  and  sinks  among  the 
dead. 

Wild,  sparkling  rage  inflames  the  father’s 
eyes. 

He  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly 
cries, 

“  Detested  wretch  !” — but  scarce  his  speech 
began, 

When  the  strange  partner  seem’d  no 
longer  man : 

His  youthful  face  grew  more  serenely 
sweet ; 

His  robe  turn’d  white,  and  flow’d  upon 
his  feet; 

Fair  rounds  of  radiant  points  invest  his 
hair ; 

Celestial  odors  breathe  through  purpled 
air ; 

And  wings,  whose  colors  glitter’d  on  the 
day, 

Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  plumes  dis¬ 
play, 

The  form  ethereal  bursts  upon  his  sight, 

And  moves  in  all  the  majesty  of  light. 

Though  loud  at  first  the  pilgrim’s  passion 
grew, 

Sudden  he  gazed,  and  wist  not  what  to 
do : 

Surprise  in  secret  chains  his  words  sus¬ 
pends, 

And  in  a  calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 

But  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel 
broke 

(The  .voice  of  music  ravish’d  as  he 
spoke) : 


670 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Tliy  prayer,  thy  praise,  thy  life  to  vice 
unknown, 

In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  the  throne : 

These  charms  success  in  our  bright  region 
find, 

And  force  an  angel  down,  to  calm  thy 
mind ; 

For  this  commission’d,  I  forsook  the  sky, 

Nay,  cease  to  kneel — thy  fellow-servant  I. 

“  Then  know  the  truth  of  government 
divine, 

And  let  these  scruples  be  no  longer  thine. 

“The  Maker  justly  claims  that  world  He 
made, 

In  this  the  right  of  Providence  is  laid ; 

Its  sacred  majesty  through  all  depends 

On  using  second  means  to  work  His  ends : 

’Tis  thus,  withdrawn  in  state  from  human 
eye, 

The  Power  exerts  His  attributes  on  high, 

Your  actions  uses,  nor  controls  your  will, 

And  bids  the  doubting  sons  of  men  be 
still. 

“What  strange  events  can  strike  with 
more  surprise 

Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  won¬ 
dering  eyes? 

Yet  taught  by  these,  confess  th’  Almighty 
just, 

And  where  you  can’t  unriddle,  learn  to 
trust ! 

“  The  great,  vain  man,  who  fared  on 
costly  food, 

Whose  life  was  too  luxurious  to  be  good ; 

Who  made  his  ivory  stands  with  goblets 
shine, 

And  forced  his  guests  to  morning  draughts 
of  wine, 

Has,  with  the  cup,  the  graceless  custom 
lost, 

And  still  he  welcomes,  but  with  less  of 
cost. 

“The  mean,  suspicious  wretch,  whose 
bolted  door 

Ne’er  moved  in  duty  to  the  wandering 
poor ; 

With  him  I  left  the  cup,  to  teach  his  mind 

That  Heaven  can  bless,  if  mortals  will  be 
kind. 


Conscious  of  wanting  worth,  he  views  the 
bowl, 

And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful 
soul. 

Thus  artists  melt  the  sullen  ore  of  lead, 

With  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  its 
head ; 

In  the  kind  warmth  the  metal  learns  te 
glow, 

And,  loose  from  dross,  the  silver  runs  be¬ 
low. 

“Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue 
trod, 

But  now  the  child  half  wean’d  his  heart 
from  God; 

Child  of  his  age,  for  him  he  lived  in 
pain, 

And  measured  back  his  steps  to  earth 
again. 

To  what  excesses  had  this  dotage  run  ! 

But  God,  to  save  the  father,  took  the  son. 

To  all  but  thee,  in  fits  he  seem’d  to  go 

(And  ’twas  my  ministry  to  deal  the 
blow). 

The  poor  fond  parent,  humbled  in  the 
dust, 

Now  owns  in  tears  the  punishment  was 
just. 

“  But  how  had  all  his  fortune  felt  a 
wrack 

Had  that  false  servant  sped  in  safety 
back ! 

This  night  his  treasured  heaps  he  meant 
to  steal, 

And  what  a  fund  of  charity  would  fail ! 

“  Thus  Heaven  instructs  thy  mind :  this 
trial  o’er, 

Depart  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more.” 

On  sounding  pinions  here  the  youth  with¬ 
drew, 

The  sage  stood  wondering  as  the  seraph 
flew. 

Thus  look’d  Elisha,  when,  to  mount  on 
high, 

His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky ; 

The  fiery  pomp  ascending  left  the  view  ; 

The  prophet  gazed,  and  wish’d  to  follow 
too. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


671 


The  bending  hermit  here  a  prayer  be¬ 
gun : 

“  Lord !  as  in  heaven,  on  earth  Thy  will  be 
done !” 

Then  gladly  turning,  sought  his  ancient 
place, 

And  pass’d  a  life  of  piety  and  peace. 

Thomas  Parnell. 

- *o*— 

The  Squired  Pew. 

A  slanting  ray  of  evening  light 
Shoots  through  the  yellow  pane ; 

It  makes  the  faded  crimson  bright, 

And  gilds  the  fringe  again  ; 

The  window’s  Gothic  framework  falls 
In  oblique  shadows  on  the  walls. 

And  since  those  trappings  first  were  new, 
How  many  a  cloudless  day, 

To  rob  the  velvet  of  its  hue, 

Has  come  and  pass’d  away ! 

How’  many  a  setting  sun  hath  made 
That  curious  lattice-work  of  shade ! 

Crumbled  beneath  the  hillock  green 
The  cunning  hand  must  be 
That  carved  this  fretted  door,  I  ween, 
Acorn,  and  fleur-de-lis ; 

And  now  the  worm  hath  done  her  part 
In  mimicking  the  chisel’s  art. 

In  days  of  yore  (as  now  we  call), 

When  the  first  James  was  king, 

The  courtly  knight  from  yonder  hall 
His  train  did  hither  bring, 

All  seated  round,  in  order  due, 

With  ’broider’d  suit  and  buckled  shoe. 

On  damask  cushions  deck’d  with  fringe 
All  reverently  they  knelt ; 

Prayer-books  with  brazen  hasp  and  hinge, 
In  ancient  English  spelt, 

Each  holding  in  a  lily  hand, 

Responsive  to  the  priest’s  command. 

Now,  streaming  down  the  vaulted  aisle, 
The  sunbeam  long  and  lone, 

Illumes  the  characters  a  while 
Of  their  inscription-stone ; 

And  there  in  marble,  hard  and  cold, 

The  knight  with  all  his  train  behold. 


Outstretch’d  together  are  express’d 
He  and  my  lady  fair, 

With  hands  uplifted  on  the  breast, 

In  attitude  of  prayer ; 

Long-visaged,  clad  in  armor,  he — 

With  ruffled  arm  and  bodice  she. 

Set  forth  in  order  as  they  died, 

Their  numerous  offspring  bend, 
Devoutly  kneeling  side  by  side, 

As  if  they  did  intend 
For  past  omissions  to  atone 
By  saying  endless  prayers  in  stone. 

Those  mellow  days  are  past  and  dim, 

But  generations  new, 

In  regular  descent  from  him, 

Have  fill’d  the  stately  pew, 

And  in  the  same  succession  go 
To  occupy  the  vaults  below. 

And  now  the  polish’d  modern  squire 
And  his  gay  train  appear, 

Who  duly  to  the  hall  retire 
A  season  every  year, 

And  fill  the  seats  with  belle  and  beau, 

As  ’twas  so  many  years  ago. 

Perchance,  all  thoughtless  as  they  tread 
The  hollow-sounding  floor 
Of  that  dark  house  of  kindred  dread, 
Which  shall,  as  heretofore, 

In  turn  receive  to  silent  rest 
Another  and  another  guest : 

The  feather’d  hearse  and  sable  train, 

In  all  their  wonted  state, 

Shall  wind  along  the  village  lane, 

And  stand  before  the  gate ; 

Brought  many  a  distant  country  through, 
To  join  the  final  rendezvous. 

And  when  the  race  is  swept  away, 

All  to  their  dusty  beds, 

Still  shall  the  mellow  evening  ray 
Shine  gayly  o’eV  their  heads, 

While  other  faces,  fresh  and  new, 

Shall  fill  the  squire’s  deserted  pew. 

Jane  Taylor. 

- - 


672 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Old  and  Young  Courtier. 

Ax  old  song  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 

Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman,  who  had 
a  great  estate, 

That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful 
rate, 

And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at 
his  gate : 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen’s, 
And  the  queen’s  old  courtier. 

With  an  old  lady,  whose  anger  one  word 

assuages, 

That  every  quarter  paid  their  old  servants 
their  wages, 

And  n$ver  knew  what  belong’d  to  coach¬ 
men,  footmen,  nor  pages, 

But  kept  twenty  old  fellows  with  blue 
coats  and  badges  ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen’s, 
And  the  queen’s  old  courtier. 

With  an  old  study  fill’d  full  of  learned  old 
books, 

With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,  you  might 
know  him  by  his  looks  ; 

With  an  old  buttery  hatch,  worn  quite  off 
the  hooks, 

And  an  old  kitchen  that  maintain’d  half 
a  dozen  old  cooks  ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen’s, 
And  the  queen’s  old  courtier. 


With  an  old  falconer,  huntsman,  and  a 
kennel  of  hounds, 

That  never  hawk’d  nor  hunted  but  in  his 
own  grounds, 

Who,  like  a  wise  man,  kept  himself  within 
his  own  bounds, 

And  when  he  died  gave  every  diild  a 
thousand  good  pounds ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen’s, 
And  the  queen’s  old  courtier. 

But  to  his  eldest  son  his  house  and  lands 
he  assign’d, 

Charging  him  in  his  will  to  keep  the.  old 
bountiful  mind, 

To  be  good  to  his  old  tenants,  and  to  his 
neighbors  be  kind ; 

But  in  the  ensuing  ditty  you  shall  hear 
how  he  was  inclined  ; 

Like  a  young  courtier  of  the  king’s, 
And  the  king’s  young  courtier. 

Like  a  flourishing  young  gallant,  newly 
come  to  his  land, 

Who  keeps  a  brace  of  painted  madams  at 
his  command, 

And  takes  up  a  thousand  pounds  upon  his 
father’s  land, 

And  gets  drunk  in  a  tavern  till  he  can 
neither  go  nor  stand ; 

Like  a  young  courtier  of  the  king’s, 
And  the  king’s  young  courtier. 


With  an  old  hall  hung  about  with  pikes, 
guns,  and  bows, 

With  old  swords,  and  bucklers  that  had 
borne  many  shrewd  blows, 

And  an  old  frieze  coat  to  cover  his  wor¬ 
ship’s  trunk  hose  ; 

And  a  cup  of  old  sherry  to  comfort  his 
copper  nose ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen’s, 
And  the  queen’s  old  courtier. 

With  a  good  old  fashion,  when  Christmas 
was  come, 

To  call  in  all  his  old  neighbors  with  bag¬ 
pipe  and  drum, 

With  good  cheer  enough  to  furnish  every 
old  room, 

And  old  liquor  able  to  make  a  cat  speak 
and  a  man  dumb  ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen’s, 
And  the  queen’s  old  courtier. 


With  a  new-fangled  lady,  that  is  dainty, 
nice,  and  spare, 

Who  never  knew  what  belong’d  to  good 
housekeeping,  or  care ; 

Who  buys  gaudy-color’d  fans  to  play  with 
wanton  air, 

And  seven  or  eight  different  dressings  of 
other  women’s  hair ; 

Like  a  young  courtier  of  the  king’s, 
And  the  king’s  young  courtier. 

With  a  new-fashion’d  hall,  built  where  the 
old  one  stood, 

Hung  round  with  new  pictures  that  do  the 
poor  no  good ; 

With  a  fine  marble  chimney,  wherein  burns 
neither  coal  nor  wood, 

And  a  new  smooth  shovel-board,  whereon 
no  victuals  ne’er  stood  ; 

Like  a  young  courtier  of  the  king’s, 
And  the  king’s  young  courtier. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


673 


With  a  new  study  stuff’d  full  of  pamphlets 
and  plays, 

And  a  new  chaplain  that  swears  faster  than 
he  prays, 

With  a  new  buttery  hatch  that  opens  once 
in  four  or  five  days, 

And  a  new  French  cook  to  devise  fine  kick¬ 
shaws  and  toys ; 

Like  a  young  courtier  of  the  king’s, 

And  the  king’s  young  courtier. 

With  a  new  fashion,  when  Christmas  is 
drawing  on, 

And  a  new  journey  to  London  straight  we 
all  must  be  gone, 

And  leave  none  to  keep  house  but  our  new 
porter  John, 

Who  relieves  the  poor  with  a  thump  on  the 
back  with  a  stone ; 

Like  a  young  courtier  of  the  king’s, 

And  the  king’s  young  courtier. 

With  a  new  gentleman  usher,  whose  car¬ 
riage  is  complete; 

With  a  new  coachman,  footman,  and  pages 
to  carry  up  the  meat ; 

With  a  waiting  gentlewoman,  whose  dress¬ 
ing  is  very  neat, 

Who,  when  her  lady  has  dined,  lets  the 
servants  not  eat ; 

Like  a  young  courtier  of  the  king’s, 

And  the  king’s  young  courtier. 

With  new  titles  of  honor,  bought  with  his 
father’s  old  gold, 

For  which  sundry  of  his  ancestors’  old 
manors  are  sold ; 

And  this  is  the  course  most  of  our  new 
gallants  hold, 

Which  makes  that  good  housekeeping  is 
now  grown  so  cold 

Among  our  young  courtiers  of  the 
king, 

Or  the  king’s  young  courtiers. 

Author  Unknown. 

- - 

The  End  of  the  Play. 

The  play  is  done,  the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter’s  bell ; 

A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around  to  say  farewell. 

43 


It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task, 

And  when  he’s  laugh’d  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that’s  anything  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends, — 
Let’s  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme, 

And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas-time ; 

On  life’s  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts, 
That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play; 
Good-night !  with  honest  gentle  hearts 
A  kindly  greeting  go  alway. 

Good-night ! — I’d  say  the  griefs,  the  joys, 
Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 

The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age ; 

I’d  say  your  woes  are  not  less  keen, 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of 
men, — 

Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 
At  forty-five  play’d  o’er  again. 

I’d  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive 
Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys, 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys ; 

And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learn’d  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pray  Heaven  that  early  love  and  truth 
May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I’d  say  how  fate  may  change  and  shift, 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift ; 

The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 
The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 

The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design  ? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave  ! 

Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not 
mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling’s  grave? 

We  bow  to  Heaven  that  will’d  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 

That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That’s  free  to  give  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit : 
Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state? 


674 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 

Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives’  wheel 
To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  ? 

Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we’ll  kneel, 
Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life’s  advance, 
Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  kill’d, 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 
And  longing  passion  unfulfill’d. 

Amen  !  whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent, 
And  whiten’d  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 
Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart, 

Who  misses,  or  who  wins  the  prize. 

Go  ;  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can, 

But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young ! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays) ; 

The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 
Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days; 

The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead, 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then  : 

Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men ! 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 

And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 
As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 

As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still, — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

- ♦<>♦ - 

The  Old  Mans  Comforts , 

and  How  he  Gained  Them. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young 
man  cried, 

The  few  locks  which  are  left  you  are  gray  ; 
You  are  hale,  Father  William,  a  hearty 
old  man, 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 


In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  William 
replied, 

I  remember’d  that  youth  would  fly  fast, 

And  abused  not  my  health  and  my  vigor 
at  first, 

That  I  never  might  need  them  at  last. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young 
man  cried, 

And  pleasures  with  youth  pass  away, 

And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that  are 
gone, 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  William 
replied, 

I  remember’d  that  youth  could  not  last ; 

I  thought  of  the  future,  whatever  I  did, 

That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the  past. 

You  are  old.  Father  William,  the  voung 
man  cried, 

And  life  must  be  hastening  away ; 

You  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  converse 
upon  death, 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

I  am  cheerful,  young  man,  Father  William 
replied ; 

Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage  ; 

In  the  days  of  my  youth  I  remember’d  my 
God! 

And  He  hath  not  forgotten  my  age. 

Robert  Southey. 

- »<>♦ - 

In  the  Downhill  of  Life. 

In  the  down-hill  of  life,  when  I  find  I’m 
declining, 

May  my  lot  no  less  fortunate  be 

Than  a  snug  elbow-chair  can  afford  for  re¬ 
clining, 

And  a  cot  that  o’erlooks  the  wide  sea ; 

With  an  ambling  pad-pony  to  pace  o’er 
the  lawn, 

While  I  carol  away  idle  sorrow, 

And  blithe  as  the  lark  that  each  day  hails 
the  dawn, 

Look  forward  with  hope  for  to-morrow. 

With  a  porch  at  my  door,  both  for  shelter 
and  shade  too, 

As  the  sunshine  or  rain  may  prevail; 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


675 


And  a  small  spot  of  ground  for  the  use  of 
the  spade  too, 

With  a  barn  for  the  use  of  the  flail : 

A  cow  for  my  dairy,  a  dog  for  my  game, 

And  a  purse  when  a  friend  wants  to 
borrow  ; 

I’ll  envv  no  nabob  his  riches  or  fame, 

Nor  what  honors  await  him  to-morrow. 

From  the  bleak  northern  blast  may  my  cot 
be  completely 

Secured  by  a  neighboring  hill ; 

And  at  night  may  repose  steal  upon  me 
more  sweetly 

By  the  sound  of  a  murmuring  rill : 

And  while  peace  and  plenty  I  find  at  my 
board, 

With  a  heart  free  from  sickness  and 
sorrow, 

With  my  friends  may  I  share  what  to-day 
may  afford, 

And  let  them  spread  the  table  to-morrow. 

And  when  I  at  last  must  throw  off  this 
frail  covering 

Which  I’ve  worn  for  threescore  years 
and  ten, 

On  the  brink  of  the  grave  I’ll  not  seek  to 
keep  hovering, 

Nor  my  thread  wish  to  spin  o’er  again : 

But  my  face  in  the  glass  I’ll  serenely 
survey, 

And  with  smiles  count  each  wrinkle  and 
furrow ; 

As  this  old  worn-out  stuff,  which  is  thread¬ 
bare  to-day, 

May  become  everlasting  to-morrow. 

John  Collins. 

- •<>♦  - 

A  Hundred  Years  to  Come. 

Who’ll  press  for  gold  this  crowded  street, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 

Who’ll  tread  yon  church  with  willing  feet, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 

Pale,  trembling  age  and  fiery  youth, 

And  childhood  with  his  brow  of  truth, 

The  rich  and  poor,  on  land,  on  sea, 

Where  will  the  mighty  millions  be, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 

We  all  within  our  graves  shall  sleep, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ; 


No  living  soul  for  us  will  weep, 

A  hundred  years  to  come. 

But  other  men  our  land  will  till, 

And  others  then  our  streets  will  fill, 
And  other  words  will  sing  as  gay, 

And  bright  the  sunshine  as  to-day, 

A  hundred  years  to  come. 

William  Goldsmith  Brown. 

-  •<> - 

The  Eve  of  Election. 

From  gold  to  gray 
Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon  ; 

But  tenderly 
Above  the  sea 

Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  hunter’s 
moon. 

In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  spire 

Shows  like  the  Zodiac’s  spectral  lance  ; 
The  painted  walls 
Whereon  it  falls 

Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance  ! 

O’er  fallen  leaves 
The  west  wind  grieves, 

Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again  ; 

And  morn  shall  see 
The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 
The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 
The  moulds  of  fate 
That  shape  the  State, 

And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 

Around  I  see 
The  powers  that  be  ; 

I  stand  by  Empire’s  primal  springs ; 

Arid  princes  meet 
In  every  street, 

And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrown’d  kings  ! 

Hark  !  through  the  crowd 
The  laugh  runs  loud, 

Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land, 

A  careless  hand 

May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow’s  noon  1 


676 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


No  jest  is  this  ; 

One  cast  amiss 

May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom’s  year. 

Oh,  take  me  where 
Are  hearts  of  prayer, 

And  foreheads  bow’d  in  reverent  fear  ! 

Not  lightly  fall 
Beyond  recall 

The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float ; 

The  crowning  fact, 

The  kingliest  act 

Of  Freedom,  is  the  freeman’s  vote  ! 

For  pearls  that  gem 
A  diadem 

The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies  ; 

The  regal  right 
We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice  : 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 

Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 
And  hers  whose  faith 
Drew  strength  from  death, 

And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God  ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 

A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain ; 
The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 

Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 

The  shadow  rend, 

And  o’er  us  bend, 

0  martyrs,  with  your  crowns  and  palms, — 
Breathe  through  these  throngs 
Your  battle-songs, 

Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon  psalms! 

Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God’s  great  eye, 

Thou  solemn  moon,  with  searching  beam  ; 
Till  in  the  sight 
Of  thy  pure  light 

Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 

Shame  from  our  hearts 
Unworthy  arts, 

The  fraud  design’d,  the  purpose  dark  ; 

And  smite  away 
The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 


To  party  claims, 

And  private  aims, 

Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 
The  age  of  heaven, 

The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 
Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 
Of  time  to  be, 

When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

- K>« - 

The  Battle-Field. 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet’s  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 
And  fiery  hearts  and  arm^d  hands 
Encounter’d  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah,  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gush’d  the  life-blood  of  her  brave, — 
Gush’d,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 
Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 

And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine,  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouth’d  gun  and  staggering 
wain  ; 

Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry, — 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again  ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 
For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year ; 

A  wild  and  many-weapon’d  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flank  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 

And  blench  not  at  thv  chosen  lot : 

4/  / 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown, — yet  faint  thou  not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 

The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn  ; 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


677 


For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 

The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crush’d  to  earth,  shall  rise  again, — 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  ; 

But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  help’d  thee  flee  in  fear, 
Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 

Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet’s  mouth  is  peal’d 
The  blast  of  triumph  o’er  thy  grave. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

- - 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim. 

It  was  a  summer  evening, — 

Old  Kaspar’s  work  was  done, 

And  he  before  his  cottage-door 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  playing  there,  had  found  ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found 
That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 

And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 
And,  with  a  natural  sigh, — 

“  ’Tis  some  poor  fellow’s  skull,”  said  he, 

“  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

“  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there’s  many  hereabout ; 

And  often,  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 

For  many  thousand  men,”  said  he, 

“  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory.” 

“  Now  tell  us  what  ’twas  all  about,” 
Young  Peterkin  he  cries  ; 

And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 
With  wonder-waiting  eyes, — 

“  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 

And  what  they  fought  each  other  for.” 


“  It  was  the  English,”  Kaspar  cried, 

“  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 
I  could  not  well  make  out ; 

But  everybody  said,”  quoth  he, 

“  That  ’twas  a  famous  victory. 

“  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by  ; 

They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 
And  he  was  forced  to  fly  ; 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 

Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

“  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 
Was  wasted  far  and  wide  ; 

And  many  a  childing  mother  then, 

And  new-born  baby  died  ; 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

“  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 
After  the  field  was  won, — 

For  many  thousand  bodies  here 
Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

“  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro’  won, 
And  our  good  prince  Eugene.” 

“  Why,  ’twas  a  very  wicked  thing  !” 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

“  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl !”  quoth  he, 

“  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

“  And  everybody  praised  the  duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win.” 

“  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ?” 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

“  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,”  said  he  ; 

“  But  ’twas  a  famous  victory.” 

Robert  Southey. 

-  -♦<>•  - 

Mot  on  the  Battle-Field. 

“  To  fall  on  the  battle-field  fighting  for  my  dear 
country, — that  would  not  be  hard.” — The  Neighbors. 

Oh  no,  no, — let  me  lie 
Not  on  a  field  of  battle  when  I  die ! 

Let  not  the  iron  tread 
Of  the  mad  war-horse  crush  my  helmed 
head ; 


678 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Nor  let  the  reeking  knife, 

That  I  have  drawn  against  a  brother’s 
life, 

Be  in  my  hand  when  Death 
Thunders  along,  and  tramples  me  beneath 

His  heavy  squadron’s  heels, 

Or  gory  felloes  of  his  cannon’s  wheels. 

From  such  a  dying  bed, 

Though  o’er  it  float  the  stripes  of  white  and 
red, 

And  the  bald  eagle  brings 
The  cluster’d  stars  upon  his  wide-spread 
wings 

To  sparkle  in  my  sight, 

Oh,  never  let  my  spirit  take  her  flight ! 

I  know  that  Beauty’s  eye 
Is  all  the  brighter  where  gay  pennants 

And  brazen  helmets  dance, 

And  sunshine  flashes  on  the  lifted  lance ; 

I  know  that  bards  have  sung, 

And  people  shouted  till  the  welkin  rung, 

In  honor  of  the  brave 
Who  on  the  battle-field  have  found  a 
grave ; 

I  know  that  o’er  their  bones 
Have  grateful  hands  piled  monumental 
stones. 

Some  of  these  piles  I’ve  seen  : 

The  one  at  Lexington  upon  the  green 

Where  the  first  blood  was  shed 
That  to  my  country’s  independence  led  ; 

And  others  on  our  shore, 

The  “  Battle  Monument  ”  at  Baltimore, 

And  that  on  Bunker’s  Hill. 

Ay,  and  abroad,  a  few  more  famous  still; 

Thy  “tomb,”  Tliemistocles, 

That  looks  out  yet  upon  the  Grecian  seas, 

And  which  the  waters  kiss 
That  issue  from  the  Gulf  of  Salamis. 

And  thine,  too,  have  I  seen, 

Thy  mound  of  earth,  Patroclus,  robed  in 
green, 

That,  like  a  natural  knoll, 

Sheep  climb  and  nibble  over  as  they 
stroll, 

Watch’d  by  some  turban’d  boy, 

Upon  the  margin  of  the  plain  of  Troy. 

Such  honors  grace  the  bed, 

I  know,  whereon  the  warrior  lays  his  head, 


And  hears,  as  life  ebbs  out, 

The  conquer’d  flying,  and  the  conqueror’s 
shout ; 

But  as  his  eye  grows  dim, 

What  is  a  column  or  a  mound  to  him  ? 

What  to  the  parting  soul, 

The  mellow  note  of  bugles  ?  What  the  roll 

Of  drums?  No,  let  me  die 
Where  the  blue  heaven  bends  o’er  me 
lovingly, 

And  the  soft  summer  air, 

As  it  goes  by  me,  stirs  my  thin  white  hair, 

And  from  my  forehead  dries 
The  death-damp  as  it  gathers,  and  the 

skies 

Seem  waiting  to  receive 
My  soul  to  their  clear  depth!  Or  let  me 
leave 

The  world  when  round  my  bed 
Wife,  children,  weeping  friends  are  gath¬ 
ered, 

And  the  calm  voice  of  prayer 
And  holy  hymning  shall  my  soul  prepare 

To  go  and  be  at  rest 

With  kindred  spirits, — spirits  who  have 

bless’d 

The  human  brotherhood 
By  labors,  cares,  and  counsels  for  their 
good. 

And  in  my  dying  hour, 

When  riches,  fame,  and  honor  have  no 
power 

To  bear  the  spirit  up, 

Or  from  my  lips  to  turn  aside  the  cup 

That  all  must  drink  at  last, 

Oh,  let  me  draw  refreshment  from  the 
past ! 

Then  let  my  soul  run  back, 

With  peace  and  joy,  along  my  earthly 
track, 

And  see  that  all  the  seeds 
That  I  have  scatter’d  there,  in  virtuous 
deeds 

Have  sprung  up,  and  have  given, 
Already,  fruits  of  which  to  taste  is 
Heaven ! 

And  though  no  grassy  mound 
Or  granite  pile  say  ’tis  heroic  ground 

Where  my  remains  repose, 

Still  will  I  hope — vain  hope,  perhaps! — 
that  those 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


679 


Whom  I  have  striven  to  bless, 

The  wanderer  reclaim’d,  the  fatherless, 
May  stand  around  my  grave, 

With  the  poor  prisoner,  and  the  poorer 
slave, 

And  breathe  an  humble  prayer 
That  they  may  die  like  him  whose  bones 
are  mouldering  there. 

John  Piekpont. 


Verses 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  ALEXANDER 

Selkirk  during  his  Solitary  Abode 

in  the  Island  of  Juan  Fernandez. 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey ; 

My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute ; 

From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

O  Solitude !  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

I  am  out  of  humanity’s  reach ; 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone; 

Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech — 
I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 

The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain, 

My  form  with  indifference  see ; 

They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 
Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  Friendship,  and  Love, 

Divinely  bestow’d  upon  man, 

Oh  had  I  the  wings  of  a*  dove, 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again ! 

My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 
In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth, 

Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 
And  be  cheer’d  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Religion  !  what  treasure  untold 
Resides  in  that  heavenly  word ! 

More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 

But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 
These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard ; 

Never  sigh’d  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 

Or  smiled  when  a  Sabbath  appear’d. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 
Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 

Some  cordial  endearing  report 
Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more : 


My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 
A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 

Oh  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  the  glance  of  the  mind ! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there ; 

But,  alas  !  recollection  at  hand 
Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair ; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 

There’s  mercy  in  every  place, 

And  mercy — encouraging  thought! — 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace, 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 

William  Cowper. 

- KX - 

Faith. 

Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived, 

And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiving, 
Than  doubt  one  heart  that  if  believed 
Had  bless’d  one’s  life  with  true  believ¬ 
ing. 

Oh,  in  this  mocking  world  too  fast 

The  doubting  fiend  o’ertakes  our  youth  ; 
Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 

Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth. 

Frances  Anne  Kemble. 

- KX - 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine. 

Saint  Augustine  !  well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame ! 

All  common  things,  each  day’s  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 

Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 

That  makes  another’s  virtues  less; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 

And  all  occasions  of  excess ; 


680 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  longing  for  ignoble  things  ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth ; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 
Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill,  all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill ; 
Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will; — 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 
In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb, 

By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 
That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 
When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 

Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 

Are  cross’d  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reach’d  and 
kept 

Were  not  attain’d  by  sudden  flight, 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  Avhat  too  long  we  bore 

With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 
We  may  discern — unseen  before — 

A  path  to  higher  destinies. 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

- - 

The  Red  River  Voyageur. 

Out  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain, 
Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-land 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 


Only,  at  times,  a  smoke-wreath 
With  the  drifting  cloud-rack  joins, — 
The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins ! 

Drearily  blows  the  north  wind 
From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow; 

The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 

And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 

And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 

The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning 
That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese, 

Is  it  the  Indian’s  yell, 

That  lends  to  the  voice  of  the  north  wind 
The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell  ? 

The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  grows  apace  ; 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface, — 

The  bells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 

That  call  from  their  turrets  twain 
To  the  boatman  on  the  river, 

To  the  hunter  on  the  plain  ! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 
The  bitter  north  winds  blow, 

And  thus  upon  life’s  Red  River 
Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore, 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watching 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 
The  signal  of  his  release 
In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 

The  chimes  of  eternal  peace ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

■  ■  •  - 

The  Place  to  Die. 

How  little  recks  it  where  men  die, 
When  once  the  moment’s  past 
In  which  the  dim  and  glazing  eye 
Has  looked  on  earth  its  last — 
Whether  beneath  the  sculptured  urn 
The  coffin’d  form  shall  rest, 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


681 


Or,  in  its  nakedness,  return 
Back  to  its  mother’s  breast ! 

Death  is  a  common  friend  or  foe, 

As  different  men  may  hold, 

And  at  its  summons  each  must  go, 

The  timid  and  the  bold ; 

But  when  the  spirit,  free  and  warm, 
Deserts  it,  as  it  must, 

What  matter  where  the  lifeless  form 
Dissolves  again  to  dust? 

The  soldier  falls  ’mid  corses  piled 
Upon  the  battle  plain, 

Where  reinless  war-steeds  gallop  wild 
Above  the  gory  slain  ; 

But  though  his  corse  be  grim  to  see, 
Hoof-trampled  on  the  sod, 

What  recks  it  when  the  spirit  free 
Has  soar’d  aloft  to  God ! 

The  coward’s  dying  eye  may  close 
'Upon  his  downy  bed, 

And  softest  hands  his  limbs  compose, 
Or  garments  o’er  him  spread ; 

But,  ye  who  shun  the  bloody  fray 
Where  fall  the  mangled  brave, 

Go  strip  his  coffin-lid  away, 

And  see  him  in  his  grave ! 

’Twere  sweet  indeed  to  close  our  eyes 
With  those  we  cherish  near, 

And,  wafted  upward  by  their  sighs, 
Soar  to  some  calmer  sphere ; 

But  whether  on  the  scaffold  high, 

Or  in  the  battle’s  van, 

The  fittest  place  where  man  can  die 
Is  where  he  dies  for  man. 

Michael  Joseph  Barry. 

- +o+ - 

After  Death  in  Arabia. 

He  who  died  at  Azan  sends 
This  to  comfort  all  his  friends. 

Faithful  friends!  It  lies,  I  know, 

Pale  and  white  and  cold  as  snow ; 

And  ye  say,  “Abdullah’s  dead  !” 
Weeping  at  the  feet  and  head. 

I  can  see  your  falling  tears, 

I  can  hear  your  sighs  and  prayers ; 

Yet  I  smile,  and  whisper  this: 

“I  am  not  the  thing  you  kiss; 

Cease  your  tears,  and  let  it  lie ; 

It  was  mine,  it  is  not  I.” 


Sweet  friends  !  what  the  women  lave 
For  its  last  bed  of  the  grave 
Is  a  hut  which  I  am  quitting, 

Is  a  garment  no  more  fitting, 

Is  a  cage,  from  which  at  last, 

Like  a  hawk,  my  soul  hath  pass’d. 

Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room — 

The  wearer,  not  the  garb — the  plume 
Of  the  falcon,  not  the  bars, 

Which  kept  him  from  the  splendid  stars. 

Loving  friends  !  Be  wise,  and  dry 
Straightway  every  weeping  eye ; 

What  ye  lift  upon  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  wistful  tear ; 

’Tis  an  empty  sea-shell — one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  has  gone ; 

The  shell  is  broken — it  lies  there ; 

The  pearl,  the  all,  the  soul,  is  here. 

’Tis  an  earthen  jar,  whose  lid 
Allah  seal’d  the  while  it  hid 
That  treasure  of  his  treasury, 

A  mind  that  loved  him  ;  let  it  lie  ! 

Let  the  shard  be  earth’s  once  more, 
Since  the  gold  shines  in  his  store ! 

Allah  glorious  !  Allah  good  ! 

Now  thy  world  is  understood ; 

Now  the  long,  long  wonder  ends ! 

Yet  ye  weep,  my  erring  friends, 

While  the  man  whom  ve  call  dead, 

In  unspoken  bliss,  instead, 

Lives  and  loves  you  ;  lost,  ’tis  true, 

By  such  light  as  shines  for  you ; 

But  in  the  light  ye  cannot  see 
Of  unfulfill’d  felicity — 

In  enlarging  paradise — 

Lives  a  life  that  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends  !  Yet  not  farewell ; 
Where  I  am,  ye  too  shall  dwell. 

I  am  gone  before  your  face 
A  moment’s  time,  a  little  space ; 

When  ye  come  where  I  have  stepped, 

Ye  will  wonder  why  ye  wept; 

Ye  will  know,  by  wise  love  taught, 

That  here  is  all,  and  there  is  naught. 
Weep  a  while,  if  ye  are  fain — 

Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain  ; 

Only  not  at  death — for  death, 

Now  I  know,  is  that  first  breath 
Which  our  souls  draw  when  we  enter 
Life  which  is  of  all  life  centre. 


682 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Be  ye  certain  all  seems  love, 

View’d  from  Allah’s  throne  above; 

Be  ye  stout  of  heart,  and  come 

Bravely  onward  to  your  home ! 

La  Allah  ilia  Allah!  yea! 

Thou  Love  divine !  Thou  Love  alway ! 

He  that  died  at  Azan  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  his  grave. 

Edwin  Arnold. 

- <K>« - 

Twenty-one. 

Gkown  to  man’s  stature !  0  my  little 

child  ! 

My  bird  that  sought  the  skies  so  long 
ago ! 

My  fair,  sweet  blossom,  pure  and  unde¬ 
filed, 

How  have  the  years  flown  since  we  laid 
thee  low ! 

What  have  they  been  to  thee?  If  thou 
wert  here, 

Standing  beside  thy  brothers,  tall  and 
fair, 

With  bearded  lip,  and  dark  eyes  shining 
clear, 

And  glints  of  summer  sunshine  in  thy 
hair, 

I  should  look  up  into  thy  face  and  say, 

Wavering,  perhaps,  between  a  tear  and 
smile, 

“  0  my  sweet  son,  thou  art  a  man  to¬ 
day  !” 

And  thou  wouldst  stoop  to  kiss  my  lips 
the  while. 

But — up  in  heaven — how  is  it  with  thee, 
dear? 

Art  thou  a  man — to  man’s  full  stature 
grown  ? 

Dost  thou  count  time,  as  we  do,  year  by 
year  ? 

And  what  of  all  earth’s  changes  hast 
thou  known? 

Thou  hadst  not  learn’d  to  love  me.  Didst 
thou  take 

Any  small  germ  of  love  to  heaven  with 
thee, 

That  thou  hast  watch’d  and  nurtured  for 
my  sake, 

Waiting  till  I  its  perfect  flower  may  see? 


What  is  it  to  have  lived  in  heaven  always  ? 
To  have  no  memory  of  pain  or  sin  ? 

Ne’er  to  have  known  in  all  the  calm,  bright 
days 

The  jar  and  fret  of  earth’s  discordant  din? 

Thy  brothers — they  are  mortal — they  must 
tread 

Ofttimes  in  rough,  hard  ways,  with  bleed¬ 
ing  feet ; 

Must  fight  with  dragons,  must  bewail  their 
dead, 

And  fierce  Apollyon  face  to  face  must 
meet. 

I,  who  would  give  my  very  life  for  theirs — 
I  cannot  save  them  from  earth’s  pain  or 

loss ; 

I  cannot  shield  them  from  its  griefs  or 
cares ; 

Each  human  heart  must  bear  alone  its 
cross ! 

Was  God,  then,  kinder  unto  thee  than 
them, 

O  thou  whose  little  life  was  but  a  span? 

Ah,  think  it  not !  In  all  his  diadem 
No  star  shines  brighter  than  the  kingly 
man, 

Who  nobly  earns  whatever  crown  he  wears, 
Who  grandly  conquers  or  as  grandly  dies, 

And  the  white  banner  of  his  manhood 
bears 

Through  all  the  years  uplifted  to  the 
skies ! 

What  lofty  pseans  shall  the  victor  greet ! 
What  crown  resplendent  for  his  brow  be 
fit ! 

O  child,  if  earthly  life  be  bitter-sweet, 

Hast  thou  not  something  missed  in  miss¬ 
ing  it? 

Julia  Caroline  Dorr. 
- •<>* - 

The  Living  Lost. 

Matron  !  the  children  of  whose  love, 
Each  to  his  grave,  in  youth  have  passed; 

And  now  the  mould  is  heaped  above 
The  dearest  and  the  last ! 

Bride  !  who  dost  wear  the  widow’s  veil 

Before  the  wedding  flowers  are  pale ! 

Ye  deem  the  human  heart  endures 
No  deeper,  bitterer  grief  than  yours. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


683 


let  there  are  pangs  of  keener  woe, 

Of  which  the  sufferers  never  speak; 

Nor  to  the  world’s  cold  pity  show 
The  tears  that  scald  the  cheek, 

Wrung  from  their  eyelids  by  the  shame 
And  guilt  of  those  they  shrink  to  name, 
Whom  once  they  loved  with  cheerful  will, 
And  love,  though  fallen  and  branded,  still. 

Weep,  ye  who  sorrow  for  the  dead, 

Thus  breaking  hearts  their  pain  relieve ; 
And  reverenced  are  the  tears  ye  shed, 

And  honored  ye  who  grieve. 

The  praise  of  those  who  sleep  in  earth, 
The  pleasant  memory  of  their  worth, 

The  hope  to  meet  when  life  is  past 
Shall  heal  the  tortured  mind  at  last. 

But  ye,  who  for  the  living  lost 
That  agony  in  secret  bear, 

Who  shall  with  soothing  words  accost 
The  strength  of  your  despair  ? 

Grief  for  your  sake  is  scorn  for  them 
Whom  ye  lament  and  all  condemn ; 

And  o’er  the  world  of  spirits  lies 
A  gloom  from  which  ye  turn  your  eyes. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

■  ■  i<X - 

One  by  One. 

One  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing, 

One  by  one  the  moments  fall ; 

Some  are  coming,  some  are  going  ; 

Do  not  strive  to  grasp  them  all. 

One  by  one  thy  duties  wait  thee, 

Let  thy  whole  strength  go  to  each  ; 

Let  no  future  dreams  elate  thee, 

Learn  thou  first  what  these  can  teach. 

One  by  one  (bright  gifts  from  Heaven) 
Joys  are  sent  thee  here  below  ; 

Take  them  readily  when  given, 

Ready  too  to  let  them  go. 

One  by  one  thy  griefs  shall  meet  thee, 
Do  not  fear  an  arm&d  band ;  « 

One  will  fade  as  others  greet  thee ; 
Shadows  passing  through  the  land. 

Do  not  look  at  life’s  long  sorrow  ; 

See  how  small  each  moment’s  pain  ; 
God  will  help  thee  for  to-morrow, 

So  each  day  begin  again. 


Every  hour  that  fleets  so  slowly 
Has  its  task  to  do  or  bear ; 

Luminous  the  crown,  and  holy, 

When  each  gem  is  set  with  care. 

Do  not  linger  with  regretting, 

Or  for  passing  hours  despond ; 

Nor,  the  daily  toil  forgetting, 

Look  too  eagerly  beyond. 

Hours  are  golden  links,  God’s  token 
Reaching  heaven  ;  but  one  by  one 

Take  them,  lest  the  chain  be  broken 
Ere  the  pilgrimage  be  done. 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 
- k>« - 

Between  the  Lights. 

A  little  pause  in  life  —while  daylight  lin¬ 
gers 

Between  the  sunset  and  the  pale  moon- 
rise, 

When  daily  labor  slips  from  weary  fingers, 

And  calm,  gray  shadows  veil  the  aching 
eyes. 

Old  perfumes  wander  back  from  fields  of 
clover, 

Seen  in  the  light  of  stars  that  long  have 
set ; 

Beloved  ones,  whose  earthly  toil  is  over, 

Draw  near  as  if  they  lived  among  us  yet. 

Old  voices  call  me — through  the  dusk  re¬ 
turning 

I  hear  the  echo  of  departed  feet ; 

And  then  I  ask  with  vain  and  troubled 
yearning, 

“  What  is  the  charm  which  makes  old 
things  so  sweet?” 

“  Must  the  old  joys  be  evermore  withh olden  ? 

Even  their  memory  keeps  me  pure  and 
true ; 

And  yet  from  our  Jerusalem  the  golden 

God  speaketh,  saying,  “  I  make  all  things 
new.” 

“Father,”  I  cry,  “the  old  must  still  be 
nearer ; 

Stifle  my  love  or  give  me  back  the  past ; 

Give  me  the  fair  old  fields,  whose  paths  are 
dearer 

Than  all  Thy  shining  streets  and  mansions 
vast.” 


684 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Peace !  peace !  the  Lord  of  earth  and  hea¬ 
ven  knovveth 

The  human  soul  in  all  its  heat  and  strife; 

Out  of  His  throne  no  stream  of  Lethe  flow- 
eth, 

But  the  pure  river  of  eternal  life. 

He  giveth  life,  ay,  life  in  all  its  sweetness; 

Old  loves,  old  sunny  scenes  will  He  re¬ 
store  ; 

Only  the  curse  of  sin  and  incompleteness 

Shall  vex  thy  soul  and  taint  thine  earth 
no  more. 

Serve  Him  in  daily  toil  and  holy  living, 

And  Faith  shall  lift  thee  to  His  sunlit 
heights ; 

Then  shall  a  psalm  of  gladness  and  thanks¬ 
giving 

Fill  the  calm  hour  that  comes  between 
the  lights. 

Author  Unknown. 

- KX - 

A  Doubting  Heart. 

Where  are  the  swallows  fled? 

Frozen  and  dead, 

Perchance  upon  some  bleak  and  stormy 
shore. 

O  doubting  heart ! 

Far  over  purple  seas, 

They  wait,  in  sunny  ease, 

The  balmy  southern  breeze, 

To  bring  them  to  their  northern  homes 
once  more. 

Why  must  the  flowers  die  ? 

Prison’d  they  lie 

In  the  cold  tomb,  heedless  of  tears  or 
rain. 

O  doubting  heart! 

They  only  sleep  below 
The  soft  white  ermine  snow, 

While  winter  winds  shall  blow, 

To  breathe  and  smile  upon  you  soon 
again. 

The  sun  has  hid  its  rays 

These  many  days : 

Will  dreary  hours  never  leave  the  earth? 

O  doubting  heart ! 


The  stormy  clouds  on  high 
Veil  the  same  sunny  sky, 

That  soon  (for  spring  is  nigh) 

Shall  wake  the  summer  into  golden  mirth. 

Fair  hope  is  dead,  and  light 
Is  quench’d  in  night. 

What  sound  can  break  the  silence  of  de¬ 
spair  ? 

O  doubting  heart ! 

Thy  sky  is  overcast, 

Yet  stars  shall  rise  at  last, 

Brighter  for  darkness  past, 

And  angels’  silver  voices  stir  the  air. 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 

- KX - 

The  Neglected  Call. 

When  the  fields  were  white  with  harvest, 
and  the  laborers  were  few, 

Heard  I  thus  a  voice  within  me,  “  Here  is 
work  for  thee  to  do  ; 

Come  thou  up  and  help  the  reapers,  I  will 
show  thee  now  the  way, 

Come  and  help  them  bear  the  burden,  and 
the  toiling  of  the  day.” 

“  For  a  more  convenient  season,”  thus  I 
answered,  “  will  I  wait,” 

And  the  voice  reproving  murmur’d,  “  Has¬ 
ten,  ere  it  be  too  late.” 

Yet  I  heeded  not  the  utterance,  listening 
to  lo !  here — lo  !  there — 

I  lost  sight  of  all  the  reapers  in  whose 
work  I  would  not  share ; 

Follow’d  after  strange  devices — bow’d  my 
heart  to  gods  of  stone, 

Till  like  Ephraim  join’d  to  idols,  God  well- 
nigh  left  me  alone ; 

But  the  angel  of  His  patience  follow'd  on 
my  erring  track, 

Setting  here  and  there  a  landmark,  where¬ 
withal  to  guide  me  back. 

Onward  vet  I  went,  and  onward,  till  there 
met  me  on  the  way 

A  poor  prodigal  returning ,  who,  like  me, 
had  gone  astray, 

And  his  faith  was  strong  and  earnest  that 
a  father’s  house  would  be 
Safest  shelter  from  temptation  for  such 
sinful  ones  as  he. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


685 


“  Read  the  lesson/’  said  the  angel,  “  take 
the  warning  and  repent 

But  the  wily  Tempter  queried,  “  Ere  thy 
substance  be  unspent? 

“Hast  thou  need  to  toil  and  labor?  art 
thou  fitted  for  the  work  ? 

Many  a  hidden  stone  to  bruise  thee  in  the 
harvest-field  doth  lurk  ; 

There  are  others  call’d  beside  thee,  and 
perchance  the  voice  may  be 

But  thv  own  delusive  fancv,  which  thou 
hearest  calling  thee — 

There  is  time  enough  before  thee,  all  thy 
footsteps  to  retrace.” 

Then  I  yielded  to  the  Tempter,  and  the 
angel  veil’d  her  face. 

Pleasure  beckon’d  in  the  distance,  and  her 
siren  song  was  sweet, 

“  Through  a  thornless  path  of  flowers 
gently  I  will  guide  thy  feet. 

Youth  is  as  a  rapid  river,  gliding  noiseless¬ 
ly  away, 

Earth  is  but  a  pleasant  garden ;  cull  its 
roses  whilst  thou  may ; 

Press  the  juice  from  purple  clusters,  fill 
life’s  chalice  with  the  wine, 

Taste  the  fairest  fruits  which  tempt  thee, 
all  its  richest  fruits  are  thine.” 

Ah !  the  path  was  smooth  and  easy,  but 
a  snare  was  set  therein, 

And  the  feet  were  oft  entangled  in  the 
fearful  mesh  of  sin, 

And  the  canker-worm  was  hidden  in  the 
rose-leaf  folded  up, 

And  the  sparkling  wine  of  pleasure  was  a 
fatal  Circean  cup  ; 

All  its  fruits  were  Dead  Sea  apples,  tempt¬ 
ing  only  to  the  sight, 

Fair  yet  fill’d  with  dust  and  ashes — beau¬ 
tiful,  but  touch’d  with  blight. 

“O  my  Father,”  cried  I  inly,  “  Thou  hast 
striven — I  have  will’d  ; 

Now  the  mission  of  the  angel  of  Thy 
patience  is  fulfill’d ; 

I  have  tasted  earthly  pleasures,  yet  my 
soul  is  craving  food  ; 

Let  the  summons  Thou  hast  given  to  Thy 
harvest  be  renew’d ; 


I  am  ready  now  to  labor — wilt  thou  call  me 
once  again  ? 

I  will  join  thy  willing  reapers  as  they 
garner  up  the  grain.” 

But  the  still  small  voice  within  me,  earnest 
in  its  truth  and  deep, 

Answer’d  my  awaken’d  conscience,  “  As 
thou  sowest  thou  shalt  reap  ; 

God  is  just,  and  retribution  follows  each 
neglected  call  ; 

Thou  hadst  thy  appointed  duty  taught  thee 
by  the  Lord  of  all ; 

Thou  wert  chosen,  but  another  fill’d  the 
place  assigned  thee, 

Henceforth  in  my  field  of  labor  thou 
mayst  but  a  gleaner  be. 

“  But  a  work  is  still  before  thee — see  thou 
linger  not  again  ; 

Separate  the  chaff  thou  gleanest,  beat  it 
from  among  the  grain  ; 

Follow  after  these  my  reapers,  let  thine 
eyes  be  on  the  field, 

Gather  up  the  precious  handfuls  their 
abundant  wheat-sheaves  yield ; 

Go  not  hence  to  glean,  but  tarry  from  the 
morning  until  night ; 

Be  thou  faithful,  thou  mayst  yet  find  favor 
in  thy  Master’s  sight.” 

Hannah  Lloyd  Neale. 

- »o« - 

The  Lot  of  Thousands. 

When  hope  lies  dead  within  the  heart, 

By  secret  sorrow  close  conceal’d, 

We  shrink  lest  looks  or  words  impart 
What  must  not  be  reveal’d. 

’Tis  hard  to  smile  when  one  would  weep ; 
To  speak  when  one  would  silent  be; 

To  wake  when  one  should  wish  to  sleep, 
And  wake  to  agony. 

Yet  such  the  lot  by  thousands  cast 
Who  wander  in  this  world  of  care, 

And  bend  beneath  the  bitter  blast, 

To  save  them  from  despair. 

But  Nature  waits  her  guests  to  greet, 
Where  disappointment  cannot  come; 

And  Time  guides  with  unerring  feet 

The  weary  wanderers  home. 

Anne  Hunter. 


686 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Influence  of  Time  on  Grief. 

O  Time,  who  know’st  a  lenient  hand  to 
lay 

Softest  on  sorrow’s  wound,  and  slowly 
thence 

(Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense) 
The  faint  pang  stealest  unperceived 
away ; 

On  thee  I  rest  my  only  hope  at  last, 

And  think  when  thou  hast  dried  the 
bitter  tear 

That  flows  in  vain  o’er  all  my  soul  held 
dear, 

I  may  look  back  on  every  sorrow  past, 

And  meet  life’s  peaceful  evening  with  a 
smile, 

As  some  lone  bird,  at  day’s  departing 
hour, 

Sings  in  the  sunbeam,  of  the  transient 
shower 

Forgetful,  though  its  wings  are  wet  the 
while. 

Yet  ah!  how  much  must  that  poor  heart 
endure, 

Which  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  alone, 
a  cure! 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 

•o* - 

The  Chameleon. 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 
A  proud,  conceited,  talking  spark, 

With  eyes  that  hardly  served  at  most 
To  guard  their  master  ’gainst  a  post, 

Yet  round  the  world  the  blade  has  been 
To  see  whatever  could  be  seen. 

Returning  from  his  finish’d  tour 
Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before ; 
Whatever  word  you  chance  to  drop, 

The  travell’d  fool  your  mouth  will  stop ; 

“  Sir,  if  my  judgment  you’ll  allow, 

I’ve  seen — and  sure  I  ought  to  know,” 

So  begs  you’d  pay  a  due  submission, 

And  acquiesce  in  his  decision. 

Two  travellers  of  such  a  cast, 

As  o’er  Arabia’s  wilds  they  pass’d, 

And  on  their  way,  in  friendly  chat, 

Now  talk’d  of  this,  and  then  of  that, 
Discoursed  a  while,  ’mongst  other  matter, 
Of  the  chameleon’s  form  and  nature. 


“  A  stranger  animal,”  cries  one, 

“Sure  never  lived  beneath  the  sun. 

A  lizard’s  body,  lean  and  long, 

A  fish’s  head,  a  serpent’s  tongue, 

Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoin’d, 
j  And  what  a  length  of  tail  behind ! 

How  slow  its  pace,  and  then  its  hue, — 
Who  ever  saw  so  fine  a  blue  ?” 

“  Hold,  there  !”  the  other  quick  replies ; 

“  ’Tis  green, — I  saw  it  with  these  eyes, 

As  late  with  open  mouth  it  lay, 

And  warm’d  it  in  the  sunny  ray ; 

Stretch’d  at  its  ease  the  beast  I  view’d, 
And  saw  it  eat  the  air  for  food.” 

“  I’ve  seen  it,  sir,  as  well  as  you, 

And  must  again  affirm  it  blue ; 

At  leisure  I  the  beast  survev’d, 

Extended  in  the  cooling  shade.” 

“  ’Tis  green,  ’tis  green,  sir,  I  assure  ye.” 

“  Green  !”  cries  the  other  in  a  fury, — 

“  Why,  sir,  d’ye  think  I’ve  lost  my  eyes?” 
“’Twere  no  great  loss,”  the  friend  replies, 
“  For  if  they  always  serve  you  thus, 

You’ll  find  them  of  but  little  use.” 

So  high  at  last  the  contest  rose, 

From  words  they  almost  came  to  blows, 
When  luckily  came  by  a  third, — 

To  him  the  question  they  referr’d, 

And  begg’d  he’d  tell  ’em,  if  he  knew, 
Whether  the  thing  was  green  or  blue. 
“Sirs,”  cries  the  umpire,  “cease  your 
pother ! 

The  creature’s  neither  one  nor  t’other. 

I  caught  the  animal  last  night, 

And  view’d  it  o’er  by  candlelight ; 

I  mark’d  it  well — ’twas  black  as  jet; 

You  stare, — but,  sirs,  I’ve  got  it  yet, 

And  can  produce  it.”  “  Pray,  sir,  do : 

I’ll  lay  my  life  the  thing  is  blue.” 

“  And  I’ll  be  sworn,  that  when  you’ve  seen 
The  reptile,  you’ll  pronounce  him  green.” 

“  Well  then,  at  once  to  ease  the  doubt,” 
Replies  the  man,  “  I’ll  turn  him  out, 

And  when  before  your  eyes  I’ve  set  him, 

If  you  don’t  find  him  black,  I’ll  eat  him.” 
He  said,  then  full  before  their  sight 
Produced  the  beast,  and  lo  ! — ’twas  white. 

Both  stared ;  the  man  look’d  wondrous 
wise — 

“  My  children,”  the  chameleon  cries 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


687 


(Then  first  the  creature  found  a  tongue), 
“  You  all  are  right,  and  all  are  wrong ; 
When  next  you  talk  of  what  you  view, 
Think  others  see  as  well  as  you  ; 

Nor  wonder,  if  you  find  that  none 
Prefers  your  eyesight  to  his  own.” 

James  Merrick. 


I  Lay  in  Sorrow,  Deep  Dis¬ 
tressed. 

I  lay  in  sorrow,  deep  distress’d  ; 

My  grief  a  proud  man  heard  ; 

His  looks  were  cold,  he  gave  me  gold, 
But  not  a  kindly  word. 

My  sorrow  pass’d, — I  paid  him  back 
The  gold  he  gave  to  me  ; 

Then  stood  erect  and  spoke  my  thanks, 
And  bless’d  his  Charity. 

J  lay  in  want,  in  grief  and  pain  : 

A  poor  man  pass’d  my  way  ; 

He  bound  my  head,  he  gave  me  bread, 
He  watch’d  me  night  and  day. 

How  shall  I  pay  him  back  again 
For  all  he  did  to  me  ? 

Oh,  gold  is  great,  but  greater  far 
Is  heavenly  Sympathy  ! 

Charles  Mackay. 


Stanzas. 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover 
And  wring  his  bosom,  is — to  die. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

- •<>• - 

Night. 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest ; 

How  sweet,  when  labors  close, 

To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 
The  curtain  of  repose, 

Stretch  the  tired  limbs  and  lay  the  head 
Down  on  our  own  delightful  bed  ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  dreams  : 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 


When  truth  that  is,  and  truth  that  seems, 
Mix  in  fantastic  strife  ; 

Ah  !  visions  less  beguiling  far 
Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil : 

To  plough  the  classic  field, 

Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 
Its  wealthy  furrows  yield  ; 

Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught, 

That  poets  sang,  and  heroes  wrought. 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep : 

To  wet  with  unseen  tears 
Those  graves  of  Memory,  where  sleep 
The  joys  of  other  years  ; 

Hopes  that  were  angels  at  their  birth, 

But  died  when  young,  like  things  of  earth. 

Night  is  the  time  to  watch  : 

O’er  ocean’s  dark  expanse, 

To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 
The  full  moon’s  earliest  glance, 

That  brings  into  the  homesick  mind 
All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 

Night  is  the  time  for  care  : 

Brooding  on  hours  misspent, 

To  see  the  spectre  of  Despair 
Come  to  our  lonely  tent ; 

Like  Brutus,  ’midst  his  slumbering  host, 
Summon’d  to  die  by  Caesar’s  ghost. 

Night  is  the  time  to  think  : 

When,  from  the  eye,  the  soul 
Takes  flight ;  and  on  the  utmost  brink 
Of  yonder  starry  pole 
Discerns  beyond  the  abyss  of  night 
The  dawn  of  uncreated  light. 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray  : 

Our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 
To  desert  mountains  far  away  ; 

So  will  His  followers  do, 

Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  untrod, 
And  commune  there  alone  with  God. 

Night  is  the  time  for  Death  : 

When  all  around  is  peace, 

Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath, 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease, 

Think  of  heaven’s  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 
To  parting  friends  ; — such  death  be  mine. 

James  Montgomery. 

- »o+ 


688 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Good-Night. 

Downward  sinks  the  setting  sun, 
Soft  the  evening  shadows  fall  ; 
Light  is  flying, 

Day  is  dying, 

Darkness  stealeth  over  all. 

Good-night  1 

Autumn  garners  in  her  stores — 
Foison  of  the  fading  year: 

Leaves  are  dying, 

Winds  are  sighing — 
Whispering  of  the  Winter  near. 

Good-night ! 

Youth  is  vanished,  manhood  wanes; 
Age  its  forward  shadows  throws  ; 
Day  is  dying, 

Years  are  flying, 

Life  runs  onward  to  its  close. 

Good-night ! 

Author  Unknown. 

-  ■ —  »o» - 

Good  Counseil  of  Chaucer. 

Flee  fro  the  pres,  and  duelle  with  soth- 
fastnesse ; 

Suffice  the  thy  good  though  hit  be  smale ; 

For  horde  hath  hate,  and  clymbyng  tikel- 
nesse, 

Pres  hath  envve,  and  wele  is  blent  over  alle. 

Savoure  no  more  then  the  behove  shalle ; 

Rede  wel  thy  self  that  other  folke  canst  rede, 

And  trouthe  the  shal  delyver,  hit  ys  no 
drede. 

Pevne  the  not  eche  croked  to  redresse 

In  trust  of  hire  that  turneth  as  a  balle, 

Grete  rest  stant  in  lytil  besynesse  ; 

Bewar  also  to  spurne  ayeine  an  nalle, 

Stryve  not  as  doth  a  croke  with  a  walle  ; 

Daunt  thy  selfe  that  dauntest  otheres  dede, 

And  trouthe  the  shal  delyver,  hit  is  no 
drede. 

That  the  ys  sent  recevve  in  buxomnesse, 

The  wrastelingof  this  world  asketh  a  falle; 

Her  is  no  home,  her  is  but  wvldvrnesse. 

Forth  pilgrime!  forth  best  out  of  thy 
stalle ! 

Loke  up  on  hye,  and  thonke  God  of  alle; 

W ey  ve  thy  lust,  and  let  thy  goste  the  lede, 

And  trouthe  shal  thee  delyver,  hit  is  no 
drede. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer. 


Sic  Vita. 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 

Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 

Or  like  the  fresh  spring’s  gaudy  hue, 

Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 

Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 

Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood — 

E’en  such  is  man,  whose  borrow’d  light 
Is  straight  called  in,  and  paid  to-night. 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies, 
The  spring  entomb’d  in  autumn  lies, 
The  dew  dries  up,  the  star  is  shot, 

The  flight  is  past — and  man  forgot ! 

Henry  Kino. 

- »o»-  ■  - 

Lines. 

Written  by  One  in  the  Tower,  being 
Young  And  condemned  to  Die. 

My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares, 
My  feast  of  joy  is  but  a  dish  of  pain, 

My  crop  of  corn  is  but  a  field  of  tares, 

And  all  my  goodes  is  but  vain  hope  of 
gain. 

The  day  is  fled,  and  yet  I  saw  no  sun ; 

And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done ! 

My  spring  is  past,  and  yet  it  hath  not 
sprung, 

The  fruit  is  dead,  and  yet  the  leaves  are 
green  ; 

My  youth  is  past,  and  yet  I  am  but  young, 
I  saw  the  world,  and  vet  I  was  not  seen. 
My  thread  is  cut,  and  yet  it  is  not  spun ; 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  mv  life  is  done  ! 

I  sought  for  death,  and  found  it  in  the 
wombe, 

I  lookt  for  life,  and  yet  it  was  a  shade, 

I  trade  the  ground,  and  knew  it  was  my 
tombe, 

And  now  I  die,  and  now  I  am  but  made. 
The  glass  is  full,  and  yet  my  glass  is  run ; 

And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done ! 

Chidiock  Tychborn. 

< 

- K>« - 

On  His  Divine  Poems. 

When  we  for  age  could  neither  read  nor 
write, 

The  subject  made  us  able  to  indite : 

The  soul,  with  nobler  resolutions  deck’d, 
The  body  stooping,  does  herself  erect : 

No  mortal  parts  are  requisite  to  raise 
Her  that  unbodied  can  her  Maker  praise. 


MORAL  AND  DIDACTIC  POETRY. 


689 


The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o’er; 
So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no  more. 
For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  so  certain  to  be  lost. 

Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  descries. 
The  soul’s  dark  cottage,  batter’d  and  de¬ 
cay’d, 

Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that  time 
has  made. 

Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they 
view, 

That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 

Edmund  Waller. 

- - 

From  11  In  Memoriamr 

i. 

I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 

That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match? 

Or  reach  a  hand  thro’  time  to  catch 
The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 

I 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown’d, 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss: 

Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 

“  Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost, 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn.” 

XXVII. 

1  envy  not,  in  any  moods, 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 

The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods. 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter’d  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes  ; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 

The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth, 

But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth  ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 


I  hold  it  true,  whate’er  befall — 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most — 

’Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

LIV. 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 

To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete ; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 

That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivell’d  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another’s  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  off — at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream :  but  what  am  I? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night: 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

LXXVIII. 

Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth : 
The  silent  snow  possessed  the  earth, 
And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve  : 

The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost. 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 

But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 
The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind 

Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture’s  breathing  grace, 
And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman-blind. 

Who  show’d  a  token  of  distress? 

No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain  : 

0  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  ? 

O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less? 

0  last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 

No — mixt  with  all  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 

But  with  long  use  her  tears'  are  dry. 


690 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


cvi. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 

The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 

For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 

Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 

Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 
But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

cxiv. 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge?  Who  shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty  ?  May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prosper!  Who  shall  fix 
Her  pillars  ?  Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire : 

She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 
Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain — 

She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 

What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith, 
But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 


Of  Demons  ?  fiery  hot  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.  Let  her  know  her  place ; 
She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 

If  all  be  not  in  vain  ;  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 
With  Wisdom,  like  the  younger  child: 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 

But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 

Oh,  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 
So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 
In  reverence  and  in  charity. 

CXVIII. 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 

The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth; 

Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 

As  dying  Nature’s  earth  and  lime ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.  They  say, 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

« 

I 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 

The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man ; 

Who  throve  and  branch’d  from  clime  to 
clime, 

The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 

If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more; 

Or,  crown’d  writh  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 
That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 

And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 

And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

And  battered  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.  Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

Alfred  Tennysox. 


Poems  of  Labor  and  Social  Questions. 


Lab  OR  ARE  EST  OR  ARE. 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us ; 

Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that 
come  o’er  us ; 

Hark  how  Creation’s  deep,  musical  chorus, 

Unintermitting,  goes  up  into  Heaven  I 

Never  the  ocean-wave  falters  in  flowing; 

Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing; 

More  and  more  richly  the  rose-heart  keeps 
glowing, 

Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

“  Labor  is  worship  I”  the  robin  is  singing ; 

“  Labor  is  worship  I”  the  wild  bee  is  ring¬ 
ing; 

Listen!  that  eloquent  whisper,  upspring- 

ing, 

Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  Nature’s 
great  heart. 

From  the  dark  cloud  flows  the  life-giving 
shower ; 

From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft-breatli- 
ing  flower ; 

From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral 
bower ; 

Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shrinks  from  his 
part. 

Labor  is  life ! — ’Tis  the  still  water  fail* 
eth ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth  ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust 
assaileth  : 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of 
noon. 

Labor  is  glory  ! — the  flying  cloud  lightens ; 

Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  bright¬ 
ens; 

Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens : 

Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep 
them  in  tune ! 


Labor  is  rest  from  the  sorrows  that  greet 
us, 

Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet 
us, 

Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  entreat 
us, 

Rest  from  world-sirens  that  lure  us  to 
ill. 

Work, — and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on 
thy  pillow ; 

Work, — thou  shalt  ride  over  Care’s  coming 
billow ; 

Lie  not  down  wearied  ’neath  Woe’s  weep¬ 
ing  willow  I 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute 
will ! 

Labor  is  health  ! — Lo !  the  husbandman 
reaping, 

How  through  his  veins  goes  the  life-cur¬ 
rent  leaping ! 

How  his  strong  arm,  in  its  stalwart  pride 
sweeping, 

True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sickle 
guides ! 

Labor  is  wealth, — in  the  sea  the  pearl 
groweth ; 

Rich  the  queen’s  robe  from  the  frail  cocoon 
floweth ; 

From  the  fine  acorn  the  strong  forest  blow- 
eth ; 

Temple  and  statue  the  marble  block 
hides. 

Droop  not,  though  shame,  sin,  and  anguish 
are  round  thee ; 

Bravely  fling  off  the  cold  chain  that  hath 
bound  thee  ! 

Look  to  yon  pure  Heaven  smiling  beyond 
thee : 


691 


692 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness, — a 
clod ! 

Work  for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so  slowly; 

Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly : 

Labor  ! — all  labor  is  noble  and  holy ; 

Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy 
God. 

Fkances  Sargent  Osgood. 
- *<>• - 

The  Useful  Plough. 

A  country  life  is  sweet ! 

In  moderate  cold  and  heat, 

To  walk  in  the  air,  how  pleasant  and  fair! 

In  every  field  of  wheat, 

The  fairest  of  flowers,  adorning  the 
bowers, 

And  every  meadow’s  brow  ; 

So  that  I  say,  no  courtier  may 
Compare  with  them  who  clothe  in  gray, 

And  follow  the  useful  plough. 

They  rise  with  the  morning  lark, 

And  labor  till  almost  dark  ; 

Then  folding  their  sheep,  they  hasten  to 
sleep  ; 

While  every  pleasant  park 
Next  morning  is  ringing  with  birds  that 
are  singing 

On  each  green,  tender  bough. 

With  what  content  and  merriment 
Their  days  are  spent,  whose  minds  are 
bent 

To  follow  the  useful  plough  ! 

Author  Unknown. 

- *<>• - 

The  Ploughman. 

Clear  the  brown  path  to  meet  his  coul¬ 
ter’s  gleam  ! 

Lo !  on  he  comes,  behind  his  smoking 
team, 

With  toil’s  bright  dewdrops  on  his  sun¬ 
burnt  brow, 

The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of  the  plough ! 

First  in  the  field  before  the  reddening  sun, 

Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  day  is  done, 

Line  after  line,  along  the  bursting  sod, 

Marks  the  broad  acres  where  his  feet  have 
trod  ; 

Still  where  he  treads  the  stubborn  clods 
divide, 

The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens  deep  and 
wide  ; 


Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  up¬ 
heaves, 

Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  cornfield 
cleaves ; 

Up  the  steep  hillside,  where  the  laboring 
train 

Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the  level 
plain, 

Through  the  moist  valley,  clogg’d  with 
oozing  clay, 

The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined 
way  ; 

At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  re¬ 
sound, 

The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glisten¬ 
ing  round, 

Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  ap¬ 
pears, 

And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting 
steers. 

These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor 
brings 

The  peasant’s  food,  the  golden  pomp  of 
kings ; 

This  is  the  page  whose  letters  shall  be  seen 

Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living 
green  ; 

This  is  the  scholar  whose  immortal  pen 

Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to 
men  ; 

These  are  the  lines  that  heaven-commanded 
Toil 

Shows  on  his  deed, — the  charter  of  the 
soil ! 

O  gracious  Mother,  whose  benignant  breast 

Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest, 

How  thy  sweet  features,  kind  to  every 
clime, 

Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front 
of  Time ! 

We  stain  thy  flowers, — they  blossom  o’er 
the  dead ; 

We  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  bread  ; 

O’er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife  has 
torn 

Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tassell’d 
corn  ; 

Our  maddening  conflicts  scar  thy  fairest 
plain, 

Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


693 


Yet,  O  our  Mother,  while  uncounted 
charms 

Steal  round  our  hearts  in  thine  embracing 
arms, 

Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay, 

And  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  our  strength 
away. 

No  !  by  these  hills  whose  banners  now  dis¬ 
play’d 

In  blazing  cohorts  Autumn  has  array’d  ; 

By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery 
crests 

The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagles’ 
nests ; 

By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  circle 
screens, 

And  feeds  with  streamlets  from  its  dark 
ravines, — 

True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms 
shall  toil 

To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted 
soil ; 

And,  true  to  God,  to  freedom,  to  mankind, 

If  her  chain’d  ban-dogs  Faction  shall  un¬ 
bind, 

These  stately  forms,  that,  bending  even 
now, 

Bow’d  their  strong  manhood  to  the  hum¬ 
ble  plough, 

Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the  land, 

The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand, 

Till  o’er  their  hills  the  shouts  of  triumph 
run  ; 

The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  plough¬ 
share  won  ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

>o»  - 

The  Village  Blacksmith. 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 
The  village  smithy  stands ; 

The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long ; 
His  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 

His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat ; 

He  earns  whate’er  he  can, 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 
For  he  owes  not  any  man. 


Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door  ; 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 

He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter’s  voice 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother’s  voice 
Singing  in  Paradise  ! 

He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 
How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 

And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 
A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing — 

Onward  through  life  he  goes  : 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted — something  done, 
Has  earn’d  a  night’s  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  Life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought, 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

- K>« - 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor. 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin’s  anchor  forged ! 

’tis  at  a  white  heat  now — 

The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased, 
though,  on  the  forge’s  brow, 

The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through 
the  sable  mound, 

And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim 
smiths  ranking  round, 


094 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad 
hands  only  bare, 

Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some 
work  the  windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle-chains, — 
the  black  mould  heaves  below, 

And  red  and  deep,  a  hundred  veins  burst 
out  at  every  throe. 

It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright, — O  Vul¬ 
can,  what  a  glow ! 

’Tis  blinding  white,  ’tis  blasting  bright, — 
the  high  sun  shines  not  so ! 

The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such 
fiery  fearful  show. 

The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth, 
the  ruddy  lurid  row 

Of  smiths,  that  stand,  an  ardent  band, 
like  men  before  the  foe, 

As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame, 
the  sailing  monster  slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil ;  all  about,  the  faces 
fiery  grow : 

“  Hurrah !”  they  shout,  “  leap  out,  leap 
out !”  bang,  bang !  the  sledges  go ; 

Hurrah!  the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing 
high  and  low, 

A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every 
squashing  blow ; 

The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail,  the 
rattling  cinders  strow 

The  ground  around ;  at  every  bound  the 
sweltering  fountains  flow  ; 

And,  thick  and  loud,  the  swinking  crowd 
at  every  stroke  pant  “  Ho !” 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters  !  leap  out, 
and  lay  on  load  ; 

Let’s  forge  a  goodly  anchor — a  bower  thick 
and  broad, 

For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every 
blow,  I  bode, 

And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a 
perilous  road, 

The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee,  the  roll 
of  ocean  pour’d 

From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea ;  the 
mainmast  by  the  board  ; 

The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the 
boats  stove  at  the  chains ; 

But  courage  still,  brave  mariners,  the 
bower  yet  remains ! 


And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  save 
when  ye  pitch  sky-high ; 

Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said, 
“  Fear  nothing,  here  am  I !” 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order;  let  foot 
and  hand  keep  time ; 

Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than 
any  steeple’s  chime. 

But  while  ye  swing  your  sledges,  sing,  and 
let  the  burthen  be, 

The  anchor  is  the  anvil  king,  and  royal 
craftsmen  we  ! 

Strike  in,  strike  in  ! — the  sparks  begin  to 
dull  their  rustling  red  ; 

Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din — our 
work  will  soon  be  sped  ; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of 
fiery  rich  array 

For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an 
oozy  couch  of  clay  ; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of 
merry  craftsmen  here 

For  the  yeo-heave-o  and  the  heave  away, 
and  the  sighing  seamen’s  cheer — 

When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go,  far, 
far  from  love  and  home ; 

And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail 
o’er  the  ocean  foam. 


In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom,  he  darkens 
down  at  last ; 

A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as  e’er 
from  cat  was  cast. 

O  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard  !  if  thou 
hadst  life  like  me, 

What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  be¬ 
neath  the  deep  green  sea  ! 

0  deep  sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold 
such  sights  as  thou? — 

The  hoary  monster’s  palaces  ! — Methinks 
what  joy  ’twere  now 

To  go  plumb-plunging  down,  amid  the  as¬ 
sembly  of  the  whales, 

And  feel  the  churn’d  sea  round  me  boil 
beneath  their  scourging  tails  ! 

Then  deep  in  tangle- woods  to  fight  the 
fierce  sea-unicorn, 

And  send  him  foil’d  and  bellowing  back, 
for  all  his  ivory  horn  ; 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


695 


To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony 
blade  forlorn  ; 

And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark,  to 
laugh  his  jaws  to  scorn  ; 

To  leap  down  on  the  kraken’s  back,  where 
’mid  Norwegian  isles 

He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden 
shallow’d  miles — 

Till,  snorting  like  an  under-sea  volcano, 
off  he  rolls  ; 

Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the  far 
astonish’d  shoals 

Of  his  back-browsing  ocean-calves ;  or, 
haply,  in  a  cove 

Shell-strown,  and  consecrate  of  old  to 
some  Undine’s  love, 

To  find  the  long-hair’d  mermaidens ;  or, 
hard  by  icy  lands, 

To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent,  upon  ceru¬ 
lean  sands. 

O  broad-arm’d  fisher  of  the  deep  !  whose 
sports  can  equal  thine  ? 

The  dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons  that 
tugs  thy  cable  line  ; 

And  night  by  night  ’tis  thy  delight,  thy 
glory  day  by  day, 

Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white  the 
giant  game  to  play. 

But,  shamer  of  our  little  sports  !  forgive 
the  name  I  gave  : 

A  fisher’s  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  office  is 
to  save. 

O  lodger  in  the  sea-king’s  halls !  couldst 
thou  but  understand 

Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side — 
or  who  that  dripping  band, 

Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that 
round  about  thee  bend, 

With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream 
blessing  their  ancient  friend — 

Oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide 
with  larger  steps  round  thee, 

Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride — 
bhou’dst  leap  within  the  sea  ! 

Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the 
pleasant  strand 

To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love 
of  fatherland — 


Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and 
grassy  churchyard  grave 

So  freely,  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  toss¬ 
ing  wave ! 

Oh,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  al1  I 
have  fondly  sung, 

Honor  him  for  their  memory  whose  bones 
he  goes  among  ! 

Samuel  Ferguson. 


A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave. 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep  ; 

Where  the  scatter’d  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep  I 
Like  an  eagle  caged  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore  : 

Oh  give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest’s  roar  ! 

Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand, 

Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft : 

Set  sail !  farewell  to  the  land  ; 

The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 

We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam, 
Like  an  ocean-bird  set  free, — • 

Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 
We’ll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown  ; 

But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 

We’ll  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down  ! 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 
While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  sea  ! 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave  ! 

Epes  Sargent. 

- *o« - 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing 

Sea. 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea — 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 

And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast — 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 
While,  like  the  eagle  free, 

Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 
Old  England  on  the  lee. 


696 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 

But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high — 

And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 
The  good  ship  tight  and  free  ; 

The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There’s  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud  ; 

And  hark  the  music,  mariners  ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud — 

The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free  ; 

While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


The  Fishermans  Song. 

Away — away  o’er  the  feathery  crest 

Of  the  beautiful  blue  are  we  : 

For  our  toil-lot  lies  on  its  boiling  breast, 

And  our  wealth’s  in  the  glorious  sea  ! 

And  we’ve  hymn’d  in  the  grasp  of  the 
fiercest  night, 

To  the  God  of  the  sons  of  toil, 

As  we  cleft  the  wave  by  its  own  white 
light, 

And  away  with  its  scaly  spoil. 

Then  oh,  for  the  long  and  the  strong 
oar-sweep 

We  have  given,  and  will  again ! 
For  when  children’s  weal  lies  in  the 
deep, 

Oh,  their  fathers  must  be  men  ! 

And  we’ll  think,  as  the  blast  grows  loud 
and  long, 

That  we  hear  our  offspring’s  cries ; 

And  we’ll  think,  as  the  surge  grows  tall 
and  strong, 

Of  the  tears  in  their  mothers’  eyes : 

And  we’ll  reel  through  the  clutch  of  the 
shiv’ring  green, 

For  the  warm,  warm  clasp  at  home — 

For  the  welcoming  shriek  of  each  heart’s 
own  queen, 

When  her  cheek’s  like  the  flying  foam. 


Then  oh,  for  the  long  and  the  strong 
oar-sweep 

We  have  given,  and  must  again ! 
But  when  white  waves  leap,  and  our 
pale  wives  weep, 

O  Heaven, — thy  mercy  then  ! 

Do  we  yearn  for  the  land  when  toss’d  on 
this? 

Let  it  ring  to  the  proud  one’s  tread  ! 

Far  worse  than  the  waters  and  winds  may 
hiss 

Where  the  poor  man  gleans  his  bread. 

If  the  adder-tongue  of  the  upstart  knave 
Can  bleed  what  it  may  not  bend, 

’Twere  better  to  battle  the  wildest  wave 
That  the  spirit  of  storms  could  send, 
Than  be  singing  farewell  to  the  bold 
oar-sweep 

We  have  given,  and  will  again;  ' 
Though  our  souls  should  bow  to  the 
savage  deep, 

Oh,  they’ll  never  to  savage  men ! 

And  if  Death,  at  times,  through  a  foamy 
cloud, 

On  the  brown-brow’d  boatman  glares, 

He  can  pay  him  his  glance  with  a  soul  as 
proud 

As  the  form  of  a  mortal  bears ; 

And  oh  ’twere  glorious,  sure,  to  die, 

In  our  toils  for  some  on  shore, 

With  a  hopeful  eye  fix’d  calm  on  the  sky, 
And  a  hand  on  the  broken  oar. 

Then  oh,  for  the  long  and  the  strong 
oar-sweep ! 

Hold  to  it ! — hurrah  ! — dash  on  ! 

If  our  babes  must  fast  till  we  rob 
the  deep, 

It  is  time  we  had  begun  ! 

Fkancis  Davis. 

-  >Ol 

THE  MARINER'S  DREAM . 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor  boy 
lay; 

His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport 
of  the  wind ; 

But  watch-worn  and  weary,  his  care  flew 
away, 

And  visions  of  happiness  danced  o’er 
his  mind. 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


697 


He  dream’d  of  his  home,  of  his  dear  native 
bowers, 

And  pleasures  that  waited  on  life’s  merry 
morn ; 

While  Memory  stood  sideways  half  cover’d 
with  flowers, 

And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  its 
thorn. 

Then  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread 
wide, 

And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy 
rise ; 

Now  far,  far  behind  him  the  green  waters 
glide, 

And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses  his 
eyes. 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flower  o’er  the 
thatch, 

And  the  swallow  sings  sweet  from  her 
nest  in  the  wall ; 

All  trembling  with  transport,  he  raises  the 
latch, 

And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply  to 
his  call. 

A  father  bends  o’er  him  with  looks  of  de¬ 
light  ; 

His  cheek  is  impearl’d  with  a  mother’s 
warm  tear ; 

And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a  love-kiss 
unite 

With  the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his 
bosom  holds  dear. 

The  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high  in  his 
breast ; 

Joy  quickens  his  pulses — his  hardships 
seem  o’er ; 

And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steals  through 
his  rest — 

Kind  Fate,  thou  hast  blest  me — I  ask  for 
no  more. 

Ah  !  what  is  that  flame  which  now  bursts 
on  his  eye? 

Ah !  what  is  that  sound  which  now 
’larums  his  ear  ? 

’Tis  the  lightning’s  red  glare,  painting  hell 
on  the  sky  ! 

’Tis  the  crashing  of  thunders,  the  groan 
of  the  sphere ! 


He  springs  from  his  hammock — he  flies  to 
the  deck ; 

Amazement  confronts  him  with  images 
dire ; 

Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  the  ves¬ 
sel  a  wreck  ; 

The  masts  fly  in  splinters  ;  the  shrouds 
are  on  fire  ! 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tremendously 
swell ; 

In  vain  the  lost  wretch  calls  on  Mercy 
to  save ; 

Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing  his 
knell ; 

And  the  death-angel  flaps  his  broad  wing 
o’er  the  wave ! 

O  sailor  boy !  woe  to  thy  dream  of  de¬ 
light  ! 

In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frost-work 
of  bliss. 

Where  now  is  the  picture  that  Fancy 
touch’d  bright — 

Thy  parents’  fond  pressure  and  love’s 
honey’d  kiss  ? 

O  sailor  boy  !  sailor  boy  !  never  again 

Shall  home,  love,  or  kindred  thy  wishes 
repay ; 

Unbless’d  and  unhonor’d,  down  deep  in 
the  main, 

Full  many  a  fathom,  thy  frame  shall  de¬ 
cay. 

No  tomb  shall  e’er  plead  to  remembrance 
for  thee, 

Or  redeem  form  or  frame  from  the  mer¬ 
ciless  surge ; 

But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy 
winding-sheet  be, 

And  winds,  in  the  midnight  of  winter, 
thy  dirge ! 

On  beds  of  green  sea-flowers  thy  limbs 
shall  be  laid  ; 

Around  thy  white  bones  the  red  coral 
shall  grow  ; 

Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber 
be  made ; 

And  every  part  suit  to  thy  mansion  be¬ 
low. 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


69S 


Days,  months,  years,  and  ages  shall  circle 
away, 

And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee 
shall  roll ; — 

Earth  loses  thy  pattern  for  ever  and  aye : — 

O  sailor  boy !  sailor  boy !  peace  to  thy 
soul ! 

William  Dimond. 

- xx - 

Poor  Jack. 

Go  patter  to  lubbers  and  swabs,  do  ye  see, 

’Bout  danger,  and  fear,  and  the  like  ; 

A  tight  water-boat  and  good  sea-room  give 
me, 

And  it  ent  to  a  little  I’ll  strike : 

Though  the  tempest  top-gallant  masts 
smack  smooth  should  smite, 

And  shiver  each  splinter  of  wood, 

Clear  the  wreck,  stow  the  yards,  and  bouse 
everything  tight, 

And  under  reef’d  foresail  we’ll  scud  : 

Avast!  nor  don’t  think  me  a  milksop  so 
soft 

To  be  taken  for  trifles  aback ; 

For  they  say  there’s  a  Providence  sits  up 
aloft, 

To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack. 

I  heard  our  good  chaplain  palaver  one 
day 

About  souls,  heaven,  mercy,  and  such ; 

And,  my  timbers !  what  lingo  he’d  coil 
and  belay, 

Why,  ’twas  just  all  as  one  as  High 
Dutch  : 

For  he  said  how  a  sparrow  can’t  founder, 
d’ye  see, 

Without  orders  that  come  down  below ; 

And  a  many  fine  things  that  proved  clear¬ 
ly  to  me 

That  Providence  takes  us  in  tow  : 

For,  says  he,  do  you  mind  me,  let  storms 
e’er  so  oft 

Take  the  topsails  of  sailors  aback, 

1  here’s  a  sweet  little  cherub  that  sits  up 
aloft, 

To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack. 

I  said  to  our  Poll — for,  d’ye  see,  she  would 
cry. 

When  last  we  weigh’d  anchor  for  sea — 


What  argufies  sniveling  and  piping  your 

eye? 

Why,  what  a  damn’d  fool  you  must  be ! 
Can’t  you  see  the  world’s,  wide,  and  there’s 
room  for  us  all, 

Both  for  seamen  and  lubbers  ashore  ? 
And  if  to  old  Davy  I  should  go,  friend  Poll, 
You  never  will  hear  of  me  more: 

What  then?  all’s  a  hazard  :  come,  don’t  be 
so  soft, 

Perhaps  I  may  laughing  come  back, 

For,  d’ye  see,  there’s  a  cherub  sits  smiling 
aloft, 

To  keep  watch,  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack. 

D’ye  mind  me,  a  sailor  should  be  every  inch 
All  as  one  as  a  piece  of  the  ship, 

And  with  her  brave  the  world  without 
offering  to  flinch, 

From  the  moment  the  anchor’s  a-trip. 

As  for  me,  in  all  weathers,  all  times,  sides, 
and  ends, 

Naught’s  a  trouble  from  duty  that 
springs, 

For  my  heart  is  my  Poll’s,  and  my  rhino’s 
my  friend’s, 

And  as  for  my  life,  ’tis  the  king’s : 

Even  when  my  time  comes,  ne’er  believe 
me  so  soft 

As  for  grief  to  be  taken  aback, 

For  the  same  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft 

Will  look  out  a  good  berth  for  poor  Jack. 

Charles  Dibdin. 

-  -■•<>• - 

Hannah  Binding  Shoes. 

Poor  lone  Hannah, 

Sitting  at  the  window,  binding  shoes  ! 
Faded,  wrinkled, 

Sitting,  stitching,  in  a  mournful  muse  ! 
Bright-eyed  beauty  once  was  she, 

When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree  : 
Spring  and  winter 

Hannah’s  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 
Not  a  neighbor 

Passing  nod  or  answer  will  refuse 
To  her  whisper, 

“  Is  there  from  the  fishers  any  news  ?” 

Oh,  her  heart’s  adrift  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone ! 

Night  and  morning 

Hannah’s  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


699 


Fair  young  Hannah, 

Ben,  the  sunburnt  fisher,  gayly  woos ; 

Hale  and  clever, 

For  a  willing  heart  and  hand  he  sues. 
Mav-day  skies  are  all  aglow, 

And  the  waves  are  laughing  so ! 

For  her  wedding 

Hannah  leaves  her  window  and  her  shoes. 
May  is  passing : 

Mid  the  apple-boughs  a  pigeon  coos. 
Hannah  shudders, 

For  the  mild  south-wester  mischief  brews. 
Round  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped : 

Silent,  lonesome, 

Hannah’s  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 
’Tis  November. 

Now  no  tears  her  wasted  cheek  bedews. 

From  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose, 
Whispering  hoarsely,  “  Fisherman, 

Have  you,  have  you  heard  of  Ben?” 

Old  with  watching, 

Hannah’s  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 
Twenty  winters 

Bleach  and  tear  the  ragged  shore  she 
views. 

Twenty  seasons ; — 

Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news. 

Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
Chase  the  white  sail  o’er  the  sea  : 
Hopeless,  faithful, 

Hannah’s  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Lucy  Larcom. 

- -*0« - 

The  Three  Fishers. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the 
west — 

Away  to  the  west  as  the  sun  went 
down ; 

Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved 
him  the  best, 

And  the  children  stood  watching  them 
out  of  the  town  ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 
weep  ; 

And  there’s  little  to  earn,  and  many  to 
keep, 

Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 


Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse 
tower, 

And  they  trimm’d  the  lamps  as  the  sun 
went  down  ; 

They  look’d  at  the  squall,  and  they  look’d 
at  the  shower, 

And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up. 
ragged  and  brown ; 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must 
weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep. 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  layout  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went 
down, 

And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wring¬ 
ing  their  hands 

For  those  who  will  never  come  home  to 
the  town  ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 
weep — 

And  the  sooner  it’s  over,  the  sooner  to 
sleep — 

And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moan¬ 
ing. 

Charles  Kingsley. 

- K>* - 

“ THEY’RE  DEAR  FISH  TO  MET 

The  farmer’s  wife  sat  at  the  door, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  see ; 

And  blithesome  were  the  wee,  wee  bairns 
That  play’d  around  her  knee. 

When,  bending  ’neath  her  heavy  creel, 

A  poor  fish-wife  came  by, 

And,  turning  from  the  toilsome  road, 

Unto  the  door  drew  nigh. 

• 

She  laid  her  burden  on  the  green, 

And  spread  its  scaly  store, 

With  trembling  hands  and  pleading  words 
She  told  them  o’er  and  o’er. 

But  lightly  laugh’d  the  young  guidwife, 

“  We’re  no  sae  scarce  o’  cheer  ; 

Tak  up  your  creel,  and  gang  your  ways,— 
I’ll  buy  nae  fish  sae  dear.” 

Bending  beneath  her  load  again, 

A  weary  sight  to  see ; 

Right  sorely  sigh’d  the  poor  fish-wife, 

“  They’re  dear  fish  to  me  ! 


700 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Our  boat  was  oot  ae  fearfu’  night, 

And  when  the  storm  blew  o’er, 

Mv  husband,  and  my  three  brave  sons, 
Lay  corpses  on  the  shore. 

“  I’ve  been  a  wife  for  thirty  years, 

A  childless  widow  three  ; 

I  maun  buy  them  now  to  sell  again, — 
They’re  dear  fish  to  me !” 

The  farmer’s  wife  turn’d  to  the  door, — 
What  was’t  upon  her  cheek? 

What  was  there  rising  in  her  breast, 

That  then  she  scarce  could  speak? 

She  thought  upon  her  ain  guid  man, 

Her  lightsome  laddies  three  ; 

The  woman’s  words  had  pierced  her 
heart, — 

“  Thev’re  dear  fish  to  me !” 

«/ 

“  Come  back,”  she  cried,  with  quivering 
voice 

And  pity’s  gathering  tear ; 

•‘Come  in,  come  in,  my  poor  woman, 

Ye’re  kindly  welcome  here. 

“  I  kentna  o’  your  aching  heart, 

Your  weary  lot  to  dree ; 

I’ll  ne’er  forget  your  sad,  sad  words : 

‘  They’re  dear  fish  to  me !’  ” 

Ay,  let  the  happy-hearted  learn 
To  pause  ere  they  deny 
The  meed  of  honest  toil,  and  think 
How  much  their  gold  may  buy, — 

How  much  of  manhood’s  wasted  strength, 
What  woman’s  misery, — 

What  breaking  hearts  might  swell  the  cry : 
“  They’re  dear  fish  to  me  !” 

*  Author  Unknown. 


The  Pearl- Wearer. 

Within  the  midnight  of  her  hair, 

Half  hidden  in  its  deepest  deeps, 

A  single  peerless,  priceless  pearl, 

All  filmy-eyed,  for  ever  sleeps. 

Without  the  diamond’s  sparkling  eyes, 
The  ruby’s  blushes, — there  it  lies  ! 

Modest  as  the  tender  Dawn 
When  her  purple  veil’s  withdrawn, — 

The  flower  of  gems, — a  lily,  cold  and  pale! 
Yet,  what  doth  all  avail? 


All  its  beauty,  all  its  grace, 

All  the  honors  of  its  place  ? 

He  who  pluck’d  it  from  its  bed 
In  the  far  blue  Indian  Ocean, 

Lieth,  without  life  or  motion, 

In  his  earthly  dwelling, — dead  ! 

And  his  children,  one  by  one, 

When  they  look  upon  the  sun, 

Curse  the  toil  by  which  he  drew 
The  treasure  from  its  bed  of  blue. 

Gentle  bride,  no  longer  wear 
In  thy  night-black,  odorous  hair 
Such  a  spoil !  It  is  not  fit 
That  a  tender  soul  should  sit 
Under  such  accursed  gem. 

What  needst  thou  a  diadem? — 

Thou,  within  whose  Eastern  eyes 
Thought,  a  starry  genius,  lies? — 

Thou,  whom  Beauty  has  array’d, — 

Thou,  whom  Love  and  Truth  have  made 
Beautiful  ? — in  whom  we  trace 
Woman’s  softness,  angel’s  grace, — 

All  we  hope  for,  all  that  streams 
Upon  us  in  our  haunted  dreams ! 

O  sweet  Lady  !  cast  aside, 

With  a  gentle,  noble  pride, 

All  to  sin  or  pain  allied. 

Let  the  wild-eyed  conqueror  wear 
The  bloody  laurel  in  his  hair; 

Let  the  black  and  snaky  vine 
Bound  the  drinker’s  temples  twine ; 

Let  the  slave-begotten  gold 
Weigh  on  bosoms  hard  and  cold; 

But  be  thou  for  ever  known 
By  thy  natural  light  alone  ! 

Bryan  Waller  Procter. 
(Barry  Cornwall.) 

- »o« 

Soldier ,  Rest. 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o’er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 

In  our  isle’s  enchanted  hall 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  streams  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o’er, 

Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more  ; 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking. 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


701 


No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 
Armor’s  clang  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark’s  shrill  fife  may  come, 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 

And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 

Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 

Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here, 

Here’s  no  war-steed’s  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping. 

Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumb’rous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 

Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 

Sleep  !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying  ; 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 
How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 

Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 

For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 

Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

- K» 

The  Boatie  Rows. 

Oh,  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

And  better  may  she  speed ! 

And  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

That  wins  the  bairns’s  bread  ! 

The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed ; 

And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a’ 

That  wishes  her  to  speed  ! 

I  cuist  my  line  in  Largo  Bay, 

And  fishes  I  caught  nine  ; 

There’s  three  to  boil,  and  three  to  fry, 
And  three  to  bait  the  line, 

The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed  ; 

And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a’ 

That  wishes  her  to  speed  ! 

Oh,  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

That  fills  a  heavy  creel, 

And  deads  us  a’  frae  head  to  feet, 

And  buys  our  parritch  meal. 


The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed  ; 

And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a’ 

That  wish  the  boatie  speed  ! 

When  Jamie  vowed  he  would  be  mine 
And  wan  frae  me  my  heart, 

Oh,  muckle  lighter  grew  my  creel ! 

He  swore  we’d  never  part ! 

The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  fu’  weel ; 

And  muckle  lighter  is  the  lade 
When  love  bears  up  the  creel. 

My  kurtch  I  put  upon  my  head, 

And  dressed  mysel’  fu’  braw : 

I  trow  my  heart  was  dowf  and  wae 
When  Jamie  gaed  awa: 

But  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

And  lucky  be  her  part ; 

And  lightsome  be  the  lassie’s  care 
That  yields  an  honest  heart ! 

When  Sawnie,  Jock,  and  Janetie 
Are  up,  and  gotten  lear, 

They’ll  help  to  gar  the  boatie  row, 

And  lighten  a’  our  care. 

The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  fu’  weel ; 

And  lightsome  be  her  heart  that  bears 
The  murlain  and  the  creel ! 

And  when  wi’  age  we  are  worn  down, 
And  hirpling  round  the  door, 

They’ll  row  to  keep  us  hale  and  warm, 
As  we  did  them  before  : 

Then,  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

That  wins  the  bairns’s  bread  ; 

And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a’ 

That  wish  the  boat  to  speed ! 

John  Ewen 

- •<>• - 

Ye  Gentlemen  of  England. 

Ye  gentlemen  of  England 
That  live  at  home  at  ease, 

Ah  !  little  do  you  think  upon 
The  dangers  of  the  seas. 

Give  ear  unto  the  mariners, 

And  they  will  plainly  show 


702 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


All  the  cares  and  the  fears 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

If  enemies  oppose  us 
When  England  is  at  war 
With  any  foreign  nation, 

We  fear  not  wound  or  scar ; 

Our  roaring  guns  shall  teach  ’em 
Our  valor  for  to  know, 

Whilst  they  reel  on  the  keel, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Then  courage,  all  brave  mariners, 

And  never  be  dismay’d  ; 

While  we  have  bold  adventurers, 

We  ne’er  shall  want  a  trade : 

Our  merchants  will  employ  us 
To  fetch  them  wealth,  we  know ; 

Then  be  bold — work  for  gold, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Martyn  Parker. 

- k>« - 

The  Laborer. 

Toiling  in  the  naked  fields, 

Where  no  bush  a  shelter  vields, 

Needy  Labor  dithering  stands, 

Beats  and  blows  his  numbing  hands, 

And  upon  the  crumping  snows 
Stamps  in  vain  to  warm  his  toes. 

Though  all’s  in  vain  to  keep  him  warm, 
Poverty  must  brave  the  storm, 

Friendship  none  its  aid  to  lend, — 
Constant  health  his  only  friend, 

Granting  leave  to  live  in  pain, 

Giving  strength  to  toil  in  vain. 

John  Clare. 

- KX - 

Corona  tion. 

At  the  king’s  gate  the  subtle  noon 
Wove  filmy  yellow  nets  of  sun  ; 

Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 
The  guards  fell  one  by  one. 

Through  the  king’s  gate,  unquestioned 
then, 

A  beggar  went,  and  laughed,  “This 
brings 

Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings.” 


The  king  sat  bowed  beneath  his  crown, 
Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand ; 
Watching  the  hour-glass  sifting  down 
Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

“Poor  man,  what  wouldst  thou  have  of 
me?” 

The  beggar  turned,  and,  pitying, 
Replied,  like  one  in  a  dream,  “  Of  thee, 
Nothing.  I  want  the  king.” 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 
Shook  off  the  crown  and  threw  it  by. 

“O  man,  thou  must  have  known,”  he  said, 
“A  greater  king  than  I !” 

Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned  then. 

Went  king  and  beggar  hand  in  hand. 
Whispered  the  king,  “  Shall  I  know  when 
Before  his  throne  I  stand  ?” 

The  beggar  laughed.  Free  winds  in  haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king’s  hot  brow 
The  crimson  lines  the  crown  had  traced. 

“  This  is  his  presence  now.” 

At  the  king’s  gate,  the  crafty  noon 
Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun  ; 

Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 
The  guards  waked  one  by  one. 

“Ho  here!  ho  here!  Has  no  man  seen 
The  king  ?”  The  cry  ran  to  and  fro ; 
Beggar  and  king,  they  laughed,  I  ween, 
The  laugh  that  freemen  know. 

On  the  king’s  gate  the  moss  grew  gray : 
The  king  came  not.  They  called  him 
dead ; 

And  made  his  eldest  son  one  day 
Slave  in  his  father’s  stead. 

Helen  Hunt. 

- 

TOM  DUNST AN;  OR,  THE  POLITICIAN 

Now  poor  Tom  Dunstan’s  cold, 

Our  shop  is  duller; 

Scarce  a  story  is  told, 

And  our  chat  has  lost  the  old 
Red  republican  color ! 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS . 


703 


Though  he  was  sickly  and  thin, 

’Twas  a  sight  to  see  his  face, — 

While,  sick  of  the  country’s  sin, 

With  bang  of  the  fist,  and  chin 
Thrust  out,  he  argued  the  case ! 

He  prophesied  men  should  be  free, 

And  the  money-bags  be  bled  ; — 

“ She’s  coming,  she’s  coming,”  said  he; 

“  Courage,  boys  !  wait  and  see  ! 

Freedom’s  ahead!” 

All  day  we  sat  in  the  heat, 

Like  spiders  spinning, 

Stitching  full  fine  and  fleet, 

While  old  Moses  on  his  seat 
Sat  greasily  grinning ; 

And  here  Tom  said  his  say, 

And  prophesied  Tyranny’s  death ; 
And  the  tallow  burnt  all  day, 

And  we  stitch’d  and  stitch’d  away 
In  the  thick  smoke  of  our  breath. 
Weary,  weary  were  we, 

Our  hearts  as  heavy  as  lead, — 

But  “  Patience  !  she’s  coming !”  said  he ; 
“  Courage,  boys  !  wait  and  see ! 

Freedom’s  ahead!” 

And  at  night,  when  we  took  here 
The  rest  allow’d  to  us, 

The  paper  came  with  the  beer, 

And  Tom  read,  sharp  and  clear, 

The  news  out  loud  to  us, 

And  then,  in  his  witty  way, 

He  threw  the  jests  about, — 

The  cutting  things  he’d  say 
Of  the  wealthy  and  the  gay ! 

•  How  he  turn’d  them  inside  out ! 

And  it  made  our  breath  more  free 

To  hearken  to  what  he  said : 

“She’s  coming,  she’s  coming!”  said  he; 

“  Courage,  boys !  wait  and  see  ! 

Freedom’s  ahead!” 

But  grim  Jack  Hart,  with  a  sneer, 
Would  mutter,  “Master, 

If  Freedom  means  to  appear, 

I  think  she  might  step  here 
A  little  faster !” 

Then  ’twas  fine  to  see  Tom  flame, 

And  argue  and  prove  and  preach, 

Till  Jack  was  silent  for  shame, 

Or  a  fit  of  coughing  came 

•  O’  sudden  to  spoil  Tom’s  speech. 


Ah  !  Tom  had  the  eyes  to  see 

When  Tyranny  should  be  sped  ; — 

“  She’s  coming,  she’s  coming !”  said  he ; 
“  Courage,  boys !  wait  and  see ! 
Freedom’s  ahead !” 

But  Tom  was  little  and  weak ; 

The  hard  hours  shook  him ; 
Hollower  grew  his  cheek, 

And  when  he  began  to  speak 
The  coughing  took  him. 

Erelong  the  cheery  sound 
Of  his  chat  among  us  ceased, 

And  we  made  a  purse  all  round. 

That  he  might  not  starve,  at  least. 
His  pain  was  sorry  to  see, 

Yet  there,  on  his  poor,  sick  bed, 

“  She’s  coming,  in  spite  of  me  ! 

Courage  and  wait !”  cried  he, 

“  Freedom’s  ahead !” 

A  little  before  he  died, 

To  see  his  passion  ! 

“  Bring  me  a  paper !”  he  cried, 

And  then  to  study  it  tried 
In  his  old  sharp  fashion  ; 

And,  with  eyeballs  glittering, 

His  look  on  me  he  bent, 

And  said  that  savage  thing 
Of  the  lords  o’  the  Parliament. 
Then,  dying,  smiling  on  me, 

“  What  matter  if  one  be  dead  ? 
She’s  coming,  at  last !”  said  he  ; 

“  Courage,  boys  !  wait  and  see ! 
Freedom’s  ahead!” 

Ay,  now  Tom  Dunstan’s  cold, 

The  shop  feels  duller  ; 

Scarce  a  tale  is  told, 

And  our  talk  has  lost  the  old 
Bed  republican  color. 

But  we  see  a  figure  gray, 

And  we  hear  a  voice  of  death, 

And  the  tallow  burns  all  day, 

And  we  stitch  and  stitch  away 
In  the  thick  smoke  of  our  breath  ; 
Ay,  while  in  the  dark  sit  we, 

Tom  seems  to  call  from  the  dead — 
“She’s  coming,  she’s  coming !”  says  he: 
“  Courage,  boys  !  wait  and  see ! 
Freedom’s  ahead !” 


704 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long 
Must  Thy  handmaid  linger? 

She  who  shall  right  the  wrong, 

Make  the  poor  sufferer  strong? 

Sweet  morrow,  bring  her  ! 

Hasten  her  over  the  sea, 

O  Lord,  ere  hope  be  fled, — 

Bring  her  to  men  and  to  me ! 

0  slave,  pray  still  on  thy  knee, 

“  Freedom’s  ahead !” 

Robert  Buchanan. 

- *0* - 

The  Dead  Politician. 

Fifth  Ward. 

“  ‘  Who’s  dead?’  Ye  want  to  know 
Whose  is  this  funeral  show — 

This  A  1  corteg’  ? 

Well,  it  was  Jim  Adair, 

And  the  remains ’s  hair 

Sported  a  short  edge  ! 

“  W'hen  a  man  dies  like  Jim, 

There’s  no  expense  of  him 

We  boys  are  sparing. 

In  life  he  hated  fuss, 

But — as  he’s  left  to  us — 

Them  plumes  he’s  wearing. 

“  All  the  boys  here,  you  see, 

Chock  full  each  carriage  ! 

Only  one  woman.  She, 

Cousin  by  marriage. 

“  Who  was  this  Jim  Adair  ? 

Who?  Well,  you’ve  got  me  there! 
Reckon  one  of  them  ’air 

Fogy  ‘old  res’dents.’ 

Who?  Why,  that  corpse  you  see 
Ridin’  so  peacefully, 

Head  o’  this  jamboree — 

’Lected  three  Pres’dents  ! 

“  Who  was  he  ?  Ask  the  boys 
Who  made  the  biggest  noise, 
Rynders  or  Jimmy? 

Who,  when  his  hat  he’d  fling, 

Knew  how  the  ‘  Ayes  ’  would  ring, 
Oh  no  !  not  Jimmy  ! 

“  Who  was  he?  Ask  the  Ward 
Who  hed  the  rules  aboard, 

All  parliament’ry  ? 


Who  ran  the  delegate 
That  ran  the  Empire  State, 

And — just  as  sure  as  fate — 

Ran  the  whole  ’kentry? 

“  Who  was  he?  S’pose  you  try 
That  chap  as  wipes  his  eye 

In  that  hack’s  corner; 

Ask  him,  the  only  man 
That  agin  Jimmy  ran, — 

Now  his  chief  mourner! 

“Well,  that’s  the  last  o’  Jim. 

Yes,  we  was  proud  o’  him.” 

F.  Bret  Harte. 

- *04 - 

A  MAN’S  a  Man  for  a’  That. 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 

That  hangs  his  head,  an’  a’  that? 

The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by ; 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  an’  a’  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  an’  a’  that  ; 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea’s  stamp — 

The  man’s  the  gowd  for  a’  that ! 

What  tho’  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  an’  a’  that ; 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their 
wine — 

A  man’s  a  man  for  a’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  an’  a’  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an’  a’  that ; 

The  honest  man,  though  e’er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o’  men  for  a’  that ! 

You  see  yon  birkie  ca’d  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an’  stares,  an’  a’  that — 

Tho’  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He’s  but  a  coof  for  a’  that ; 

For  a’  that,  an’  a’  that, 

His  riband,  star,  an’  a’  that; 

The  man  o’  independent  mind, 

He  looks  an’  laughs  at  a’  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an’  a’  that ; 

But  an  honest  man’s  aboon  his  might— 
Gude  faith,  lie  mauna  fa’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  an’  a’  that, 

Their  dignities,  an’  a’  that, 

The  pith  o’  sense,  an’  pride  o’  worth, 

Are  higher  rank  than  a’  that. 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


705 


Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a’  that, 

That  sense  an'  worth,  o’er  a’  the  earth, 
Shall  bear  the  gree,  an’  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  an’  a’  that, 

It’s  cornin’  yet,  for  a’  that — 

The  man  to  man,  the  warld  o’er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a’  that. 

Robert  Burns. 


The  Heritage. 

The  rich  man’s  son  inherits  lands, 

And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone,  and  gold ; 
And  he  inherits  soft  white  hands, 

And  tender  flesh,  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man’s  son  inherits  cares  : 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 
A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 

And  soft  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man’s  son  inherits  wants, 

His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare ; 
With  sated  heart  he  hears  the  pants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man’s  son  inherit  ? 

Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 

A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit ; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 
In  every  useful  toil  and  art ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man’s  son  inherit? 

Wishes  o’erjoy’d  with  humble  things, 

A  rank  adjudged  with  toil-won  merit, 
Content  that  from  employment  springs, 
A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man’s  son  inherit? 

A  patience  learn’d  of  being  poor, 

45 


Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 

A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man’s  son  !  there  is  a  toil 
That  with  all  others  level  stands : 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft  white  hands, — 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands ; 

I  A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  poor  man’s  son  !  scorn  not  thy  state ; 

There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine — 
In  merely  being  rich  and  great : 

Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 

And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign, — 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 

Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last : 

Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  record  of  a  well-fill’d  past  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

- *<>« - 

Differences. 

i. 

The  king  can  drink  the  best  of  wine — 

So  can  I  ; 

And  has  enough  when  he  would  dine — 
So  have  I ; 

And  cannot  order  rain  or  shine — 

Nor  can  I. 

Then  where’s  the  difference — let  me  see — 
Betwixt  my  lord  the  king  and  me? 

II. 

Do  trusty  friends  surround  his  throne 
Night  and  day  ? 

Or  make  his  interest  their  own  ? 

.  No,  not  thev. 

Mine  love  me  for  myself  alone — 

Bless’d  be  they ! 

And  that’s  the  difference  which  I  see 
Betwixt  my  lord  the  king  and  me. 


70*3 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


hi. 

Do  knaves  around  me  lie  in  wait 
To  deceive? 

Or  fawn  and  flatter  when  they  hate, 

And  would  grieve? 

Or  cruel  pomps  oppress  my  state 
By  my  leave? 

No,  Heaven  be  thank’d !  And  here  you 

see 

More  difference  ’twixt  the  king  and  me. 

IV. 

He  has  his  fools,  with  jests  and  quips, 
When  he’d  play ; 

He  has  his  armies  and  his  ships — 

Great  are  they; 

But  not  a  child  to  kiss  his  lips  ; 

Well-a-day ! 

And  that’s  a  difference  sad  to  see 

Betwixt  my  lord  the  king  and  me. 

Y. 

I  wear  the  cap  and  he  the  crown — 

What  of  that? 

I  sleep  on  straw  and  he  on  down — 

What  of  that? 

And  he’s  the  king  and  I’m  the  clown — 
What  of  that? 

If  happy  I,  and  wretched  he, 

Perhaps  the  king  would  change  with  me. 

Charles  Mackay. 

- »o» - 


My  coat  is  a  coarse  ane,  an’  yours  may  be 
fine, 

And  I  maun  drink  water,  while  you  may 
drink  wine  ; 

But  we  baith  ha’e  a  leal  heart,  unspotted 
to  shaw : 

Sae  gi’e  me  your  hand, — we  are  brethren  a’. 

The  knave  ye  would  scorn,  the  unfaithfu’ 
deride  ; 

Ye  would  stand  like  a  rock,  wi’  the  truth 
on  your  side  ; 

Sae  would  I,  an’  naught  else  wrould  I  value 
a  straw : 

Then  gi’e  me  your  hand, — we  are  breth¬ 
ren  a’. 

Ye  would  scorn  to  do  fausely  by  woman  or 
man  ; 

I  baud  by  the  right  aye,  as  weel  as  I  can  ; 

We  are  ane  in  our  joys,  our  affections, 
an’  a’ : 

Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand, — we  are  breth¬ 
ren  a’. 

Your  mither  has  lo’ed  you  as  mithers  can 
lo’e ; 

An’  mine  has  done  for  me  wdiat  mithers 
can  do  ; 

We  are  ane  high  an’  laigh,  an’  we  shouldna 
be  twa : 

Sae  gi’e  me  your  hand, — we  are  breth¬ 
ren  a’. 


We  are  Brethren  a\ 

A  happy  bit  hame  this  auld  world  would 
be 

If  men,  when  they’re  here,  could  make 
shift  to  agree, 

An’  ilk  said  to  his  neighbor,  in  cottage  an’ 
ha’, 

“  Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand, — we  are  breth¬ 
ren  a’.” 

I  ken  na  why  ane  wi’  anither  should 
fight, 

When  to  ’gree  would  make  a’  body  cosie 
an’  right, 

When  man  meets  wi’  man,  ’tis  the  best 
way  ava, 

To  say,  “  Gi’e  me  your  hand, — we  are 
brethren  a’.” 


We  love  the  same  simmer  day,  sunny  and 
fair ; 

Hame !  oh,  how  we  love  it,  an’  a’  that  are 
there ! 

Frae  the  puir  air  o’  heaven  the  same  life 
we  draw  : 

Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand, — we  are  breth¬ 
ren  a’. 

Frail  shakin’  auld  age  will  soon  come  o’er 
us  baith, 

An’  creepin’  alang  at  his  back  will  be 
death  ; 

Syne  into  the  same  mither-yird  we  will 
fa’ : 

Come,  gi’e  me  your  hand, — we  are  breth¬ 
ren  a’. 

Robert  Nicoll. 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


707 


Without  and  Within. 

My  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there, 
Looks  through  the  side-light  of  the  door ; 
I  hear  him  with  his  brethren  swear, 

As  I  could  do, — but  only  more. 

Flattening  his  nose  against  the  pane, 

He  envies  me  my  brilliant  lot, 

Breathes  on  his  aching  fists  in  vain, 

And  dooms  me  to  a  place  more  hot. 

He  sees  me  in  to  supper  go, 

A  silken  wonder  by  my  side, 

Bare  arms,  bare  shoulders,  and  a  row 
Of  flounces,  for  the  door  too  wide. 

He  thinks  how  happy  is  my  arm 

’Neath  its  white-gloved  and  je well’d 
load  ; 

And  wishes  me  some  dreadful  harm, 
Hearing  the  merry  corks  explode. 

Meanwhile  I  inly  curse  the  bore 
Of  hunting  still  the  same  old  coon, 

And  envy  him,  outside  the  door, 

In  golden  quiets  of  the  moon. 

The  winter  wind  is  not  so  cold 

As  the  bright  smile  he  sees  me  win, 

Nor  the  host’s  oldest  wine  so  old 
As  our  poor  gabble  sour  and  thin. 

I  envy  him  the  ungyved  prance 

By  which  his  freezing  feet  he  warms, 
And  drag  my  ladv’s  chains  and  dance 
The  galley-slave  of  dreary  forms. 

Oh,  could  he  have  my  share  of  din, 

And  I  his  quiet ! — past  a  doubt 
’Twould  still  be  one  man  bored  within, 
And  just  another  bored  without. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

Each  and  All. 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloak’d 
clown 

Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far  heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm  ; 
The  sexton  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 


Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 
Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine 
height ; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor’s  creed  has  lent. 
All  are  needed  by  each  one ; 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow’s  note  from  heaven. 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 

I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even  ; 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now, 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and 
sky ; — 

He  sang  to  my  ear, — they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 
Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave  ; 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home  ; 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beautv  on  the  shore. 

With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild 
uproar. 

The  lover  watch’d  his  graceful  maid, 

As  ’mid  the  virgin  train  she  stray’d, 

Nor  knew  her  beauty’s  best  attire 
Was  woven  still  bv  the  snow-white  choir. 
At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the 
cage ; — 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 

A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  “  I  covet  truth  ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood’s  cheat: 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of 
youth.” 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 
The  ground-pine  curl’d  its  pretty  wreath, 
Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 

I  inhaled  the  violet’s  breath  ; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs ; 
Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground : 
Over  me  soar’d  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird  ; — 
Beauty  through  my  senses  stole  ; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 

Ralph  IValdo  Emerson. 


O* — ' — 


708 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Nothing  to  Wear. 

An  Episode  of  City  Life. 

Miss  Flora  MTlimsey,  of  Madison 
Square, 

Has  made  three  separate  journeys  to 
Paris, 

And  her  father  assures  me,  each  time  she 
was  there, 

That  she  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Harris 

(Not  the  ladv  whose  name  is  so  famous  in 
history, 

But  plain  Mrs.  H.,  without  romance  or 
mystery) 

Spent  six  consecutiye  weeks  without  stop¬ 
ping, 

In  one  continuous  round  of  shopping; 

Shopping  alone,  and  shopping  together, 

At  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  in  all  sorts  of 
weather ; 

For  all  manner  of  things  that  a  woman 
can  put 

On  the  crown  of  her  head  or  the  sole  of 
her  foot, 

Or  wrap  round  her  shoulders,  or  fit  round 
her  waist, 

Or  that  can  be  sew’d  on,  or  pinn’d  on,  or 
laced, 

Or  tied  on  with  a  string,  or  stitch’d  on 
with  a  bow, 

In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below  : 

For  bonnets,  mantillas,  capes,  collars,  and 
shawls  ; 

l>resses  for  breakfasts,  and  dinners,  and 
balls ; 

Dresses  to  sit  in,  and  stand  in,  and  walk  in ; 

Dresses  to  dance  in,  and  flirt  in,  and  talk 
in  ; 

Dresses  in  which  to  do  nothing  at  all ; 

Dresses  for  winter,  spring,  summer,  and 
fall; 

All  of  them  different  in  color  and  pattern, 

Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  crape,  velvet,  and 
satin, 

Brocade,  and  broadcloth,  and  other  ma¬ 
terial, 

Quite  as  expensive  and  much  more  ethe¬ 
real  ; 

In  short,  for  all  things  that  could  ever  be 
thought  of, 

Oi  milliner,  modiste „  or  tradesman  be 
bought  of, 


From  ten  -  thousand  -  francs  robes  to 
twenty-sous  frills  ; 

In  all  quarters  of  Paris,  and  to  every 
store, 

While  M‘Flimsey  in  vain  storm’d,  scolded, 
and  swore, 

They  footed  the  streets,  and  he  footed 
the  bills. 

The  last  trip,  their  goods  shipp’d  by  the 
steamer  Arago 

Form’d,  M‘Flimsey  declares,  the  bulk  of 
her  cargo, 

Not  to  mention  a  quantity  kept  from  the 
rest, 

Sufficient  to  fill  the  largest-sized  chest, 

Which  did  not  appear  on  the  ship’s  mani¬ 
fest, 

But  for  which  the  ladies  themselves  mani¬ 
fested 

Such  particular  interest  that  they  in¬ 
vested 

Their  own  proper  persons  in  layers  and 
rows 

Of  muslins,  embroideries,  work’d  under¬ 
clothes, 

Gloves,  handkerchiefs,  scarfs,  and  such 
trifles  as  those  ; 

Then,  wrapp’d  in  great  shawds,  like  Cir¬ 
cassian  beauties, 

Gave  good-bye  to  the  ship,  and  go-by  to  the 
duties. 

Her  relations  at  home  all  mar  veil’d,  no 
doubt, 

Miss  Flora  had  grown  so  enormously  stout 

For  an  actual  belle  and  a  possible  bride; 

But  the  miracle  ceased  when  she  turn’d 
inside  out, 

And  the  truth  came  to  light,  and  the 
dry-goods  beside, 

Which,  in  spite  of  collector  and  custom¬ 
house  sentry, 

Had  entered  the  port  without  any  entry. 

And  yet,  though  scarce  three  months  have 
pass’d  since  the  day 

This  merchandise  went,  on  twelve  carts, 
up  Broadway, 

This  same  Miss  M‘Flimsey,  of  Madison 
Square, 

The  last  time  we  met,  was  in  utter  despair, 

Because  she  had  nothing  whatever  to 
wear ! 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


709 


Nothing  to  wear  !  Now,  as  this  is  a 
true  ditty, 

I  do  not  assert — this,  you  know,  is  be¬ 
tween  us — 

That  she’s  in  a  state  of  absolute  nudity, ' 

Like  Powers’  Greek  Slave  or  the  Medici 
Venus  ; 

But  I  do  mean  to  say,  I  have  heard  her 
declare, 

When,  at  the  same  moment,  she  had  on 
a  dress 

Which  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and 
not  a  cent  less, 

And  jewelry  worth  ten  times  more,  I 
should  guess, 

That  she  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide  world 
to  wear ! 

I  should  mention  just  here,  that  out  of 
Miss  Flora’s 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty  adorers, 

I  had  just  been  selected  as  he  who  should 
throw  all 

The  rest  in  the  shade,  by  the  gracious 
bestowal 

On  myself,  after  twenty  or  thirty  rejec¬ 
tions, 

Of  those  fossil  remains  which  she  call’d 
her  “  affections,” 

And  that  rather  decay’d,  but  well-known 
work  of  art, 

Which  Miss  Flora  persisted  in  styling 
“  her  heart.” 

So  we  were  engaged.  Our  troth  had  been 
plighted, 

Not  by  moonbeam  or  starbeam,  by  foun¬ 
tain  or  grove, 

But  in  a  front  parlor,  most  brilliantly 
lighted, 

Beneath  the  gas-fixtures  we  whisper’d 
our  love. 

Without  any  romance,  or  raptures,  or  sighs, 

Without  any  tears  in  Miss  Flora’s  blue 
eyes, 

Or  blushes,  or  transports,  or  such  silly 
actions, 

It  was  one  of  the  quietest  business  trans¬ 
actions, 

With  a  very  small  sprinkling  of  sentiment, 
if  any, 

And  a  very  large  diamond  imported  by 
Tiffany. 


On  her  virginal  lips  while  I  printed  a  kiss, 
She  exclaim’d,  as  a  sort  of  parenthesis, 
And  by  way  of  putting  me  quite  at  my 
ease, 

“You  know,  I’m  to  polka  as  much  as  I 
please, 

And  flirt  when  I  like — now  stop,  don't 
you  speak — 

And  you  must  not  come  here  more  than 
twice  in  the  week, 

Or  talk  to  me  either  at  party  or  ball, 

But  always  be  ready  to  come  when  I  call ; 
So  don’t  prose  to  me  about  duty  and  stuff, 
If  we  don’t  break  this  off,  there  will  be 
time  enough 

For  that  sort  of  thing;  but  the  bargain 
must  be 

That,  as  long  as  I  choose,  I  am  perfectly 
free, 

For  this  is  a  sort  of  engagement,  you  see, 
Which  is  binding  on  you,  but  not  binding 
on  me.” 

Well,  having  thus  woo’d  Miss  M‘Flimsey, 
and  gain’d  her, 

With  the  silks,  crinolines,  and  hoops  that 
contain’d  her, 

I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  re¬ 
mainder 

At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best  right 
To  appear  as  its  escort  by  day  and  by 
ni°;ht ; 

O  > 

And  it  being  the  week  of  the  Stuckups’ 
grand  ball — 

Their  cards  had  been  out  a  fortnight  or 
so, 

And  set  all  the  Avenue  on  the  tip-toe — 
I  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  call, 

And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 

I  found  her — as  ladies  are  apt  to  be  found, 
When  the  time  intervening  between  the 
first  sound 

Of  the  bell  and  the  visitor’s  entry  is  shorter 
Than  usual — I  found — I  won’t  say,  I  caught 
— her 

Intent  on  the  pier-glass,  undoubtedly 
meaning 

To  see  if  perhaps  it  didn’t  need  cleaning. 
She  turn’d  as  I  enter’d-  “  Why,  Harry, 
you  sinner, 

I  thought  that  you  went  to  the  Flashers’ 
to  dinner!” 


710 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  So  I  did/’  I  replied,  “  but  the  dinner  is 
swallow’d, 

And  digested,  I  trust,  for  ’tis  now  nine 
and  more, 

So  being  relieved  from  that  duty,  I  fol¬ 
low’d 

Inclination,  which  led  me,  you  see,  to 
your  door. 

And  now  will  your  ladyship  so  condescend 

As  just  to  inform  me  if  you  intend 

Your  beauty,  and  graces,  and  presence  to 
lend, 

(All  which,  when  I  own,  I  hope  no  one 
will  borrow) 

To  the  Stuckups’,  whose  party,  you  know, 
is  to-morrow  ?” 

The  fair  Flora  look’d  up  with  a  pitiful  air, 

And  answer’d  quite  promptly,  “  Why 
Harry,  mon  cher, 

I  should  like  above  all  things  to  go  with 
you  there  ; 

But  really  and  truly — I’ve  nothing  to 
wear.” 

“  Nothing  to  wear !  Go  just  as  you  are  ; 

Wear  the  dress  you  have  on,  and  you’ll  be 
by  far, 

I  engage,  the  most  bright  and  particular 
star 

On  the  Stuckup  horizon  ” — I  stopp’d, 
for  her  eve, 

Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset  of 
flattery, 

Open’d  on  me  at  once  a  most  terrible 
battery 

Of  scorn  and  amazement.  She  made  no 
reply, 

But  gave  a  slight  turn  to  the  end  of  her 
nose 

(That  pure  Grecian  feature),  as  much  as 
to  say, 

“  How  absurd  that  any  sane  man  should 
suppose 

That  a  lady  "would  go  to  a  ball  in  the 
clothes, 

No  matter  how  fine,  that  she  wears 
every  day !” 

So  I  ventured  ac;ain — “  Wear  vour  crimson 
brocade  ” 

(Second  turn  up  of  nose) — “  That’s  too 
dark  by  a  shade.” 


“Your  blue  silk” — “That’s  too  heavy.” 
“  Your  pink  ” — “  That’s  too  light.” 

“  Wear  tulle  over  satin  ” — “  I  can’t  endure 
white.” 

“Your  rose-color’d,  then,  the  best  of  the 
batch  ” — 

“  I  haven’t  a  thread  of  point  lace  tc 
match.” 

“  Your  brown  moire  antique ” — “Yes,  and 
look  like  a  Quaker.” 

“  The  pearl-color’d  ” — “  I  would,  but  that 
plaguey  dressmaker 

Has  had  it  a  week.” — “Then  that  exquisite 
lilac, 

In  which  you  would  melt  the  heart  of  a 
Shylock.” 

(Here  the  nose  took  again  the  same  eleva¬ 
tion) 

“  I  wouldn’t  wear  that  for  the  whole  of 
creation.” 

“Why  not?  It’s  my  fancy,  there’s 
nothing  could  strike  it 

As  more  comme  il faut — ”  “Yes,  but,  dear 
me,  that  lean 

Sophronia  Stuckup  has  got  one  just  like 
it, 

And  I  won’t  appear  dress’d  like  a  chit  of 
sixteen.” 

“  Then  that  splendid  purple,  that  sweet 
mazarine ; 

That  superb  point  d'aguille ,  that  imperial 
green, 

That  zephyr-like  tarletan,  that  rich  gren¬ 
adine  ” — 

“  Not  one  of  all  which  is  fit  to  be  seen,” 

Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and  flush’d. 

“  Then  wear,”  I  exclaim’d,  in  a  tone  which 
quite  crush’d 

Opposition,  “  that  gorgeous  toilette  which 
you  sported 

In  Paris  last  spring,  at  the  grand  pre¬ 
sentation, 

When  you  quite  turn’d  the  head  of  the 
head  of  the  nation  ; 

And  by  all  the  grand  court  were  so  very 
much  courted.” 

The'  end  of  the  nose  was  portentously 
tipp’d  up, 

And  both  the  bright  eyes  shot  forth  in¬ 
dignation, 

As  she  burst  upon  me  with  the  fierce 
exclamation, 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


711 


“  I  have  worn  it  three  times  at  the  least 
calculation, 

A.nd  that  and  the  most  of  my  dresses  are 
ripp’d  up  !” 

Here  I  ripp'd  out  something,  perhaps 
rather  rash, 

Quite  innocent,  though ;  but,  to  use  an 
expression 

More  striking  than  classic,  it  “  settled  my 
hash,” 

And  proved  very  soon  the  last  act  of 
our  session. 

“  Fiddlesticks,  is  it,  sir  ?  I  wonder  the 
ceiling 

Doesn’t  fall  down  and  crush  you — oh,  you 
men  have  no  feeling, 

You  selfish,  unnatural,  illiberal  creatures, 

Who  set  yourselves  up  as  patterns  and 
preachers. 

Your  silly  pretence — why,  what  a  mere 
guess  it  is ! 

Pray,  what  do  you  know  of  a  woman’s 
necessities? 

I  have  told  vou  and  shown  you  I’ve  noth- 
ing  to  wear, 

And  it’s  perfectly  plain  you  not  only  don’t 
care, 

But  you  do  not  believe  me”  (here  the  nose 
went  still  higher) : 

“  I  suppose  if  you  dared  you  would  call 
me  a  liar. 

Our  engagement  is  ended,  sir — yes,  on  the 
spot ; 

You’re  a  brute,  and  a  monster,  and — I 
don’t  know  what.” 

I  mildly  suggested  the  words — Hottentot, 

Pickpocket,  and  cannibal,  Tartar,  and 
thief, 

As  gentle  expletives  which  might  give 
relief ; 

But  this  only  proved  as  spark  to  the 
powder, 

And  the  storm  I  had  raised  came  faster 
and  louder, 

It  blew,  and  it  rain’d,  thunder’d,  light¬ 
en’d,  and  hail’d 

Interjections,  verbs,  pronouns,  till  lan¬ 
guage  quite  fail’d 

To  express  the  abusive,  and  then  its  ar¬ 
rears 

Were  brought  up  all  at  once  by  a  torrent 
of  tears, 


And  my  last  faint,  despairing  attempt  at 
an  obs- 

Ervation  was  lost  in  a  tempest  of  sobs. 

Well,  I  felt  for  the  lady,  and  felt  for  my 
hat,  too, 

Improvised  on  the  crown  of  the  latter  a 
tattoo, 

In  lieu  of  expressing  the  feelings  which  lay 

Quite  too  deep  for  words,  as  Wordsworth 
would  say ; 

Then,  without  going  through  the  form  of 
a  bow, 

Found  myself  in  the  entry — I  hardly  knew 
how — 

On  doorstep  and  sidewalk,  past  lamp-post 
and  square, 

At  home  and  up  stairs,  in  my  own  easy- 
chair ; 

Poked  my  feet  into  slippers,  my  fire  into 
blaze, 

And  said  to  myself,  as  I  lit  my  cigar, 

Supposing  a  man  had  the  wealth  of  the 
czar 

Of  the  Russias  to  boot,  for  the  rest  of 
his  days, 

On  the  whole,  do  vou  think  he  would  have 
much  to*  spare 

If  he  married  a  woman  with  nothing  to 
wear  ? 

Since  that  night,  taking  pains  that  it  should 
not  be  bruited 

Abroad  in  society,  I’ve  instituted 

A  course  of  inquiry,  extensive  and 
thorough, 

On  this  vital  subject,  and  find,  to  my 
horror, 

That  the  fair  Flora’s  case  is  by  no  means 
surprising, 

But  that  there  exists  the  greatest  dis¬ 
tress 

In  our  female  community,  solely  arising 

From  this  unsupplied  destitution  of 
dress, 

Whose  unfortunate  victims  are  filling  the 
air 

With  the  pitiful  wail  of  “  Nothing  to 
wear.” 

Researches  in  some  of  the  “Upper  Ten” 
districts 

Reveal  the  most  painful  and  startling 
statistics. 


712 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Of  which  let  me  mention  only  a  few : 

In  one  single  house,  on  the  Fifth  Avenue, 

Three  young  ladies  were  found,  all  below 
twenty-two, 

Who  have  been  three  whole  weeks  without 
anything  new 

In  the  way  of  flounced  silks,  and  thus  left 
in  the  lurch 

Are  unable  to  go  to  ball,  concert,  or 
church. 

In  another  large  mansion  near  the  same 
place 

Was  found  a  deplorable,  heart-rending 
case 

Of  entire  destitution  of  Brussels  point 
lace. 

In  a  neighboring  block  there  was  found,  in 
three  calls, 

Total  want,  long  continued,  of  cameTs-hair 
shawls ; 

And  a  suffering  family,  whose  case  ex¬ 
hibits 

The  most  pressing  need  of  real  ermine 
tippets; 

One  deserving  young  lady  almost  unable 

To  survive  for  the  want  of  a  new  Russian 
sable ; 

Another  confined  to  the  house,  when  it’s 
windier 

Than  usual,  because  her  shawl  isn’t  India. 

Still  another,  whose  tortures  have  been 
most  terrific 

Ever  since  the  sad  loss  of  the  steamer 
Pacific, 

In  which  were  engulf’d,  not  friend  or  re¬ 
lation 

(For  whose  fate  she  perhaps  might  have 
found  consolation, 

Or  borne  it,  at  least,  with  serene  resigna¬ 
tion), 

But  the  choicest  assortment  of  French 
sleeves  and  collars 

.Ever  sent  out  from  Paris,  worth  thousands 
of  dollars, 

And  all  as  to  style  most  recherche  and 
rare, 

The  want  of  which  leaves  her  with  nothing 
to  wear, 

And  renders  her  life  so  drear  and  dyspep¬ 
tic 

That  she’s  quite  a  recluse,  and  almost  a 
skeptic, 


For  she  touchingly  says  that  this  sort  of 
grief 

Cannot  find  in  Religion  the  slightest  re¬ 
lief, 

And  Philosophy  has  not  a  maxim  to  spare 

For  the  victims  of  such  overwhelming  de¬ 
spair. 

But  the  saddest  by  far  of  all  these  sad 
features 

Is  the  cruelty  practised  upon  the  poor 
creatures 

Bv  husbands  and  fathers,  real  Bluebeards 
I  "  ' 

and  Timons, 

Who  resist  the  most  touching  appeals 
made  for  diamonds 

By  their  wives  and  their  daughters,  and 
leave  them  for  days 

Unsupplied  with  new  jewelry,  fans,  or 
bouquets, 

Even  laugh  at  their  miseries  whenever 
they  have  a  chance, 

And  deride  their  demands  as  useless  ex¬ 
travagance  ; 

O  7 

One  case  of  a  bride  was  brought  to  my 
view, 

Too  sad  for  belief,  but,  alas !  ’twas  too 
true, 

Whose  husband  refused,  as  savage  as 
Charon, 

To  permit  her  to  take  more  than  ten 
trunks  to  Sharon. 

The  consequence  was,  that  when  she  got 
there, 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  she  had  nothing 
to  wear ; 

And  when  she  proposed  to  finish  the 
season 

At  Newport,  the  monster  refused  out 
and  out, 

For  his  infamous  conduct  alleging  no 
reason, 

Except  that  the  waters  were  good  for 
his  gout; 

Such  treatment  as  this  was  too  shocking, 
of  course, 

And  proceedings  are  now  going  on  for 
divorce. 

But  why  harrow  the  feelings  by  lifting  the 
curtain 

From  these  scenes  of  woe?  Enough,  it  is 
certain, 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


713 


Has  been  here  disclosed  to  stir  up  the 
pity 

Of  every  benevolent  heart  in  the  city, 

And  spur  up  Humanity  into  a  canter 

To  rush  and  relieve  these  sad  cases  in- 
stanter. 

Won’t  somebody,  moved  by  this  touching 
description, 

Come  forward  to-morrow  and  head  a  sub¬ 
scription  ? 

Won’t  some  kind  philanthropist,  seeing 
that  aid  is 

So  needed  at  once  by  these  indigent  ladies, 

Take  charge  of  the  matter?  or  won’t  Peter 
Cooper 

The  corner-stone  lay  of  some  splendid 
super¬ 
structure,  like  that  which  to-day  links  his 
name 

In  the  Union  unending  of  honor  and  fame; 

And  found  a  new  charity  just  for  the  care 

Of  these  unhappy  women  with  nothing  to 
wear, 

Which,  in  view  of  the  cash  which  would 
daily  be  claim’d, 

The  Laying-out  Hospital  well  might  be 
named? 

Won’t  Stewart,  or  some  of  our  dry -goods 
importers, 

Take  a  contract  for  clothing  our  wives  and 
our  daughters? 

Or,  to  furnish  the  cash  to  supply  these  dis¬ 
tresses, 

And  life’s  pathway  strew  with  shawls,  col¬ 
lars,  and  dresses, 

Ere  the  want  of  them  makes  it  much 
rougher  and  thornier. 

Won’t  some  one  discover  a  new  Cali¬ 
fornia? 

O  ladies,  dear  ladies,  the  next  sunny 
day 

Please  trundle  your  hoops  just  out  of 
Broadway, 

From  its  whirl  and  its  bustle,  its  fashion 
and  pride, 

And  the  temples  of  Trade  which  tower  on 
each  side, 

To  the  alleys  and  lanes,  where  Misfortune 
and  Guilt 

Their  children  have  gather’d,  their  city 
have  built ; 


Where  Hunger  and  Vice,  like  twin  beasts 
of  prey, 

Have  hunted  their  victims  to  gloom  and 
despair  ; 

Eaise  the  rich,  dainty  dress,  and  the  fine 
broider’d  skirt, 

Pick  your  delicate  way  through  the  damp¬ 
ness  and  dirt, 

Grope  through  the  dark  dens,  climb  the 
rickety  stair 

To  the  garret,  where  wretches,  the  young 
and  the  old, 

Half  starved  and  half  naked,  lie  crouch’d 
from  the  cold. 

See  those  skeleton  limbs,  those  frost-bitten 
feet, 

All  bleeding  and  bruised  by  the  stones  of 
the  street ; 

Hear  the  sharp  cry  of  childhood,  the 
deep  groans  that  swell 

From  the  poor  dying  creature  who 
writhes  on  the  floor, 

Hear  the  curses  that  sound  like  the  echoes 
of  Hell, 

As  you  sicken  and  shudder  and  fly  from 
the  door ; 

Then  home  to  your  wardrobes,  and  say,  if 
you  dare — 

Spoil’d  children  of  Fashion — you’ve  no¬ 
thing  to  wear ! 

And  oh,  if  perchance  there  should  be  a 
sphere, 

Where  all  is  made  right  which  so  puzzles 
us  here, 

Where  the  glare,  and  the  glitter,  and  tin¬ 
sel  of  Time 

Fade  and  die  in  the  light  of  that  region 
sublime, 

Where  the  soul,  disenchanted  of  flesh  and 
of  sense, 

Unscreen’d  by  its  trappings,  and  shows, 
and  pretence, 

Must  be  clothed  for  the  life  and  the  service 
above, 

With  purity,  truth,  faith,  meekness,  and 
love ; 

O  daughters  of  Earth !  foolish  virgins, 
beware  ! 

Lest  in  that  upper  realm  you  have  nothing 
to  wear ! 


William  Allen  Butler 


714 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Complaints  of  the  Poor. 

“  And  wherefore  do  the  poor  complain  V* 
The  rich  man  ask’d  of  me  : 

“  Come,  walk  abroad  with  me,”  I  said, 

“  And  I  will  answer  thee.” 

?Twas  evening,  and  the  frozen  streets 
Were  cheerless  to  behold  ; 

And  we  were  wrapp’d  and  coated  well, 
And  yet  we  were  a-cold. 

We  met  an  old,  bareheaded  man, 

His  locks  were  thin  and  white  ; 

I  ask’d  him  what  he  did  abroad 
In  that  cold  winter’s  night. 

The  cold  was  keen,  indeed,  he  said — 

But  at  home  no  fire  had  he ; 

And  therefore  he  had  come  abroad 
To  ask  for  charity. 

We  met  a  young  barefooted  child, 

And  she  begg’d  loud  and  bold; 

I  asked  her  what  she  did  abroad 
When  the  wind  it  blew  so  cold. 

She  said  her  father  was  at  home, 

And  he  lay  sick  abed ; 

And  therefore  was  it  she  was  sent 
Abroad  to  beg  for  bread. 

We  saw  a  woman  sitting  down 
Upon  a  stone  to  rest; 

She  had  a  baby  at  her  back, 

And  another  at  her  breast. 

I  ask’d  her  why  she  loiter’d  there, 

When  the  niglit-wind  was  so  chill; 

She  turn’d  her  head,  and  bade  the  child 
That  scream’d  behind,  be  still — 

Then  told  us  that  her  husband  served, 

A  soldier,  far  away ; 

And  therefore  to  her  parish  she 
Was  begging  back  her  way. 

We  met  a  girl,  her  dress  was  loose 
And  sunken  was  her  eye, 

Who  with  a  wanton’s  hollow  voice 
Address’d  the  passers-by ; 

I  ask’d  her  what  there  was  in  guilt 
That  could  her  heart  allure 

To  shame,  disease,  and  late  remorse ; 

She  answer’d  she  was  poor. 


I  turn’d  me  to  the  rich  man  then, 

For  silently  stood  he  ; 

“  You  ask’d  me  why  the  poor  complain ; 
And  these  have  answer’d  thee !” 

Robkrt  Southey. 

-  ■  ■•<>• 

The  Ladys  Dream. 

The  lady  lay  in  her  bed, 

Her  couch  so  warm  and  soft, 

But  her  sleep  was  restless  and  broken 
still ; 

For,  turning  often  and  oft 
From  side  to  side,  she  mutter’d  and 
moan’d, 

And  toss’d  her  arms  aloft. 

At  last  she  started  up, 

And  gazed  on  the  vacant  air 
With  a  look  of  awe,  as  if  she  saw 
Some  dreadful  phantom  there — 

And  then  in  the  pillow  she  buried  her  face 
From  visions  ill  to  bear. 

The  very  curtain  shook, 

Her  terror  was  so  extreme, 

And  the  light  that  fell  on  the  broider’d 
quilt 

Kept  a  tremulous  gleam  ; 

And  her  voice  was  hollow,  and  shook  as 
she  cried, 

“  Oh  me !  that  awful  dream  ! 

“  That  weary,  weary  walk 

In  the  churchyard’s  dismal  ground  ! 

And  those  horrible  things,  with  shady 
wings, 

That  came  and  flitted  round, — 

Death,  death,  and  nothing  but  death, 

In  every  sight  and  sound ! 

“And  oh  !  those  maidens  young 
Who  wrought  in  that  dreary  room, 

With  figures  drooping  and  spectres  thin, 
And  cheeks  without  a  bloom ; — 

And  the  voice  that  cried,  ‘For  the  pomp 
of  pride 

We  haste  to  an  early  tomb  ! 

“  ‘  For  the  pomp  and  pleasures  of  pride 
We  toil  like  the  African  slaves, 

And  only  to  earn  a  home  at  last 
Where  yonder  cypress  waves ;’ — 

And  then  it  pointed — I  never  saw 
A  ground  so  full  of  graves ! 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


715 


“And  still  the  coffins  came, 

With  their  sorrowful  trains  and  slow; 
Coffin  after  coffin  still, 

A  sad  and  sickening  show; 

From  grief  exempt,  I  never  had  dreamt 
Of  such  a  world  of  Woe ! 

u  Of  the  hearts  that  daily  break, 

Of  the  tears  that  hourly  fall, 

Of  the  many,  many  troubles  of  life, 

That  grieve  this  earthly  ball — 

Disease  and  Hunger,  Pain  and  Want, 

But  now  I  dream  of  them  all ! 

“  For  the  blind  and  the  cripple  were  there, 
And  the  babe  that  pined  for  bread, 

And  the  houseless  man,  and  the  widow  poor, 
Who  begg’d — to  bury  the  dead ! 

The  naked,  alas !  that  I  might  have  clad, 
The  famish’d  I  might  have  fed ! 

“  The  sorrow  I  might  have  soothed,  ‘ 

And  the  unregarded  tears  ; 

For  many  a  thronging  shape  was  there, 
From  long-forgotten  years, 

Ay,  even  the  poor  rejected  Moor, 

Who  raised  my  childish  fears  ! 

“  Each  pleading  look,  that  long  ago 
I  scann’d  with  a  heedless  eye ; 

Each  face  was  gazing  as  plainly  there, 

As  when  I  pass’d  it  by; 

Woe,  woe  for  me  if  the  past  should  be 
Thus  present  when  I  die ! 

“No  need  of  sulphurous  lake, 

No  need  of  fiery  coal, 

But  only  that  crowd  of  humankind 
Who  wanted  pity  and  dole — 

In  everlasting  retrospect — 

Will  wring  my  sinful  soul ! 

“  Alas !  I  have  walk’d  through  life 
Too  heedless  where  I  trod ; 

Nay,  helping  to  trample  my  fellow-worm, 
And  fill  the  burial  sod — 

Forgetting  that  even  the  sparrow  falls 
Not  unmark’d  of  God  ! 

“  I  drank  the  richest  draughts, 

And  ate  whatever  is  good — 

Fish,  and  flesh,  and  fowl,  and  fruit, 
Supplied  my  hungry  mood; 

But  I  never  remember’d  the  wretched  ones 
That  starve  for  want  of  food ! 


“  I  dress’d  as  the  noble  dress, 

In  cloth  of  silver  and  gold, 

With  silk,  and  satin,  and  costly  furs, 

In  many  an  ample  fold  ; 

But  I  never  remember’d  the  naked  limbs, 
That  froze  with  winter’s  cold. 

“  The  wounds  I  might  have  heal’d ! 

The  human  sorrow  and  smart! 

And  yet  it  never  was  in  my  soul 
To  play  so  ill  a  part : 

But  evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  Thought, 
As  well  as  want  of  Heart!” 

She  clasp’d  her  fervent  hands, 

And  the  tears  began  to  stream  ; 

Large,  and  bitter,  and  fast  they  fell, 
Remorse  was  so  extreme; 

And  yet,  oh  yet,  that  many  a  Dame 
Would  dream  the  Lady’s  Dream  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


Gaffer  Gray. 

Ho  !  why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake, 
Gaffer  Gray  ? 

And  why  does  thy  nose  look  so  blue  ? 

“  ’Tis  the  weather  that’s  cold, 

’Tis  I’m  grown  very  old, 

And  my  doublet  is  not  very  new, 
Well-a-day !” 

Then  line  thy  worn  doublet  with  ale, 
Gaffer  Gray ; 

And  warm  thy  old  heart  with  a  glass. 
“Nay,  but  credit  I’ve  none, 

And  my  money’s  all  gone  ; 

Then  say  how  may  that  come  to  pass  ? 
Well-a-day !” 

Hie  away  to  the  house  on  the  brow, 

Gaffer  Gray, 

And  knock  at  the  jolly  priest’s  door. 

“  The  priest  often  preaches 
Against  worldly  riches, 

But  ne’er  gives  a  mite  to  the  poor, 
Well-a-day  !” 

The  lawyer  lives  under  the  hill, 

Gaffer  Gray  ; 

Warmly  fenced  both  in  back  and  in  front. 
“  He  will  fasten  his  locks, 

And  will  threaten  the  stocks 

Should  he  evermore  find  me  in  want, 
Well-a-day  !” 


716 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  squire  has  fat  beeves  and  brown  ale, 
Gaffer  Gray ; 

And  the  season  will  welcome  you  there. 
“  His  fat  beeves  and  his  beer, 

And  his  merry  new  year, 

Are  all  for  the  flush  and  the  fair, 
Well-a-day  1” 

My  keg  is  but  low,  I  confess, 

Gaffer  Gray ; 

What  then  ?  While  it  lasts,  man,  we’ll 
live. 

“  The  poor  man  alone, 

When  he  hears  the  poor  moan, 

Of  his  morsel  a  morsel  will  give, 
Well-a-day !” 

Thomas  Holcroft. 

- K>« - 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  “  Song  of  the  Shirt !” 

“Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 

And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 

It’s  oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 

Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

“  Work — work — work! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ; 

W ork — work — work  ! 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  ! 

“  0  men,  with  sisters  dear  ! 

O  men,  with  mothers  and  wives  ! 

It  is  not  linen  you’re  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures’  lives  ! 

Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 


Sewing  at  once  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

“  But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death, 

That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 

I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fast  I  keep  : 

O  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

“  Work — work — work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 

And  what  are  its  wages  ?  A  bed  of  straw, 
A  crust  of  bread,  and  rags. 

A  shatter’d  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 

And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there! 

“Work — work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

W  ork — work — work — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  be¬ 
numb’d, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

“  Work — work — work 

In  the  dull  December  light, 

And  work — work — work 
•  When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright-  - 
While  underneath  the  eaves, 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 

As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 
And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

“  Oh  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet— 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet; 

For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 

Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

“  Oh  !  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A  respite  however  brief! 

No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief ! 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


717 


A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 

My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 
Hinders  needle  and  thread  !” 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, — 

Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the 
rich  ! — 

She  sang  this  “  Song  of  the  Shirt.” 

Thomas  Hood. 

- »Ol 

The  Beggar’s  Petition. 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 
Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him 
to  vour  door, 

1/  1 

Wdiose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest 
span ; 

Oh !  give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless 
your  store. 

These  tatter’d  clothes  my  poverty  be¬ 
speak, 

These  hoary  locks  proclaim  my  length¬ 
en’d  years, 

And  many  a  furrow  in  my  grief-worn 
cheek 

Has  been  the  channel  to  a  flood  of 
tears. 

Yon  house,  erected  on  the  rising  ground, 
With  tempting  aspect,  drew  me  from  my 
road ; 

For  plenty  there  a  residence  has  found, 
And  grandeur  a  magnificent  abode. 

Hard  is  the  fate  of  the  infirm  and  poor ! 
Here,  as  I  craved  a  morsel  of  their 
bread, 

A  pamper’d  menial  drove  me  from  the 
door, 

To  seek  a  shelter  in  an  humbler  shed. 

Oh  !  take  me  to  your  hospitable  dome  ; 
Keen  blows  the  wind,  and  piercing  is 
the  cold ! 

Short  is  my  passage  to  the  friendly  tomb, 
For  I  am  poor,  and  miserably  old. 


Should  I  reveal  the  sources  of  my  grief, 

If  soft  humanity  e’er  touch’d  your 
breast, 

Your  hands  would  not  withhold  the  kind 
relief, 

And  tears  of  pity  would  not  be  repress’d. 

Heaven  sends  misfortunes ;  why  should  we 
repine  ? 

’Tis  Heaven  has  brought  me  to  the  state 
you  see ; 

And  your  condition  may  be  soon  like 
mine, 

The  child  of  sorrow  and  of  misery. 

A  little  farm  was  my  paternal  lot; 

Then,  like  the  lark,  I  sprightly  hail’d 
the  morn ; 

But,  ah !  oppression  forced  me  from  my  cot, 
My  cattle  died,  and  blighted  was  my 
corn. 

My  daughter,  once  the  comfort  of  my  age, 
Lured  by  a  villain  from  her  native  home, 

Is  cast  abandon’d  on  the  world’s  wide 
stage, 

And  doom’d  in  scanty  poverty  to  roam. 

My  tender  wife,  sweet  soother  of  my  care, 
Struck  with  sad  anguish  at  the  stern 
decree, 

Fell,  lingering  fell,  a  victim  to  despair, 
And  left  the  world  to  wretchedness  and 
me. 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him 
to  your  door, 

Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest 
span ; 

Oh !  give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless 
your  store. 

Thomas  Moss. 

- KX - 

The  Va  ga  b  ones. 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 
Roger’s  my  dog.  —  Come  here,  you 
scamp  ! 

Jump  for  the  gentleman, — mind  your  eye! 
Over  the  table,  —  look  out  for  the 
lamp! — 


718 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old ; 

Five  years  we’ve  tramp’d  through  wind 
and  weather, 

And  slept  out  doors  when  nights  were 
cold, 

And  ate  and  drank — and  starved — to¬ 
gether. 

We’ve  learn’d  what  comfort  is,  I  tell 
you ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 

A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow! 
The  paw  he  holds  up  there  has  been 
frozen), . 

Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for 
strings), 

Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the 
griddle, 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings ! 

No,  thank  you,  sir, — I  never  drink  ; 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral, — 

Aren’t  we,  Roger? — see  him  wink! — 

Well,  something  hot,  then,  we  won’t 
quarrel. 

He’s  thirsty,  too — see  him  nod  his  head? 
What  a  pity,  sir,  that  dogs  can’t  talk ! — 

He  understands  every  word  that’s  said, — 
And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water  and 
chalk. 

The  truth  is,  sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I’ve  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 

I  wonder  I’ve  not  lost  the  respect 
(Here’s  to  you,  sir !)  even  of  my  dog. 

But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin ; 
And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pock¬ 
ets, 

And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin, 
He’ll  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his 

sockets. 

There  isn’t  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every 
disaster, 

So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving 
To  such  a  miserable  thankless  master! 

No,  sir! — see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  ! 
By  George !  it  makes  my  old  eyes 
water ! 

That  is,  there’s  something  in  this  gin 
That  chokes  a  fellow.  But  no  matter ! 


We’ll  have  some  music,  if  you  are  will¬ 
ing, 

And  Roger  (hem !  what  a  plague  a  cough 
is,  sir !) 

Shall  march  a  little. — Start,  you  villain  ! 

Stand  straight!  ’Bout  face!  Salute  your 
officer ! 

Put  up  that  paw!  Dress!  Take  your 
rifle ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see!)  Now 
hold  your 

Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle 

To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier. 

March!  Halt!  Now  show  how  the  rebel 
shakes 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sen¬ 
tence. 

Now  tell  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 

Five  yelps,  that’s  five!  he’s  mighty  know¬ 
ing! 

The  night’s  before  us,  fill  the  glasses ! 

Quick,  sir!  I’m  ill, — my  brain  is  going; 

Some  brandy, — thank  you  ;  there, — it 

passes ! 

Why  not  reform  ?  That’s  easily  said  ; 

But  I’ve  gone  through  such  wretched 
treatment, 

Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat 
meant, 

That  my  poor  stomach’s  past  reform ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with 
thinking, 

I’d  sell  out  Heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 

A  dear  girl’s  love, — but  I  took  to 
drink ; — 

The  same  old  story;  you  know  how  it 
ends. 

If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  fea¬ 
tures, — 

You  needn’t  laugh,  sir;  they  were  not 
then 

Such  a  burning  libel  on  God’s  creatures ; 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men ! 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


719 


If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young, 
Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ! 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 
When  the  wine  went  round,  you  wouldn’t 
have  guess’d 

That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 
From  door  to  door  with  fiddle  and 
dog, 

Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 
To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog. 

She’s  married  since,  a  parson’s  wife ; 

’Twas  better  for  her  that  we  should  part; 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 
Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken 
heart. 

I  have  seen  her  ?  Once :  I  was  weak  and 
spent 

On  the  dusty  road ;  a  carriage  stopp’d  ; 
But  little  she  dream’d,  as  on  she  went, 
Who  kiss’d  the  coin  that  her  fingers 
dropp’d ! 

You’ve  set  me  talking,  sir;  I’m  sorry; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the 
change ! 

What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar’s  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing  ?  you  find  it  strange  ? 

I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me ! 

’Twas  well  she  died  before.  Do  you 
know 

If  the  happy  spirits  in  Heaven  can  see 
The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 
This  pain;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 

I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 
Aching  thing,  in  place  of  a  heart? 

He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep  if 
he  could, 

No  doubt,  remembering  things  that 
were — 

A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 
And- himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I’m  better  now;  that  glass  was  warming, — 
You  rascal !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 

We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 
For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the 
street. — 

Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are 
free, 


And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor 
drink ; — 

The  sooner  the  better  for  Roger  and  me. 

J.  T.  Trowbridge. 

- K>« - 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

“Drowned!  drowned!” — Hamlet. 

Oxe  more  Unfortunate, 

Weary  of  breath, 

Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care, — 

Fashion’d  so  slenderly, 

Yroung,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements  ; 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing  ; 

Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,  not  loathing. — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ; 

Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly  ; 

Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 

All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny  , 

Rash  and  undutiful : 

Past  all  dishonor, 

Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 

One  of  Eve’s  family — 

Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers, 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 

Bier  fair  auburn  tresses  ; 

Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 


720 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  ! 

Oh  !  it  was  pitiful ! 

Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 


Decently, — kindly, — 

Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly ! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fix’d  on  futurity. 


Sisterly,  brotherly, 

Fatherly,  motherly, 

Feelings  had  changed  : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God’s  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement. 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 


Perishing  gloomily, 

Spurr’d  by  contumely, 

Cold  inhumanity, 

Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. — 

Cross  her  hands  humbly, 

As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior, 

And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 

Thomas  Hood. 

■ - +o* - 

Beautiful  Snow. 


The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver  ; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black  flowing  river  ; 
Mad  from  life’s  history, 

Glad  to  death’s  mystery 
Swift  to  be  hurl’d — 
Anvwhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 

No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, — 

Over  the  brink  of  it, 

Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  man  ! 

Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care  ; 

Fashion’d  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 


Oh  !  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow, 

Filling  the  sky  and  the  earth  below  ; 

Over  the  house-tops,  over  the  street, 

Over  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet ; 
Dancing, 

Flirting, 

Skimming  along, 

Beautiful  snow  !  it  can  do  nothing  wrong. 
Flying  to  kiss  a  fair  lady’s  cheek  ; 
Clinging  to  lips  in  a  frolicsome  freak. 
Beautiful  snow,  from  the  heavens  above, 
Pure  as  an  angel  and  fickle  as  love ! 

Oh  !  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow  ! 

How  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they 
go! 

Whirling  about  in  its  maddening  fun, 

It  plays  in  its  glee  with  every  one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying  by, 

It  lights  up  the  face  and  it  sparkles  the 
eye ; 

And  even  the  dogs,  with  a  bark  and  a 
bound, 

Snap  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around. 


POEMS  OF  LABOR  AND  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


721 


The  town  is  alive,  and  its  heart  in  a  glow 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow. 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along, 
Hailing  each  other  with  humor  and  song ! 
How  the  gay  sledges  like  meteors  flash 
by — 

Bright  for  a  moment,  then  lost  to  the  eye, 
Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing  they  go 

Over  the  crest  of  the  beautiful  snow  : 

Snow  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky, 
To  be  trampled  in  mud  by  the  crowd  rush¬ 
ing  by  : 

To  be  trampled  and  track’d  by  the  thou¬ 
sands  of  feet, 

Till  it  blends  with  the  filth  in  the  horrible 
street. 

Once  I  was  pure  as  the  snow — but  I  fell : 
Fell,  like  the  snow-flakes,  from  heaven — 
to  hell : 

Fell,  to  be  tramp’d  as  the  filth  of  the 
street : 

Fell,  to  be  scoff’d,  to  be  spit  on,  and  beat, 
Pleading, 

Cursing, 

Dreading  to  die, 

Selling  my  soul  to  whoever  would  buy, 
Dealing  in  shame  for  a  morsel  of  bread, 
Hating  the  living  and  fearing  the  dead. 
Merciful  God  !  have  I  fallen  so  low  ? 

And  yet  I  was  once  like  this  beautiful 
snow !  t 

Once  I  was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
With  an  eye  like  its  crystals,  a  heart  like 
its  glow  ; 

Once  I  was  loved  for  my  innocent  grace — 
Flatter’d  and  sought  for  the  charm  of  my 
face. 

F  ather, 

Mother, 

Sisters  all, 

God,  and  myself,  I  have  lost  by  my  fall. 
The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will  take  a  wide  sweep,  lest  I  wander  too 
nigh  ; 

For  all  that  is  on  or  about  me,  I  know 
There  is  nothing  that’s  pure  but  the  beau¬ 
tiful  snow. 

46 


How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beauti¬ 
ful  snow 

Should  fall  on  a  sinner  with  nowhere  to 
go  ! 

How  strange  it  would  be,  when  the  night 
comes  again, 

If  the  snow  and  the  ice  struck  my  despe¬ 
rate  brain  ! 

Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying  alone ! 

Too  wicked  for  prayer,  too  weak  for  my 
moan 

To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 

Gone  mad  in  their  joy  at  the  snow’s  com¬ 
ing  down  ; 

To  lie  and  to  die  in  my  terrible  woe, 

With  a  bed  and  a  shroud  of  the  beautiful 
snow ! 

John  W.  Watson. 

■  »o+— — 

The  Pauper's  Death- Bed 

Tread  softly, — bow  the  head, — 

In  reverent  silence  bow, — 

No  passing  bell  doth  toll, 

Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger!  however  great, 

With  lowly  reverence  bow ; 

There’s  one  in  that  poor  shed — 

One  by  that  paltry  bed — 

Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar’s  roof, 

Lo  !  Death  doth  keep  his  state. 

Enter,  no  crowds  attend ; 

Enter,  no  guards  defend 
This  palace-gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  cold, 

No  smiling  courtiers  tread; 

One  silent  woman  stands, 

Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound, — 

An  infant  wail  alone; 

A  sob  suppress’d, — again 

That  short  deep  gasp,  and  then — 

The  parting  groan. 


722 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


0  change !  0  wondrous  change ! 

Burst  are  the  prison-bars, — 

This  moment  there  so  low, 

So  agonized,  and  now 
Beyond  the  stars. 

0  change !  stupendous  change ! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod ; 

The  sun  eternal  breaks, 

The  new  immortal  wakes, — 

Wakes  with  his  God. 

Caroline  Bowles  Southey. 


The  Paupers  Drive. 

There’s  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly 
round  trot, — 

To  the  churchyard  a  pauper  is  going,  I 
wot ; 

The  road  it  is  rough,  and  the  hearse  has 
no  springs; 

And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  the  mad 
driver  sings : 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

He’s  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody 
owns ! 

Oh,  where  are  the  mourners  ?  Alas !  there 
are  none ; 

He  has  left  not  a  gap  in  the  world,  now 
lie’s  gone, — 

Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or 
man  ; 

To  the  grave  with  his  carcass  as  fast  as  you 
can : 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ! 

He’s  oifly  a  pauper  whom  nobody 
owns ! 

What  a  jolting,  and  creaking,  and  splash¬ 
ing,  and  din  ! 

The  whip,  how  it  cracks  !  and  the  wheels, 
how  they  spin  I 


How  the  dirt,  right  and  left,  o’er  the 
hedges  is  hurl’d  ! — 

The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the 
world ! 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ! 

He’s  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody 
owns ! 

Poor  pauper  defunct !  he  has  made  some 
approach 

To  gentility,  now  that  he’s  stretch’d  in  a 
coach ! 

He’s  taking  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at 
last ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  so 
fast : 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

He’s  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody 
owns ! 

You  bumpkins  !  who  stare  at  your  brother 
convey’d, 

Behold  what  respect  to  a  cloddy  is 
paid  ! 

And  be  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death 
you’re  laid  low, 

You’ve  a  chance  to  the  grave  like  a  gem- 
man  to  go ! 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ! 

He’s  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody 
owns  ! 

But  a  truce  to  this  strain ;  for  my  soul  it 
is  sad, 

To  think  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad 

Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a  deso¬ 
late  end, 

And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving 
a  friend ! 

Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

Though  a  pauper,  he’s  one  whom  his 
Maker  yet  owns ! 

Thomas  Noel. 


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'westward  the  course  of  empire  TAKES  ITS  WAT;" 


Poems  of  Sentiment. 


On  the  Prospect  of  Planting 
Arts  and  Learning  in  America. 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 
Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 

In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time, 
Producing  subjects  worthy  fame. 

In  happy  climes,  where  from  the  genial 
sun 

And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue, 

The  force  of  Art  by  Nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true  ; 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 
Where  Nature  guides  and  Virtue  rules, 
Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and 
sense 

The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools ; 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 
The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts, 

The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage, 
The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay  ; 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her 
clay, 

By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its 
way  ; 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 

A  fifth,  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day ; 
Time’s  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 

George  Berkeley. 

A  Musical  Instrument. 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 
Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban. 


Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a 
goat, 

And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river  ? 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep,  cool  bed  of  the  river. 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 

And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 

Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sate  the  great  god  Pan, 
While  turbidly  flow’d  the  river, 

And  hack’d  and  hew’d  as  a  great  god  can 
With  his  hard,  bleak  steel  at  the  patient 
reed, 

Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  !) 

Then  drew  the  pith  like  the  heart  of  a 
man, 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 

Then  notch’d  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes  as  he  sate  by  the  river. 

“  This  is  the  way,”  laugh’d  the  great  god 
Pan  * 

(Laugh’d  while  he  sate  by  the  river), 

“  The  only  way  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed.” 
Then  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the 
reed, 

He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  0  Pan, 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river  ! 

Blinding  sweet,  0  great  god  Pan  ! 

The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 

And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 
Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

723 


724 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh,  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 

Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man. 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  the 
pain, — 

For  the  reed  that  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST;  OR ,  THE 
POWER  OF  MUSIC. 

As  Ode  in  Honor  op  St.  Cecilia’s  Day. 

i. 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip’s  warlike  son  : 

Aloft,  in  awful  state, 

The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne: 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles 
bound 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crown’d) : 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 

Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride, 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty’s  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the 
fair. 

CHORUS. 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the 
fair.  « 

II. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 

With  flying  fingers  touch’d  the  lyre; 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 

The  song  began  from  Jove, 

Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  Love). 

A  dragon’s  fiery  form  belied  the  god  ; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  press’d, 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy 
breast : 


Then,  round  her  slender  waist  he  curl’d, 
And  stamp’d  an  image  of  himself,  a  sover¬ 
eign  of  the  world. 

The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty 
sound — 

A  present  deity !  they  shout  around  ; 

A  present  deity !  the  vaulted  roofs  re¬ 
bound. 

With  ravish’d  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod, 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

CHORUS. 

With  ravish’d  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod, 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 
hi. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus,  then,  the  sweet 
musician  sung — 

Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young ; 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes: 
Sound  the  trumpets;  beat  the  drums! 
Flush’d  with  a  purple  grace, 

He  shows  his  honest  face ; 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath — he  comes, 
he  comes ! 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 
Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus’  blessings  are  a  treasure ; 
Drinking  is  the  soldier’s  pleasure; 
Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure ; 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

CHORUS. 

Bacchus’  blessings  are  a  treasure  ; 
Drinking  is  the  soldier’s  pleasure; 
Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure ; 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

IV. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew 
vain ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o’er  again  ; 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and 
thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


725 


The  master  saw  the  madness  rise — 

His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And,  while  he  Heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand  and  check’d  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  muse, 

Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 

He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen — 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  welt’ring  in  his  blood ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 

By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 

On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 

With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor 
sate 

Revolving  in  his  alter’d  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  be¬ 
low  ; 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole  ; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

CHORUS. 

Revolving  in  his  alter’d  soul 
The  various  turns  of  chance  be¬ 
low  ; 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole ; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

Y. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree: 

’Tvvas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble; 

Honor  but  an  empty  bubble — 

Never  ending,  still  beginning — 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  oh  think  it  worth  enjoying! 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee — 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  sky  with  loud  ap¬ 
plause  ; 

So  Love  was  crown’d,  but  Music  won  the 
cause. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 


And  sigh’d  and  look’d,  sigh’d  and  look’d, 
Sigh’d  and  look’d,  and  sigh’d  again. 

At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  op¬ 
press’d, 

The  vanquish’d  victor  sunk  upon  her 
breast. 

CHORUS. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 

And  sigh’d  and  look’d,  sigh’d  and  look’d, 
Sigh’d  and  look’d,  and  sigh’d  again. 

At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  op¬ 
press’d, 

The  vanquish’d  victor  sunk  upon  her 
breast. 

Yi. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again — 

A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain  ! 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 

And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of 
thunder. 

Hark,  hark!  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head  ! 

As  awaked  from  the  dead, 

And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 

Revenge!  revenge!  Timotheus  cries ; 

See  the  Furies  arise  ! 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 

And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their 
eyes ! 

Behold  a  ghastly  band, 

•  Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle 
were  slain, 

And  unburied  remain, 

Inglorious,  on  the  plain  ! 

Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  gallant  crew. 

Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 

And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile 
gods  ! 

The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy, 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal 
to  destroy ; 

Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 

And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  anothei 
|  Troy. 


726 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


CHORUS. 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal 
to  destroy  ; 

Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 

And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another 
Troy. 

VII. 

Thus,  long  ago — 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learn’d  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute — 

Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre, 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft 
desire. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 

The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred 
store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature’s  mother-wit,  and  arts  un¬ 
known  before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies — 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 

GRAND  CHORUS. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 

The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred 
store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature’s  mother-wit,  and  arts  un¬ 
known  before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies — 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 

John  Dryden. 


A  Song  for  St.  Cecilia'S  Da  y. 

i. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began. 

When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 
Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 


And  could  not  heave  her  head, 

The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 
Arise,  ye  more  than  dead  ! 

Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 

And  Music’s  power  obey. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began  : 

From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it 
ran, 

The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 

♦ 

II. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and 
quell  ? 

When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 

Less  than  a  god  they  thought  there  could 
not  dwell 

Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and 
quell  ? 

ill. 

The  trumpet’s  loud  clangor 
Excites  us  to  arms, 

With  shrill  notes  of  anger 
And  mortal  alarms. 

The  double  double  double  beat 
Of  the  thundering  drum 
Cries,  “  Hark  !  the  foes  come  ; 

Charge,  charge,  ’tis  too  late  to  retreat !” 

IV. 

The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 

Whose  dirge  is  whisper’d  by  the  warbling 
lute. 

v. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 

Fury,  frantic  indignation, 

Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion 
For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


727 


VI. 

But  oh  !  what  art  can  teach, 

What  human  voice  can  reach, 

The  sacred  organ’s  praise  ? 

Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 

Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

VII. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race, 

And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place 
Sequacious  of  the  lyre  : 

But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder 
higher  : 

When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appear’d — 
Mistaking  Earth  for  Heaven  ! 

GRAND  CHORUS. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 
The  spheres  began  to  move, 

And  sung  the  great  Creator’s  praise 
To  all  the  blest  above  ; 

So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 

The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 

The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 

And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 

John  Dryden. 

- •<>« - 

Ode  on  St.  Cecilia'S  Day. 

i. 

Descend,  ye  Nine !  descend  and  sing ; 

The  breathing  instruments  inspire ; 
Wake  into  voice  each  silent  string, 

And  sweep  the  sounding  lyre ! 

In  a  sadly-pleasing  strain 
Let  the  warbling  lute  complain  : 

Let  the  loud  trumpet  sound, 

Till  the  roofs  all  around 
The  shrill  echoes  rebound  : 

While  in  more  lengthen’d  notes  and  slow 
The  deep,  majestic,  solemn  organs  blow. 
Hark  !  the  numbers  soft  and  clear 
Gently  steal  upon  the  ear ; 

Now  louder,  and  yet  louder  rise, 

And  fill  with  spreading  sounds  the  skies; 
Exulting  in  triumph  now  swell  the  bold 
notes, 

In  broken  air,  trembling,  the  wild  music 
floats  : 


Till  by  degrees,  remote  and  small, 

The  strains  decay, 

And  melt  away 
In  a  dying,  dying  fall. 

% 

II. 

By  Music,  minds  an  equal  temper  know, 
Nor  swell  too  high,  nor  sink  too  low. 

If  in  the  breast  tumultuous  joys  arise, 
Music  her  soft,  assuasive  voice  applies  ; 

Or,  when  the  soul  is  press’d  with  cares, 
Exalts  her  in  enliv’ning  airs: 

Warriors  she  fires  with  animated  sounds  ; 
Pours  balm  into  the  bleeding  lover’s 
wounds : 

Melancholy  lifts  her  head, 

Morpheus  rouses  from  his  bed, 

Sloth  unfolds  her  arms  and  wakes, 
List’ning  Envy  drops  her  snakes, 
Intestine  war  no  more  our  Passions  wage, 
And  giddy  Factions  hear  away  their  rage. 

III. 

But  when  our  country’s  cause  provokes  to 
arms, 

How  martial  music  ev’ry  bosom  warms  ! 
So  when  the  first  bold  vessel  dared  the 
seas, 

High  on  the  stern  the  Thracian  raised  his 
strain, 

While  Argo  saw  her  kindred  trees 
Descend  from  Pelion  to  the  main. 
Transported  demigods  stood  round, 

And  men  grew  heroes  at  the  sound, 
Inflamed  with  glory’s  charms  : 

Each  chief  his  sevenfold  shield  display’d, 
And  half  unsheathed  the  shining  blade  : 
And  seas,  and  rocks,  and  skies  rebound, 
To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms ! 

IV. 

But  when  through  all  th’  infernal  bounds, 
Which  flaming  Plilegethon  surrounds, 
Love,  strong  as  Death,  the  poet  led 
To  the  pale  nations  of  the  dead, 

What  sounds  were  heard, 

What  scenes  appear’d 

O’er  all  the  dreary  coasts  ! 

Dreadful  gleams, 

Dismal  screams, 

Fires  that  glow, 

Shrieks  of  woe, 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Sullen  moans, 

Hollow  groans, 

And  cries  of  tortured  ghosts  ! 

But  hark !  he  strikes  the  golden  lyre ; 

And  see!  the  tortured  ghosts^espire, 

See,  shady  forms  advance  ! 

Thy  stone,  0  Sisyphus,  stands  still, 

Ixion  rests  upon  his  wheel, 

And  the  pale  spectres  dance ! 

The  Furies  sink  upon  their  iron  beds, 

And  snakes  uncurl’d  hang  list’ning  round 
their  heads. 

y. 

By  the  streams  that  ever  flow, 

By  the  fragrant  winds  that  blow 
O’er  tlT  Elysian  flow’rs  ; 

By  those  happy  souls  who  dwell 
In  yellow  meads  of  asphodel, 

Or  amaranthine  bow’rs  ; 

By  the  heroes’  armed  shades, 

Glitt’ring  through  the  gloomy  glades, 

By  the  youths  that  died  for  love, 
Wand’ring  in  the  myrtle  grove; 

Restore,  restore  Eurvdice  to  life : 

Oh  take  the  husband,  or  return  the  wife! 
He  sung,  and  Hell  consented 
To  hear  the  poet’s  prayer  : 

Stern  Proserpine  relented, 

And  gave  him  back  the  fair. 

Thus  song  could  prevail 
O’er  Death  and  o’er  Hell, 

A  conquest  how  hard,  and  how  glorious ! 
Though  Fate  had  fast  bound  her 
With  Styx  nine  times  round  her, 

Yet  Music  and  Love  were  victorious. 

VI. 

But  soon,  too  soon,  the  lover  turns  his 

eyes : 

Again  she  falls — again  she  dies — she  dies  ! 
How  wilt  thou  now  the  fatal  sisters  move? 
No  crime  was  thine,  if  ’tis  no  crime  to  love. 
Now  under  hanging  mountains, 

Beside  the  falls  of  fountains, 

Or  where  Hebrus  wanders, 

Rolling  in  meanders, 

All  alone, 

Unheard,  unknown, 

He  makes  his  moan  ; 

And  calls  her  ghost, 

For  ever,  ever,  ever  lost! 


Now  with  Furies  surrounded, 
Despairing,  confounded, 

He  trembles,  he  glows, 

Amidst  Rhodope’s  snows : 

See,  wild  as  the  winds,  o’er  the  desert  he 
flies  ; 

Hark !  Haemus  resounds  with  the  Bac¬ 
chanals’  cries — Ah  see,  he  dies  ! 

Yet  ev’n  in  death  Eurvdice  he  sung, 
Eurvdice  still  trembled  on  his  tongue, 
Eurvdice  the  woods, 

Eurydice  the  floods, 

Eurvdice  the  rocks  and  hollow  mountains 
rung. 

VII. 

Music  the  fiercest  grief  can  charm, 

And  fate’s  severest  rage  disarm ; 

Music  can  soften  pain  to  ease, 

And  make  despair  and  madness  please ; 
Our  joys  below  it  can  improve, 

And  antedate  the  bliss  above. 

This  the  divine  Cecilia  found, 

And  to  her  Maker’s  praise  confined  the 
sound. 

When  the  full  organ  joins  the  tuneful 
quire, 

Th’  immortal  pow’rs  incline  their  ear ; 
Borne  on  the  swelling  notes  our  souls  as¬ 
pire, 

While  solemn  airs  improve  the  sacred 
fire ; 

And  angels  lean  from  Heav’n  to  hear. 
Of  Orpheus  now  no  more  let  poets  tell, 

To  bright  Cecilia  greater  pow’r  is  giv’n  ; 
His  numbers  raised  a  shade  from  Hell, 

Hers  lift  the  soul  to  Heav’n. 

Alexander  Pope. 

- oO* - 

The  Progress  of  poesy. 

A  Pindaric  Ode. 

Awake,  iEolian  lyre,  awake, 

And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling 
strings. 

From  Helicon’s  harmonious  springs 

A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress 
take ; 

The  laughing  flowers  that  round  them 
blow 

Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 

Now  the  rich  stream  of  Music  winds  along, 
Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong, 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


729 


Through  verdant  vales,  and  Ceres’  golden 
reign ; 

Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain 
Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour : 

The  rocks  and  nodding  groves  re-bellow 
to  the  roar. 

0  Sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 

Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing 
airs, 

Enchanting  shell !  the  sullen  Cares 

And  frantic  Passions  hear  thy  soft  con¬ 
trol. 

On  Thracia’s  hills  the  Lord  of  War 
Has  curb’d  the  fury  of  his  car 
And  dropp’d  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  com¬ 
mand. 

Perching  on  the  sceptred  hand 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feather’d 
king 

With  ruffled  plumes  and  flagging  wing; 
Quench’d  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The  terror  of  his  beak,  and  lightnings  of 
his  eye. 

Thee  the  voice,  the  dance,  obey 
Temper’d  to  thy  warbled  lay. 

O’er  Idalia’s  velvet-green 
The  rosy-crowned  Loves  are  seen 
On  Cytherea’s  day, 

With  antic  Sport,  and  blue-eyed  Pleasures, 
Frisking  light  in  frolic  measures; 

Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 

Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet, 

To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating 
Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet. 

Slow  melting  strains  their  Queen’s  ap¬ 
proach  declare : 

Where’er  she  turns  the  Graces  homage 
pay. 

With  arms  sublime  that  float  upon  the  air 
In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way  : 
O’er  her  warm  cheek  and  rising  bosom 
move 

The  bloom  of  young  Desire  and  purple 
light  of  Love. 

Man’s  feeble  race  what  ills  await! 

Labor,  and  Penury,  the  racks  of  Pain, 
Disease,  and  Sorrow’s  weeping  train, 

And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms 
of  Fate ! 


The  fond  complaint,  my  song,  disprove, 
And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 

Say,  has  he  given  in  vain  the  heavenly 
Muse  ? 

Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews, 

Her  spectres  wan,  and  birds  of  boding 
cry 

He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky, 

Till  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afar 
Hyperion’s  march  they  spy,  and  glittering 
shafts  of  war. 

In  climes  bevond  the  solar  road 
«/ 

Where  shaggy  forms  o’er  ice-built  moun¬ 
tains  roam, 

The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight  gloom 
To  cheer  the  shivering  native’s  dull 
abode. 

And  oft,  beneath  the  od’rous  shade 
Of  Chili’s  boundless  forests  laid, 

She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  re¬ 
peat 

In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet 
Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs  and  dusky 
loves. 

Her  track,  where’er  the  goddess  roves, 
Glory  pursue,  and  gen’rous  Shame, 

TIT  unconquerable  Mind,  and  Freedom’s 
holy  flame. 

Woods,  that  wave  o’er  Delphi’s  steep, 
Isles,  that  crown  th’  iEgean  deep, 

Fields,  that  cool  Ilissus  laves, 

Or  where  Mseander’s  amber  waves 
In  lingering  lab’rinths  creep, 

How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 
Mute,  but  to  the  voice  of  anguish ! 

Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 
Inspiration  breathed  around ; 

Every  shade  and  hallow’d  fountain 
Murmur’d  deep  a  solemn  sound  ; 

Till  the  sad  Nine,  in  Greece’s  evil  hour, 
Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian 
plains. 

Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant 
Power, 

And  coward  Vice,  that  revels  in  her 
chains. 

When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost, 
They  sought,  O  Albion !  next,  thy  sea-en¬ 
circled  coast. 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


f'30 


Far  from  the  sun  and  summer  gale, 

In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature’s  darling  laid,  1 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  stray’d, 

To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face  :  the  dauntless  child 
Stretch’d  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 
This  pencil  take  (she  said),  whose  colors 
clear 

Richly  paint  the  vernal  year  ; 

Thine,  too,  these  golden  keys,  immortal 
boy! 

This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  Joy  ; 

Of  Horror  that,  and  thrilling  Fears, 

Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic 
Tears. 

Nor  second  he,  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph- wings  of  Ecstasy, 

The  secrets  of  th’  abyss  to  spy. 

He  pass’d  the  flaming  bounds  of  Place 
and  Time, 

The  living  Throne,  the  sapphire-blaze 
Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze ; 

He  saw,  but,  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 

Behold  where  Dryden’s  less  presumptuous 
car 

Wide  o’er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 
Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race, 

With  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and  long- 
resounding  pace. 

Hark  !  his  hands  the  lyre  explore ! 
Bright-eyed  Fancy,  hovering  o’er, 

Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 
Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that 
burn. 

But  ah  !  ’tis  heard  no  more — 

O  Lyre  divine  !  what  daring  Spirit 
Wakes  thee  now?  Tlio’  he  inherit 
Nor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion, 

That  the  Theban  eagle  bear, 

Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Thro’  the  azure  deep  of  air ; 

Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 
Such  forms  as  glitter  in  the  Muse’s  ray 
With  orient  hues,  unborrow’d  of  the  sun  ; 
Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  dis¬ 
tant  way 

Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate, 

Beneath  the  Good  how  far,  but  far  above 
the  Great. 


The  Passions. 

An  Ode  for  Music. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 

The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Throng’d  around  her  magic  cell, 

Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possest  beyond  the  Muse’s  painting  ; 

By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturb’d,  delighted,  raised,  refined  ; 

Till  once,  ’tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Fill’d  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 

From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatch’d  her  instruments  of  sound, 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 

Each,  for  Madness  ruled  the  hour, 

Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power.- 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewilder’d  laid, 

And  back  recoil’d,  he  knew  not  why, 

E’en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rush’d ;  his  eyes  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  own’d  his  secret  stings : 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the 
strings. 

With  woeful  measures  wan  Despair — 

Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled  : 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air  ; 

’Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  ’twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 

Still  it  whisper’d  promised  pleasure, 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance 
hail ! 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 
And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the 
vale 

She  call’d  on  Echo  still  through  all  the 
song; 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she 
chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at 
every  close ; 

And  Hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  wTaved 
her  golden  hair. 


Thomas  Gray. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


731 


And  longer  had  she  sung : — but  with  a 
frown 

Revenge  impatient  rose : 

He  threw  his  blood-stain’d  sword  in  thun¬ 
der  down  ; 

And  with  a  withering  look 

The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 

Were  ne’er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of 
woe ! 

And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat ; 

And,  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause 
between, 

Dejected  Pity  at  his  side 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 

Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unalter’d  mien, 
While  each  strain’d  ball  of  sight  seem’d 
bursting  from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  naught  were 
fix’d : 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state ! 

Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was 
mix’d ; 

And  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving 
call’d  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired  ; 

And  from  her  wild  sequester’d  seat, 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 

Pour’d  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pen¬ 
sive  soul : 

And  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around 
Bubbling  runnels  join’d  the  sound  ; 

Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled 
measure  stole, 

Or,  o’er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond 
delay, 

Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 

Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, 

In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  oh  !  how  alter’d  was  its  sprightlier 
tone 

When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthi¬ 
est  hue, 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 

Her  buskins  gemm’d  with  morning  dew, 


Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket 
rung, 

The  hunter’s  call  to  Faun  and  Dryad 
known. 

The  oak-crown’d  Sisters  and  their 
chaste-eyed  Queen, 

Satyrs  and  Sylvan  Boys  were  seen 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  : 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear  ; 

And  Sport  leap’d  up,  and  seized  his 
beechen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy’s  ecstatic  trial : 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  ad- 
drest ; 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved 
the  best : 

They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the 
strain 

They  saw,  in  Tempe’s  vale,  her  native 
maids 

Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing; 

While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kiss’d  the 
strings, 

Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay,  fantastic 
round : 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone 
unbound ; 

And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 

Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy 
wings. 

O  Music  !  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom’s  aid  ! 

Why,  goddess,  why,  to  us  denied, 

Lay’st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 

As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower 
You  learn’d  an  all-commanding  power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  0  nymph  endear’d'. 

Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 

Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art? 

Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 

Warm,  energic,  chaste,  sublime! 

Thy  wonders,  in  that  god-like  age, 

Fill  thy  recording  Sister’s  page  ; — 

’Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 

Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age, 
E’en  all  at  once  together  found 
Cecilia’s  mingled  world  of  sound  : — 

Oh  bid  our  vain  endeavors  cease  : 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece : 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state  ! 

Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate  ! 

William  Collins. 

- •<>• - 

Influence  of  Music. 

Orpheus  with  his  lute  made  trees, 

And  the  mountain-tops  that  freeze, 

Bow'  themselves,  when  he  did  sing : 
To  his  music,  plants  and  flowers 
Ever  sprung,  as  sun  and  showers 
There  had  made  a  lasting  spring. 

Everything  that  heard  him  play, 

Even  the  billows  of  the  sea, 

Hung  their  heads,  and  then  lay  by — 
In  sweet  music  is  such  art : 

Killing  care,  and  grief  of  heart, 

Fall  asleep,  or,  hearing,  die. 

William  Shakespeare. 


With  a  Guitar,  to  Jane. 

Ariel  to  Miranda  : — Take 
This  slave  of  Music,  for  the  sake 
Of  him  who  is  the  slave  of  thee ; 
And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 
In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 
Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow', 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again, 

And,  too  intense,  is  turn’d  to  pain. 
For  by  permission  and  command 
Of  thine  own  prince  Ferdinand, 
Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 
Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken ; 
Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who 
From  life  to  life  must  still  pursue 
Your  happiness,  for  thus  alone 
Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  owTn. 

From  Prospero’s  enchanted  cell, 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples  he 
Lit  you  o’er  the  trackless  sea, 
Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon 
In  her  interlunar  swoon 
Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 
Than  deserted  Ariel ; 


When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth 
Ariel  guides  you  o’er  the  sea 
Of  life  from  your  nativity. 

Many  changes  have  been  run 
Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 
Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 
Has  track’d  your  steps  and  served  your 
will. 

Now'  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 

This  is  all  remember’d  not ; 

And  now,  alas  !  the  poor  sprite  is 
Imprison’d  for  some  fault  of  his 
In  a  body  like  a  grave — 

From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave 
For  his  service  and  his  sorrow' 

A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  w'rought 
To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 

Fell’d  a  tree,  w'hile  on  the  steep 
The  wroods  were  in  their  winter  sleep. 
Rock’d  in  that  repose  divine 
On  the  wind-swept  Apennine ; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  autumn  past. 
And  some  of  spring  approaching  fast, 
And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers.. 
And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love ;  and  so  this  tree — 

Oh,  that  such  our  death  may  be ! — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 

To  live  in  happier  form  again  ; 

From  which,  beneath  Heaven’s  fairest 
star, 

The  artist  w'rought  this  loved  guitar  ; 
And  taught  it  justly  to  reply, 

To  all  w'lio  question  skilfully, 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  owTn ; 
Whispering  in  enamor’d  tone 
Sw'eet  oracles  of  w'oods  and  dells, 

And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells. 

For  it  had  learn’d  all  harmonies 
Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 

Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 

And  the  many- voiced  fountains; 

The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 

The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 

The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dewr. 
And  airs  of  evening ;  and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound 
Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


733 


As  it  floats  through  boundless  day 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way. 

All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it. 

It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions ;  and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before 
By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 
These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 

But,  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 

It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 

For  our  beloved  Jane  alone. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


V  Allegro. 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born ! 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

’Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and 
sights  unholy, 

Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 

"Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his 
jealous  wings, 

And  the  night  raven  sings  ; 

There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-brow’d 
rocks, 

As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 
But  come  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free, 

In  heav’n  y-clep’d  Euphrosyne, 

And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 

Whom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore; 

Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 

The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr  with  Aurora  playing, 

As  he  met  her  once  a-inaying ; 

There  on  beds  of  violets  blue, 

And  fresh-blown  roses  wash’d  in  dew, 
Fill’d  her  with  thee  a  daughter  fair, 

So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips,  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods,  and  Becks,  and  wreathed  Smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe’s  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 


Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go, 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 
And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  the  crew, 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  un reproved  pleasures  free  ; 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 

And  singing  startle  the  dull  night, 

From  his  watch-tow’r  in  the  skies, 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 

And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  vine, 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine : 

While  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 

Oft  list’ning  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerlv  rouse  the  slumb’ring  morn, 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill: 
Some  time  walking,  not  unseen, 

By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 

Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight; 
While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand 
Whistles  o’er  the  furrow’d  land, 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  plea¬ 
sures 

Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  mea¬ 
sures  ; 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray, 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  lab’ring  clouds  do  often  rest; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide. 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosom’d  high  in  tufted  trees, 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 

The  cynosure  of  neighb’ring  eyes. 


734 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes, 

From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 

Where  Cory  don  and  Thyrsis  met 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses  ; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bow’r  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves: 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 

To  the  tann’d  havcock  in  the  mead, 
Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth,  and  many  a  maid, 
Dancing  in  the  chequer’d  shade  ; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday, 

Till  the  live-long  daylight  fail  ; 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat ; 

She  was  pinch’d,  and  pull’d  she  said, 

And  he  by  friars’  lanthorn  led 
Tells  how  the  drudging  Goblin  sweat, 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of 
morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  thresh’d  the 
corn, 

That  ten  day-lab’rers  could  not  end  ; 

Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 

And  stretch’d  out  all  the  chimney’s  length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 

And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lull’d  asleep. 
Tower’d  cities  please  us  then, 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold 
In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold, 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit,  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 

And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 

With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry, 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 


Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson’s  learned  sock  be  on, 

Or  sweetest  Shakesjmare,  Fancy’s  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever  against  eating  cares, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 

Married  to  immortal  verse ; 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 

In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  run¬ 
ning, 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 

That  Orpheus’  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heap'd  Elvsian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regain’d  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

John  Milton. 

- - 

Sonnet  to  his  Lute. 

My  lute,  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  didst 
grow 

With  thy  green  mother  in  some  shady 
grove, 

When  immelodious  winds  but  made  thee 
move, 

And  birds  their  ramage  did  on  thee  be¬ 
stow. 

Since  that  dear  voice  which  did  thy 
sounds  approve, 

Which  wont  in  such  harmonious  strains 
to  flow, 

Is  reft  from  earth  to  tune  the  spheres 
above, 

What  art  thou  but  a  harbinger  of  woe  ? 
Thy  pleasing  notes  be  pleasing  notes  no 
more, 

But  orphan  wailings  to  the  fainting  ear  ; 
Each  stroke  a  sigh,  each  sound  draws 
forth  a  tear  ; 

For  which  be  silent  as  in  woods  before  : 

Or  if  that  any  hand  to  touch  thee  deign, 
Like  widow’d  turtle  still  her  loss  com¬ 
plain. 

William  Drummond. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


735 


A  Canadian  Boat- Song. 

Et  remigem  cantus  liortatur. 

Quintilian. 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime, 

Our  voices  keep  tune,  and  our  oars  keep 
time. 

Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 
We’ll  sing  at  St.  Ann’s  our  parting  hymn. 
Row,  brothers,  row  !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight’s 
past ! 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? — • 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl. 
But  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore 
Oh  !  sweetly  we’ll  rest  our  weary  oar. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow  !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight’s 
past ! 

Utawa’s  tide  !  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle,  hear  our  prayers — 
Oh  !  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring 
airs  ! 

Blow,  breezes,  blow  !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight’s 
past ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

•o« . 

IL  PENSEROSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys, 

The  brood  of  folly  without  father  bred, 
How  little  you  bestead, 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys  ! 

Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  pos¬ 
sess, 

As  thick  and  numberless 
As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun¬ 
beams, 

Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  cf  Morpheus’  train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy, 

Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 

And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O’erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom’s  hue  ; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon’s  sister  might  beseem, 


1  Or  that  starr’d  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty’s  praise  above 
The  Sea-Nymphs,  and  their  pow’rs  of¬ 
fended  : 

Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  ; 

Thee  bright-hair’d  Vesta,  long  of  yore, 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore  ; 

His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn’s  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 

Oft  in  glimmering  bow’rs  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida’s  inmost  grove, 

While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 
Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 

Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

And  sable  stole  of  Cyprus  lawn 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes  : 

There  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast : 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove’s  altar  sing  : 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure ; 
But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring, 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery- wheeled  throne, 

The  cherub  Contemplation  ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

’Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song, 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon-yoke, 
Gently  o’er  th’  accustom’d  oak  ; 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn’st  the  noise  of 
folly, 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song  ; 

And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 


736 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heav’n’s  wide  pathless  way  ; 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow’d, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 

Over  some  wide-water’d  shore, 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar  ; 

Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ; 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman’s  drowsy  charm, 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm 
Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tow’r, 

Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 

With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds,  or  what  vast  regions,  hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook  : 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops’  line, 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine, 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskin’d  stage. 

But,  O  sad  virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musseus  from  his  bower, 

Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 

Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto’s  cheek, 

And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek. 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 

That  own’d  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass, 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride; 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 

Of  turneys  and  of  trophies  hung, 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 


Thus  Night  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear. 

Nor  trick’d  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 

But  kerchief ’d  in  a  comely  cloud, 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  usher’d  with  a  shower  still 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 

With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown  that  Sylvan  loves 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heaved  stroke 
Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallow’d  haunt. 
There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 
Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 

Hide  me  from  day’s  garish  eye, 

While  the  bee  with  honey’d  thigh, 

That  at  her  flow’ry  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring 
With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 

Entice  the  dewy-feather’d  sleep  ; 

And  let  some  strange,  mysterious  dream 
Wave  at  his  wings  in  aery  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  display’d, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid. 

And  as  I  wake  sweet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  th’  unseen  genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloisters  pale,, 

And  love  the  high-embowed  roof, 

With  antique  pillars  massy  proof, 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 

Casting  a  dim  religious  right : 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow, 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below, 

In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 
And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 

The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 

Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heav’n  doth  show, 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew ; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


737 


Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 
These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 

And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

John  Milton. 

- •<>• - 

Mr  MINDE  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM  IS. 

My  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is  ; 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  finde 
As  farre  exceeds  all  earthly  blisse 
That  God  or  Nature  hath  assignde  ; 
Though  much  I  want,  that  most  would 
have, 

Yet  still  my  minde  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I  live  ;  this  is  my  stay — 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice. 

I  presse  to  beare  no  liaughtie  sway ; 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  minde  supplies. 
Loe,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 

Content  with  that  my  minde  doth  bring. 

I  see  how  plentie  surfets  oft, 

And  hastie  clymbers  soonest  fall ; 

I  see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all. 

These  get  with  toile,  and  keepe  with  feare : 
Such  cares  my  minde  could  never  beare. 

No  princely  pompe  nor  welthie  store, 

No  force  to  win  the  victorie, 

No  wylie  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to  winne  a  lover’s  eye — 

To  none  of  these  I  yeeld  as  thrall ; 

For  why,  my  minde  despiseth  all. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  they  crave  ; 

I  little  have,  yet  seek  no  more. 

They  are  but  poore,  though  much  they  have, 
And  I  am  rich  with  little  store. 

They  poor,  I  rich  ;  they  beg,  I  give  ; 

They  lacke,  I  lend ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another’s  losse, 

I  grudge  not  at  another’s  gaine  ; 

No  worldly  wave  my  minde  can  tosse ; 

I  brooke  that  is  another’s  bane. 

I  feare  no  foe,  nor  fawne  on  friend  ; 

I  lothe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

I  joy  not  in  no  earthly  blisse  ; 

I  weigh  not  Cresus’  wealth  a  strawr ; 

47 


For  care,  I  care  not  what  it  is  ; 

I  feare  not  fortune’s  fatal  law  : 

My  minde  is  such  as  may  not  move 
For  beautie  bright,  or  force  of  love. 

I  wish  but  what  I  have  at  will ; 

I  wander  not  to  seeke  for  more ; 

I  like  the  plaine,  I  clime  no  hill ; 

In  greatest  stormes  I  sitte  on  shore. 

And  laugh  at  them  that  toile  in  vaine 
To  get  what  must  be  lost  againe. 

I  kisse  not  where  I  wish  to  kill ; 

I  feigne  not  love  where  most  I  hate  ; 

I  breake  no  sleepe  to  winne  my  will  ; 

I  wayte  not  at  the  mightie’s  gate. 

I  scorne  no  poore,  I  feare  no  rich  ; 

I  feele  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

The  court  ne  cart  I  like  ne  loath — 
Extreames  are  counted  worst  of  all ; 
The  golden  meane  betwixt  them  both 
Dost  surest  sit,  and  feares  no  fall ; 

This  is  my  choyce  ;  for  why,  I  finde 
No  wealth  is  like  a  quiet  minde. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease  ; 

My  conscience  clere  my  chiefe  defence  ,* 
I  never  seeke  by  bribes  to  please, 

Nor  by  desert  to  give  offence. 

Thus  do  I  live,  thus  will  I  die ; 

Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I ! 

William  Byrd 

- •<>« - 

My  Days  among  the  Dead  are 
Passed. 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  pass’d ; 

Around  me  I  behold, 

Where’er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mightv  minds  of  old  ; 

My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 

With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  wreal, 

And  seek  relief  in  woe; 

And  while  I  understand  and  feel 
How  much  to  them  I  owe, 

My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew’d 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  dead ;  with 
them 

I  live  in  long-past  years; 


738 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 
Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 

And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  dead ;  anon 
My  place  with  them  will  be, 

And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 
Through  all  futurity, 

Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 

That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

Robert  Southey. 

-  •<>• - 

Thoughts  in  a  Library. 

Speak  low !  tread  softly  through  these 
halls  ; 

Here  Genius  lives  enshrined; 

Here  reign,  in  silent  majesty, 

The  monarchs  of  the  mind. 

A  mighty  spirit-host  they  come 
From  every  age  and  clime; 

Above  the  buried  wrecks  of  years 
They  breast  the  tide  of  Time. 

And  in  their  presence-chamber  here 
They  hold  their  regal  state, 

And  round  them  throng  a  noble  train, 

The  gifted  and  the  great. 

0  child  of  Earth  !  when  round  thy  path 
The  storms  of  life  arise, 

And  when  thy  brothers  pass  thee  by 
With  stern,  unloving  eyes, 

Here  shall  the  poets  chant  for  thee 
Their  sweetest,  loftiest  lays, 

And  prophets  wait  to  guide  thy  steps 
In  Wisdom’s  pleasant  ways. 

Come,  with  these  God-anointed  kings 
Be  thou  companion  here  ; 

And  in  the  mighty  realm  of  mind 
Thou  shalt  go  forth  a  peer ! 

Anne  C.  Lynch  Botta. 

- »o« - 

The  Lawyer’s  Farewell  to  his 

Muse. 

As,  by  some  tyrant's  stern  command, 

A  wretch  forsakes  his  native  land, 

In  foreign  climes  condemn’d  to  roam 
An  endless  exile  from  his  home ; 


Pensive  he  treads  the  destined  wav. 

And  dreads  to  go,  nor  dares  to  stay  ; 

Till  on  some  neighboring  mountain's 
brow 

He  stops,  and  turns  his  eyes  below ; 

There,  melting  at  the  well-known  view, 
Drops  a  last  tear,  and  bids  adieu  ; 

So  I,  thus  doom’d  from  thee  to  part, 

Gay  Queen  of  Fancy  and  of  Art, 
Reluctant  move,  with  doubtful  mind, 

Oft  stop,  and  often  look  behind. 

Companion  of  my  tender  age, 

Serenely  gay,  and  sweetly  sage, 

How  blithesome  we  were  wont  to  rove 
By  verdant  hill  or  shady  grove, 

Where  fervent  bees,  with  humming 
voice, 

Around  the  honey’d  oak  rejoice, 

And  aged  elms  with  awful  bend 
In  long  cathedral  walks  extend  ! 

Lull’d  by  the  lapse  of  gliding  floods, 
Cheer’d  by  the  warbling  of  the  woods, 
How  bless’d  my  days,  my  thoughts  how 
free 

In  sweet  society  with  thee ! 

Then  all  was  joyous,  all  was  young, 

And  years  unheeded  roll’d  along : 

But  now  the  pleasing  dream  is  o’er, 

These  scenes  must  charm  me  now  no 
more ; 

Lost  to  the  fields,  and  torn  from  you, — 
Farewell! — a  long,  a  last  adieu. 

Me  wrangling  courts,  and  stubborn 
law, 

To  smoke,  and  crowds,  and  cities  draw : 
There  selfish  Faction  rules  the  day, 

And  Pride  and  Avarice  throng  the  way ; 
Diseases  taint  the  murky  air, 

And  midnight  conflagrations  glare  ; 

Loose  Revelry  and  Riot  bold 
In  frighted  streets  their  orgies  hold ; 

Or,  where  in  silence  all  is  drown’d, 

Fell  Murder  walks  his  lonely  round; 

No  room  for  Peace,  no  room  for  you, 
Adieu,  celestial  nymph,  adieu! 

Shakespeare  no  more  thy  sylvan  son, 
Nor  all  the  art  of  Addison, 

Pope’s  heaven-strung  lyre,  nor  Waller’s 
ease, 

Nor  Milton’s  mighty  self,  must  please  : 
Instead  of  these,  a  formal  band 
In  furs  and  coifs  around  me  stand; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


739 


With  sounds  uncouth,  and  accents  dry, 
That  grate  the  soul  of  harmony; 

Each  pedant  sage  unlocks  his  store 
Of  mystic,  dark,  discordant  lore  ; 

And  points  with  tottering  hand  the  ways 
That  lead  me  to  the  thorny  maze. 

There,  in  a  winding  close  retreat, 

Is  Justice  doom’d  to  fix  her  seat ; 

There,  fenced  by  bulwarks  of  the  law, 

She  keeps  the  wondering  world  in  awe ; 
And  there,  from  vulgar  sight  retired, 

Like  Eastern  queen,  is  more  admired. 

Oh  let  me  pierce  the  secret  shade 
Where  dwells  the  venerable  maid  ! 

There  humbly  mark,  with  reverend  awe, 
The  guardian  of  Britannia’s  law ; 

Unfold  with  joy  her  sacred  page, 

Th’  united  boast  of  many  an  age ; 

Where  mix’d,  yet  uniform,  appears 
The  -wisdom  of  a  thousand  years. 

In  that  pure  spring  the  bottom  view, 
Clear,  deep,  and  regularly  true ; 

And  other  doctrines  thence  imbibe 
Than  lurk  within  the  sordid  scribe ; 
Observe  how  parts  with  parts  unite 
In  one  harmonious  rule  of  right ; 

See  countless  wheels  distinctly  tend 
By  various  laws  to  one  great  end  : 

While  mighty  Alfred’s  piercing  soul 
Pervades  and  regulates  the  whole. 

Then  welcome  business,  welcome  strife, 
Welcome  the  cares,  the  thorns  of  life, 
The  visage  wan,  the  purblind  sight, 

The  toil  by  day,  the  lamp  at  night, 

The  tedious  forms,  the  solemn  prate, 

The  pert  dispute,  the  dull  debate, 

The  drowsy  bench,  the  babbling  hall, — 
For  thee,  fair  Justice,  welcome  all ! 

Thus  though  my  noon  of  life  be  past, 

Yet  let  my  setting  sun,  at  last, 

Find  out  the  still,  the  rural  cell, 

Where  sage  Retirement  loves  to  dwell ! 
There  let  me  taste  the  homefelt  bliss 
Of  innocence  and  inward  peace; 
Untainted  by  the  guilty  bribe, 

Uncursed  amid  the  harpy  tribe; 

No  orphan’s  cry  to  wound  my  ear; 

My  honor  and  my  conscience  clear ; 

Thus  may  I  calmly  meet  my  end, 

Thus  to  the  grave  in  peace  descend. 

Sir  William  Blackstone. 


On  First  Looking  into  Chap¬ 
man’s  Homer. 

Much  have  I  travell’d  in  the  realms  of 
gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms 
seen ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 
That  deep-brow’d  Homer  ruled  as  his  de¬ 
mesne  ; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and 
bold  : 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Look’d  at  each  other  with  a  wild  sur¬ 
mise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

John  Keats. 

- KX - 

A  Vision  upon  this  Conceit 
of  the  Faerie  Queene. 

Methought  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura 
lay, 

Within  that  temple,  where  the  vestal 
flame 

Was  wont  to  burn ;  and  passing  by  that  way, 
To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  fame, 
Whose  tomb  fair  Love,  and  fairer  Virtue 
kept, 

All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Faerie  Queene ; 

At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch 
wept, 

And,  from  thenceforth,  those  Graces  were 
not  seen  ; 

For  they  this  Queen  attended;  in  whose 
stead 

Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura’s  hearse  : 
Hereat  the  hardest  stones  were  seen  to 
bleed, 

And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens 
did  pierce, 

Where  Homer’s  spright  did  tremble  all  for 
grief, 

And  cursed  the  access  of  that  celestial 
thief! 


Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


740 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


ODE. 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth, 

Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 

Have  ve  souls  in  Heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new? 

Yes,  and  those  of  Heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon  ; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wondrous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund’rous; 
With  the  whisper  of  Heaven’s  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian’s  fawns; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not; 

Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 

But  divine,  melodious  truth — 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth — 

Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  Heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 

And  the  souls  ve  left  behind  you 
Teach  us  here  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber’d,  never  cloying. 

Here  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week ; 

Of  their  sorrows  and  delights; 

Of  their  passions  and  their  spites; 

Of  their  glory  and  their  shame; 

What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 

Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth, 

Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 

Ye  have  souls  in  Heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new ! 

John  Keats. 

- *<>•  ■  ■■ 

Song. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast ; 

Still  to  be  powder’d,  still  perfumed, 
Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art’s  hid  causes  are  not  found, 
All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 


Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace  ; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free — 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art ; 

Thev  strike  mine  eves,  but  not  my  heart. 

Ben  Jon  son. 


Delight  in  Disorder. 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 
Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness  : 

A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a  fine  distraction — 

An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 
Enthralls  the  crimson  stomacher — 

A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 
Ribbons  to  flow  confusedly — 

A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 

In  the  tempestuous  petticoat — 

A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 
I  see  a  wild  civility, — 

Do  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 

Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

Robert  Herrick. 


The  La  chr  yma  tor  y. 

From  out  the  grave  of  one  whose  budding 
years 

AVere  cropp’d  by  death  when  Rome  was 
in  her  prime, 

I  brought  the  vial  of  his  kinsman's  tears, 
There  placed,  as  was  the  wont  of  ancient 
time ; 

Round  me,  that  night,  in  meads  of  asphodel. 
The  souls  of  th’  early  dead  did  come  and 

go, 

Drawn  by  that  flask  of  grief,  as  by  a  spell, 
That  long-imprison’d  shower  of  human 
woe  ; 

As  round  Ulysses,  for  the  draught  of  blood, 
The  heroes  throng’d,  those  spirits  flock’d 
to  me, 

AATiere,  lonely,  with  that  charm  of  tears  I 
stood  ; 

Two,  most  of  all,  my  dreaming  eyes  did 

see ; 

The  young  Marcellus,  young,  but  great 
and  good, 

And  Tullv’s  daughter  mourn’d  so  ten¬ 
derly.  Charles  Turner. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


741 


Age  and  Song. 

In  vain  men  tell  us  time  can  alter 
Old  loves  or  make  old  memories  falter, 
That  with  the  old  year  the  old  year’s  life 
closes. 

The  old  dew  still  falls  on  the  old  sweet 
flowers, 

The  old  sun  revives  the  new-fledged  hours, 
The  old  summer  rears  the  new-born  roses. 

Much  more  a  Muse  that  bears  upon  her 
Raiment  and  wreath  and  flower  of  honor, 
Gather’d  long  since  and  long  since  woven, 
Fades  not  or  falls  as  falls  the  vernal 
Blossoms  that  bear  no  fruit  eternal, 

By  summer  or  winter  charr’d  or  cloven. 

Xo  time  casts  down,  no  time  upraises 
Such  loves,  such  memories  and  such  praises, 
As  need  no  grace  of  sun  or  shower, 

Xo  saving  screen  from  frost  or  thunder, 

To  tend  and  house  around  and  under 
The  imperishable  and  peerless  flower. 

Old  thanks,  old  thoughts,  old  aspirations, 
Outlive  men’s  lives  and  lives  of  nations, 
Dead,  but  for  one  thing  which  survives — 
The  inalienable  and  unpriced  treasure, 

The  old  joy  of  power,  the  old  pride  of 
pleasure, 

That  lives  in  light  above  men’s  lives. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 

- - 

Beauty  Fades. 

Trust  not,  sweet  soul,  those  curled  waves 
of  gold 

With  gentle  tides  that  on  your  temples 
flow, 

Xor  temples  spread  with  flakes  of  virgin 
snow, 

Xor  snow  of  cheeks  with  Tyrian  grain  en¬ 
roll’d. 

Trust  not  those  shining  lights  which 
wrought  my  woe 

When  first  I  did  their  azure  rays  be¬ 
hold, 

Xor  voice,  whose  sounds  more  strange  ef¬ 
fects  do  show 

Than  of  the  Thracian  harper  have  been 
told. 


Look  to  this  dying  lily,  fading  rose, 

Dark  hyacinth,  of  late  whose  blushing 
beams 

Made  all  the  neighboring  herbs  and  grass 
rejoice, 

And  think  how  little  is  ’twixt  life’s  ex¬ 
tremes  : 

The  cruel  tyrant  that  did  kill  those  flowers 
Shall  once,  ah  me !  not  spare  that  spring 
of  yours. 

William  Drummond. 

- K>« - 

She  Walks  in  Beauty. 

She  walks  in  beauty  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies  ; 
And  all  that’s  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 

Thus  mellow’d  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 

Had  half  impair’d  the  nameless  grace 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 

Or  softly  lightens  o’er  her  face — 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling- 
place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o’er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow. 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

Lord  Byron. 


Hester. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavor. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 
And  her,  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 

A  rising  step  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
That  flush'd  her  spirit ; 


742 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call :  if  ’twas  not  pride, 

It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 

She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 
But  she  was  train’d  in  Nature’s  school — 
Nature  had  bless’d  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 

A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind  ; 

A  hawk’s  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind — 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore  ! 

Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 

Some  summer  morning, 

« . 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day — 

A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away — 

A  sweet  forewarning? 

Charles  Lamb. 

- »<>♦ 

Has  Sorrow  tiiy  Young  Days 
Shaded. 

Has  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded, 

As  clouds  o'er  the  morning  fleet? 

Too  fast  have  those  young  days  faded, 
That,  even  in  sorrow,  were  sweet? 
Does  Time  with  his  cold  wing  wither 
Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear  ? — 
Then,  child  of  misfortune,  come  hither, 
I’ll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 

Has  love  to  that  soul,  so  tender, 

Been  like  our  Lagenian  mine, 

Where  sparkles  of  golden  splendor 
All  over  the  surface  shine? 

But,  if  in  pursuit  we  go  deeper, 

Allured  by  the  gleam  that  shone, 

Ah  !  false  as  the  dream  of  the  sleeper, 
Like  Love,  the  bright  ore  is  gone. 

Has  Hope,  like  the  bird  in  the  story, 
That  flitted  from  tree  to  tree 
With  the  talisman’s  glittering  glory — 
Has  Hope  been  that  bird  to  thee? 

On  branch  after  branch  alighting, 

The  gem  did  she  still  display, 


And,  when  nearest  and  most  inviting, 
Then  waft  the  fair  gem  away  ? 

If  thus  the  young  hours  have  fleeted, 
When  sorrow  itself  look’d  bright ; 

If  thus  the  fair  hope  hath  cheated, 

That  led  thee  along  so  light ; 

If  thus  the  cold  world  now  wither 
Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear : — 
Come,  child  of  misfortune,  come  hither, 
I’ll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 

Thomas  Moore. 

•o« - 

Stanzas. 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 
As  aught  of  mortal  birth  ; 

And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare, 

Too  soon  return’d  to  earth  ! 

Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o’er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 
In  carelessness  or  mirth, 

There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low, 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot ; 

There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow, 
So  I  behold  them  not : 

It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved,  and  long  must  love, 
Like  common  earth  can  rot ; 

To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell, 

’Tis  nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last 
As  fervently  as  thou, 

Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past, 
And  canst  not  alter  now. 

The  love  where  death  has  set  his  seal, 

Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow: 

I  And  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours ; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine; 

The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lowers, 
Shall  never  more  be  thine. 

The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep  ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass’d  away, 

I  might  have  watch’d  through  long  decay. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


743 


The  flower  in  ripen’d  bloom  unmatch’d 
Must  fall  the  earliest  prey ; 

Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch’d, 
The  leaves  must  drop  away : 

And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck’d  to-day ; 

Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 
To  see  thy  beauties  fade ; 

The  night  that  follow’d  such  a  morn 
Had  worn  a  deeper  shade  : 

Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  past, 

And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last ; 

Extinguish’d,  not  decay’d ; 

As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed, 

To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 
One  vigil  o’er  thy  bed ; 

To  gaze,  how  fondly  !  on  thy  face, 

To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head  ; 

And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 

Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 
Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 

The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee  ! 

The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  eternity 
Returns  again  to  me, 

And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 

Than  aught,  except  its  living  years. 

Lord  Byron. 

- K>« - 

Oh;  Snatched  away  in  Beaut  ys 
Bloom. 

Oh  !  snatch’d  away  in  beauty’s  bloom 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb ; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year ; 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom  : 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 


And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread  : 
Fond  wretch!  as  if  her  step  disturb’d 
the  dead ! 

Away  !  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 

That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress. 
Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain  ? 

Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less? 
And  thou — who  tell’st  me  to  forget, 

Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 

Lord  Byron. 

- »<>♦  ■■  - 

Thy  Voice  is  Heard  thro ’ 

Rolling  Drums. 

Thy  voice  is  heard  thro’  rolling  drums, 
That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands ; 

Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands : 

A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee ; 

The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

- *0+ - 

An  Angel  in  the  House. 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble 
fright, 

Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight. 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on 
ours 

His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his 
bowers 

News  of  dear  friends,  and  children  who 
have  never 

Been  dead  indeed — as  we  shall  know  for 
ever. 

Alas  !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths — angels  that  are  to 
be, 

Or  may  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air ; 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife  whose  soft  heart 
sings 

In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future 
wings. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

- *o« - 


744 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Chorus. 

From  “Atalanta  in  Calydon; 

Before  the  beginning  of  years 
There  came  to  the  making  of  man 
Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears  ; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran  ; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven  ; 

Summer,  with  flowers  that  fell ; 
Remembrance,  fallen  from  heaven  ; 

And  madness  risen  from  hell ; 
Strength,  without  hands  to  smite  ; 

Love,  that  endures  for  a  breath  ; 
Night,  the  shadow  of  light, 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 


Qua  Cursum  Vent  us. 

As  ships  becalm’d  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day, 

Are  scarce,  long  leagues  apart,  descried ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  selfsame  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side : 

E’en  so, — but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged, 
Brief  absence  join’d  anew  to  feel, 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 


And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 
Fire,  and  the  falling  of  tears, 

And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand 
From  under  the  feet  of  the  years ; 

And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea ; 

And  dust  of  the  laboring  earth  ; 

And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth  ; 
And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter, 
And  fashion’d  with  loathing  and  love, 
With  life  before  and  after, 

And  death  beneath  and  above, 

For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrowT, 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span 
With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow, 

The  holy  spirit  of  man. 

From  the  winds  of  the  north  and  the  south 
They  gather’d  as  unto  strife ; 

They  breathed  upon  his  mouth, 

They  fill’d  his  body  with  life  ; 

Eyesight  and  speech  they  wrought 
For  the  veils  of  the  soul  therein, 

A  time  for  labor  and  thought, 

A  time  to  serve  and  to  sin  ; 

They  gave  him  light  in  his  ways, 

And  love,  and  a  space  for  delight, 

And  beauty  and  length  of  days, 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night. 

His  speech  is  a  burning  fire ; 

With  his  lips  he  travaileth  ; 

In  his  heart  is  a  blind  desire, 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death  ; 

He  weaves,  and  is  clothed  with  derision  ; 

Sows,  and  he  shall  not  reap  ; 

His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 
Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  fill’d, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steer’d  : 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  will’d, 

Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appear’d  ! 

To  veer,  how  vain  !  On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks  !  In  light,  in  darkness  too. 
Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass 
guides, — 

To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But,  O  blithe  breeze,  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne’er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 
On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last! 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  hold  where’er  they  fare, — 
O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas, 

At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 

— ——•<>• - 

Address  to  the  AIummy  in  Bed 
zones  Exhibition. 

And  thou  hast  walk’d  about  (how  strange 
a  story  !) 

In  Thebes’  streets  three  thousand  years 
ago, 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 
Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupen¬ 
dous, 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous  ? 

Speak  !  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted 
dummy  ; 

Thou  hast  a  tongue — come — let  us  heai 
i  its  tune ; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


745 


Thou’rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above  ground, 
muinrnv  ! 

V 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon — 

Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  crea¬ 
tures, 

But  with  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and  limbs, 
and  features. 

Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recol¬ 
lect — 

To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx’s 
fame  ? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ? 

Is  Pompey’s  Pillar  really  a  misnomer? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by 
Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason,  and  forbidden 

By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade — 

Then  say  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon’s  statue,  which  at  sunrise 
play’d  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest — if  so,  my 
struggles 

Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its 
juggles. 

Perhaps  that  very  hand,  now  pinion’d  flat, 

Has  hob-a-nobb’d  with  Pharaoh,  glass 
to  glass  ; 

Or  dropp’d  a  half-penny  in  Homer’s  hat  ; 

Or  doff’d  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido 
pass  ; 

Or  held,  by  Solomon’s  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  temple’s  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when 
arm’d, 

Has  any  Roman  soldier  maul’d  and 
knuckled  ; 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  em¬ 
balm’d 

Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been 
suckled  : 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  could’st  develop — if  that  wither’d 
tongue 

Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs 
have  seen — 


How  the  world  look’d  when  it  was  fresh 
and  young, 

And  the  great  deluge  still  had  left  it 
green  ; 

Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  history’s  pages 

Contain’d  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? 

Still  silent !  incommunicative  elf! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ?  then  keep  thy 
vows  ; 

But  prvthee  tell  us  something  of  thyself — 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house ; 

Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast 
slumber’d — 

What  hast  thou  seen — what  strange  adven¬ 
tures  number’d  ? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  ex¬ 
tended 

We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some 
strange  mutations  ; 

The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended — 

New  worlds  have  risen — we  have  lost 
old  nations  ; 

And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been 
humbled, 

While  not  a  fragment  of  thv  flesh  has 

v_/  %J 

crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o’er  thy 
head 

When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cam- 
byses, 

March’d  armies  o’er  thv  tomb  with  thun- 

V 

dering  tread — 

O’erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis ; 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and 
wonder, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb’s  secrets  may  not  be  confess’d, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  : 

A  heart  has  throbb’d  beneath  that  leathern 
breast, 

And  tears  adown  that  dusty  cheek  have 
roll’d  ; 

Have  children  climb’d  those  knees  and 
kiss’d  that  face  ? 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and 
race  ? 

Statue  of  flesh — Immortal  of  the  dead  ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  ! 


746 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Posthumous  man — who  quitt’st  thy  nar¬ 
row  bed, 

And  standest  undecay’d  within  our  pres¬ 
ence  ! 

Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judgment 
morning, 

When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee 
with  its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  en¬ 
dure, 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for  ever  ? 

Oh  !  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalm’d  and 
pure 

In  living  virtue — that  when  both  must 
sever, 

Although  corruption  may  our  frame  con¬ 
sume, 

The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may 
bloom  ! 

Horace  Smith. 


Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn. 

Thou  still  unravish’d  bride  of  quietness! 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow 
Time ! 

Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our 
rhyme ! 

What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about 
thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?  what 
maidens  loath  ? 

What  mad  pursuit?  What  struggle  to 
escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?  What  wild 
ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  un¬ 
heard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes, 
play  on — 

Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but  more  endear’d, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 

Fair  youth  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst 
not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be 
bare ; 

Bold  lover,  never,  never,  canst  thou 
kiss, 


Though  winning  near  the  goal ;  yet  do  not 
grieve — 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast 
not  thy  bliss  ; 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot 
shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring 
adieu : 

And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 

More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy 
love ! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy’d, 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever 
young ; 

All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high  sorrowful  and 
clov’d, 

A  burning  forehead  and  a  parching 
tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 

Lead’st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the 
skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands 
drest? 

What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk  this  pious 
morn  ? 

And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul,  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e’er  return. 

0  Attic  shape!  Fair  attitude!  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  over¬ 
wrought, 

With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden 
weed  ; 

Thou,  silent  form !  dost  tease  us  out  of 
thought, 

As  doth  eternity.  Cold  pastoral! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation 
waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other 
woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom 
thou  say’st, 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


747 


u  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,” — that  is 
all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 
know. 

John  Keats. 

- *04 - 


The  Men  of  Old. 

I  know  not  that  the  men  of  old 
Were  better  than  men  now, 

Of  heart  more  kind,  of  hand  more  bold, 
Of  more  ingenuous  brow  ; 

I  heed  not  those  who  pine  for  force 
A  ghost  of  time  to  raise, 

As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 
Of  these  appointed  days. 


Still  it  is  true,  and  over-true, 

That  I  delight  to  close 
This  book  of  life  self-wise  and  new, 

And  let  my  thoughts  repose 
On  all  that  humble  happiness 
The  world  has  since  foregone, — 

The  daylight  of  contentedness 
That  on  those  faces  shone  ! 

With  rights,  though  not  too  closely  scann’d*, 
Enjoy’d  as  far  as  known, 

With  will,  by  no  reverse  unmann’d, 

With  pulse  of  even  tone, 

They  from  to-day,  and  from  to-night, 
Expected  nothing  more 
Than  yesterday  and  yesternight 
Had  proffer’d  them  before. 


To  them  was  life  a  simple  art 
Of  duties  to  be  done, 

A  game  where  each  man  took  his  part, 
A  race  where  all  must  run  ; 

A  battle  whose  great  scheme  and  scope 
They  little  cared  to  know, 

Content,  as  men-at-arms,  to  cope 
Each  with  his  fronting  foe. 


Man  now  his  virtue’s  diadem 
Puts  on,  and  proudly  wears,  — 

Great  thoughts,  great  feelings,  came  to 
them 

Like  instincts  unawares ; 

Blending  their  souls’  sublimest  needs 
With  tasks  of  every  day, 

They  went  about  their  gravest  deeds 
As  noble  boys  at  play. 


And  what  if  Nature’s  fearful  wound 
They  did  not  probe  and  bare, 

For  that  their  spirits  never  swoon’d 
To  watch  the  misery  there, — 

For  that  their  love  but  flow’d  more  fast, 
Their  charities  more  free, 

Not  conscious  what  mere  drops  they  cast 
Into  the  evil  sea. 

A  man’s  best  things  are  nearest  him, 

Lie  close  about  his  feet ; 

It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 
That  we  are  sick  to  greet ; 

For  flowers  that  grow  our  hands  beneath 
We  struggle  and  aspire, — 

Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 
The  air  of  fresh  desire. 

/ 

Yet,  brothers,  who  up  reason’s  hill 
Advance  with  hopeful  cheer, — 

Oh,  loiter  not,  those  heights  are  chill, 

As  chill  as  they  are  clear  ; 

And  still  restrain  your  haughty  gaze 
The  loftier  that  ye  go, 

Remembering  distance  leaves  a  haze 
On  all  that  lies  below. 

Kichard  Monckton  Milnes 
(Lord  Houghton). 


Oh/  the  Pleasant  Da  ys  of  Old  . 

Oh  !  the  pleasant  days  of  old,  which  so  of¬ 
ten  people  praise ! 

True,  they  wanted  all  the  luxuries  that 
grace  our  modern  days  : 

Bare  floors  were  strew’d  with  rushes — the 
walls  let  in  the  cold  ; 

Oh  !  how  they  must  have  shiver’d  in  those 
pleasant  days  of  old  ! 

Oh  !  those  ancient  lords  of  old,  how  mag¬ 
nificent  they  were  ! 

They  threw  down  and  imprison’d  kings — 
to  thwart  them  who  might  dare  ? 

They  ruled  their  serfs  right  sternly  ;  they 
took  from  Jews  their  gold — 

Above  both  law  and  equity  were  those 
great  lords  of  old  ! 

Oh  !  the  gallant  knights  of  old,  for  their 
valor  so  renown’d  ! 

9 

With  sword  and  lance,  and  armor  strong, 
they  scour’d  the  country  round  ; 


748 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  whenever  aught  to  tempt  them  they 
met  by  wood  or  wold, 

By  right  of  sword  they  seized  the  prize — 
those  gallant  knights  of  old  ! 

Oh !  the  gentle  dames  of  old  !  who,  quite 
free  from  fear  or  pain, 

Could  gaze  on  joust  and  tournament,  and 
see  their  champions  slain  ; 

They  lived  on  good  beefsteaks  and  ale, 
■which  made  them  strong  and  bold — 

Oh !  more  like  men  than  women  were 
those  gentle  dames  of  old  ! 

Oh '!  those  mighty  towers  of  old !  with 
their  turrets,  moat,  and  keep, 

Their  battlements  and  bastions,  their  dun- 
geons  dark  and  deep. 

Full  many  a  baron  held  his  court  within 
the  castle  hold  ; 

And  many  a  captive  languish’d  there,  in 
those  strong  towers  of  old. 

Oh  !  the  troubadours  of  old  !  with  their 
gentle  minstrelsie 

Of  hope  and  joy,  or  deep  despair,  which- 
e’er  their  lot  might  be — 

For  years  they  served  their  lady-love  ere 
they  their  passions  told — 

Oh  l  wondrous  patience  must  have  had 
those  troubadours  of  old  ! 

Oh  !  those  blessed  times  of  old  !  with  their 
chivalry  and  state  ; 

I  love  to  read  their  chronicles,  which  such 
brave  deeds  relate  ; 

I  love  to  sing  their  ancient  rhymes,  to  hear 
their  legends  told — 

But,  Heaven  be  thank’d !  I  live  not  in 

those  blessed  times  of  old  ! 

Frances  Brown. 

- - 

Is  it  Come? 

\ 

Is  it  come  ?  they  said,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Nile, 

Who  look’d  for  the  world’s  long-promised 
day, 

And  saw  but  the  strife  of  Egypt’s  toil, 

With  the  desert’s  sand  and  the  granite 
gray. 


From  the  pyramid,  temple,  and  treasured 
dead, 

We  vainly  ask  for  her  wisdom’s  plan  ; 

They  tell  us  of  the  tyrant’s  dread — 

Yet  there  was  hope  when  that  day  be¬ 
gan. 

The  Chaldee  came,  with  his  starry  lore, 
And  built  up  Babylon’s  crown  and  creed; 

And  brick  were  stamp’d  on  the  Tigris 
shore 

With  signs  which  our  sages  scarce  can 
read. 

From  Ninus’  temple,  and  Nimrod’s  tower, 
The  rule  of  the  old  East’s  empire  spread 

Unreasoning  faith  and  unquestion’d  pow¬ 
er — 

But  still,  Is  it  come  ?  the  watcher  said. 

The  light  of  the  Persian’s  worshipp’d 
flame, 

The  ancient  bondage  its  splendor  threw  ; 

And  once,  on  the  West  a  sunrise  came, 
When  Greece  to  her  freedom’s  trust  was 
true ; 

With  dreams  to  the  utmost  ages  dear, 
With  human  gods,  and  with  god-like 
men, 

No  marvel  the  far-off  day  seem’d  near 
To  eyes  that  look’d  through  her  laurels 
then. 

The  Romans  conquer’d,  and  revell’d  too, 
Till  honor,  and  faith,  and  power,  wrere 
gone ; 

And  deeper  old  Europe’s  darkness  grew, 
As,  wave  after  wave,  the  Goth  came  on. 

The  gown  was  learning,  the  sword  was 
law  ; 

The  people  served  in  the  oxen’s  stead  ; 

But  ever  some  gleam  the  watcher  saw, 
And  evermore,  Is  it  come  ?  they  said. 

Poet  and  Seer  that  question  caught, 

Above  the  din  of  life’s  fears  and  frets  ; 

It  march’d  with  letters,  it  toil’d  with 
thought, 

Through  schools  and  creeds  which  the 
earth  forgets. 

And  statesmen  trifle,  and  priests  deceive, 
And  traders  barter  our  world  away — 

Yet  hearts  to  that  golden  promise  cleave, 
And  still,  at  times,  Is  it  come?  they  say. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


749 


The  days  of  the  nations  bear  no  trace 
Of  all  the  sunshine  so  far  foretold ; 

The  cannon  speaks  in  the  teacher’s  place — 
The  age  is  weary  with  work  and  gold  ; 

And  high  hopes  wither,  and  memories 
wane ; 

On  hearths  and  altars  the  fires  are  dead  ; 

But  that  brave  faith  hath  not  lived  in 
vain — 

And  this  is  all  that  our  watcher  said. 

Frances  Brown. 

- - K>«  - 

The  Long-Ago. 

Eyes,  which  can  but  ill  define 
Shapes  that  rise  about  and  near, 
Through  the  far  horizon’s  line 
Stretch  a  vision  free  and  clear ; 
Memories,  feeble  to  retrace 
Yesterday’s  immediate  flow, 

Find  a  dear  familiar  face 
In  each  hour  of  Long-ago. 

Follow  yon  majestic  train 

Down  the  slopes  of  old  renown; 
Knightly  forms  without  disdain, 

Sainted  heads  without  a  frown: 
Emperors  of  thought  and  hand 
Congregate,  a  glorious  show, 

Met  from  every  age  and  land 
In  the  plains  of  Long-ago. 

As  the  heart  of  childhood  brings 
Something  of  eternal  joy 
From  its  own  unsounded  springs, 

Such  as  life  can  scarce  destroy ; 

So,  remindful  of  the  prime, 

Spirits  wandering  to  and  fro 
Rest  upon  the  resting-time 
In  the  peace  of  Long-ago. 

Youthful  Hope’s  religious  fire, 

When  it  burns  no  longer,  leaves 
Ashes  of  impure  desire 
On  the  altars  it  bereaves  ; 

But  the  light  that  fills  the  Past 
Sheds  a  still  diviner  glow, 

Ever  farther  it  is  cast 

O’er  the  scenes  of  Long-ago. 

Many  a  growth  of  pain  and  care, 
Cumbering  all  the  present  hour, 
Yields,  when  once  transplanted  there, 
Healthy  fruit  or  pleasant  flower. 


Thoughts  that  hardly  flourish  here, 
Feelings  long  have  ceased  to  blow, 
Breathe  a  native  atmosphere 
In  the  world  of  Long-ago. 

On  that  deep-retiring  shore 
Frequent  pearls  of  beauty  lie, 

Where  the  passion-waves  of  yore 
Fiercely  beat  and  mounted  high; 
Sorrows — that  are  sorrows  still — 

Lose  the  bitter  taste  of  woe  ; 
Nothing’s  altogether  ill 
In  the  griefs  of  Long-ago. 

Tombs  where  lonely  love  repines, 
Ghastly  tenements  of  tears, 

Wear  the  look  of  happy  shrines 
Through  the  golden  mist  of  years; 
Death,  to  those  who  trust  in  good, 
Vindicates  his  hardest  blow  ; 

Oh !  we  would  not,  if  we  could, 

Wake  the  sleep  of  Long-ago  ! 

Though  the  doom  of  swift  decay 
Shocks  the  soul  where  life  is  strong; 
Though  for  frailer  hearts  the  day 
Lingers  sad  and  overlong ; — 

Still  the  weight  will  find  a  leaven, 

Still  the  spoiler’s  hand  is  slow, 

While  the  future  has  its  Heaven, 

And  the  past  its  Long-ago. 

Kichard  Monckton  Milnes 
(Lord  Houghton). 

•o« 

Give  me  the  Old— 

Old  Wine  to  Drink,  Old  Wood  to  Burn, 
Old  Books  to  Read,  and  Old  Friend? 
to  Converse  with. 

Old  wine  to  drink  ! — 

Ay,  give  the  slippery  juice 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown  loose 
Within  the  tun  ; 

Pluck’d  from  beneath  the  cliff 
Of  sunny-sided  Teneriffe, 

And  ripen’d  ’neath  the  blink 
Of  India’s  sun  ! 

Peat  whiskev  hot, 

Temper’d  with  well-boil’d  water  ' 

These  make  the  long  night  shorter,-- 
Forgetting  not 

Good  stout  old  English  porter. 


750 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Old  wood  to  burn  ! — 

Ay,  bring  the  hill-side  beech 
From  where  the  owlets  meet  and  screech, 
And  ravens  croak ; 

The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet; 

Bring  too  a  clump  of  fragrant  peat, 

Dug  ’neath  the  fern  ; 

The  knotted  oak, 

A  fagot  too,  perhap, 

Whose  bright  flame,  dancing,  winking, 
Shall  light  us  at  our  drinking; 

While  the  oozing  sap 
Shall  make  sweet  music  to  our  thinking. 

Old  books  to  read  ! — 

Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  wit, 

The  brazen-clasp’d,  the  vellum  writ, 
Time-lionor’d  tomes ! 

The  same  my  sire  scann’d  before, 

The  same  my  grandsire  thumbed  o’er, 

The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore, 

The  well-earn’d  meed 
Of  Oxford’s  domes : 

Old  Homer  blind, 

Old  Horace,  rake  Anacreon,  by 
Old  Tully,  Plautus,  Terence  lie ; 

Mort  Arthur’s  olden  minstrelsie, 

Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay ! 

And  Gervase  Markham’s  venerie — 

Nor  leave  behind 

The  Holye  Book  by  which  we  live  and  die. 

Old  friends  to  talk  ! — - 
Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few, 

The  wise,  the  courtly,  and  the  true, 

So  rarely  found ; 

Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud, 

Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 
In  mountain-walk ! 

Bring  Walter  good : 

With  soulful  Fred  ;  and  learned  Will, 

And  thee,  my  alter  ego  (dearer  still 
For  every  mood). 

These  add  a  bouquet  to  my  wine! 

These  add  a  sparkle  to  my  pine ! 

If  these  I  tine, 

Can  books,  or  fire,  or  wine  be  good? 

Robert  Hinckley  Messinger. 

- k>« - 

The  Good  Time  Coming. 

There’s  a  good  time  coming,  boys,  . 

A  good  time  coming : 

We  may  not  live  to  see  the  day, 

But  earth  shall  glisten  in  the  ray 
Of  the  good  time  coming. 


Cannon-balls  may  aid  the  truth, 

But  thought’s  a  weapon  stronger; 
We’ll  win  our  battle  by  its  aid; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There’s  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 

The  pen  shall  supersede  the  sword, 

And  Right,  not  Might,  shall  be  the  lord. 
In  the  good  time  coming. 

Worth,  not  Birth,  shall  rule  mankind, 
And  be  acknowledged  stronger ; 

The  proper  impulse  has  been  given ; — 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

There’s  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming : 

War  in  all  men’s  eyes  shall  be 
A  monster  of  iniquity 
In  the  good  time  coming. 

Nations  shall  not  quarrel  then, 

To  prove  which  is  the  stronger; 

Nor  slaughter  men  for  glory’s  sake; — 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

There’s  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming  : 

Hateful  rivalries  of  creed 
Shall  not  make  their  martyrs  bleed 
In  the  good  time  coming. 

Religion  shall  be  shorn  of  pride, 

And  flourish  all  the  stronger ; 

And  Charity  shall  trim  her  lamp  ; — • 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

There’s  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming: 

The  people  shall  be  temperate, 

And  shall  love  instead  of  hate, 

In  the  good  time  coming. 

They  shall  use,  and  not  abuse, 

And  make  all  virtue  stronger ; — 

The  reformation  has  begun  ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There’s  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming : 

Let  us  aid  it  all  we  can, 

Every  woman,  every  man, 

The  good  time  coming. 

Smallest  helps,  if  rightly  given, 

Make  the  impulse  stronger  ; — 

’Twill  be  strong  enough  one  day  ; — 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

Charles  Mackay. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


751 


A  Petition  to  Time. 

Touch  us  gently,  Time ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently, — as  we  sometimes  glide 
Through  a  quiet  dream  ! 

Humble  voyagers  are  we, 

Husband,  wife,  and  children  three, — 
(One  is  lost, — an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead). 

Touch  us  gently,  Time! 

We’ve  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings; 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 

Humble  voyagers  are  we 
O’er  life’s  dim,  unsounded  sea, 

Seeking  only  some  calm  clime; — 

Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time ! 

Bryan  Waller  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall). 

- - 

The  Aged  Man-at-Arms. 

His  golden  locks  time  hath  to  silver  turn’d; 
0  time  too  swift,  O  swiftness  never 
ceasing ! 

His  youth  ’gainst  time  and  age  hath  ever 
spurn’d, 

But  spurn’d  in  vain ;  youth  waneth  by 
increasing : 

Beauty,  strength,  youth,  are  flowers  but 
fading  seen, 

Duty,  faith,  love,  are  roots,  and  ever  green. 

His  helmet  now  shall  make  a  hive  for 
bees, 

And,  lovers’  sonnets  turn’d  to  holy 
psalms, 

A  man-at-arms  must  now  serve  on  his 
knees, 

And  feed  on  prayers,  which  are  old 
age’s  alms ; 

But  though  from  court  to  cottage  he  de¬ 
part, 

His  saint  is  sure  of  his  unspotted  heart. 

And  when  he  saddest  sits  in  homely  cell, 
He’ll  teach  his  swains  this  carol  for  a 
song : 

“  Bless’d  be  the  hearts  that  wish  my  sov¬ 
ereign  well, 

Cursed  be  the  souls  that  think  her  any 
wrong !” 


Goddess,  allow  this  aged  man  his  right, 

To  be  your  beadsman  now  that  was  your 
knight. 

George  Peele. 

- - - 

The  One  Gray  Hair. 

The  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies, 

And  love  to  hear  ’em  told  ; 

Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listen’d  to  many  a  one, — 

Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he 
grew  old. 

I  never  sat  among 

The  choir  of  Wisdom’s  song, 

But  pretty  lies  loved  I 
As  much  as  any  king — 

When  youth  was  on  the  wing, 

And  (must  it  then  be  told?)  when  youth 
had  quite  gone  by. 

Alas  !  and  I  have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot, 

When  one  pert  lady  said, 

“  O  Walter  !  I  am  quite 
Bewilder’d  with  affright ! 

I  see  (sit  quiet  now!)  a  white  hair  on  your 
head !” 

Another,  more  benign, 

Snipt  it  away  from  mine, 

And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
Pretended  it  was  found.  .  .  . 

She  lept,  and  twirl’d  it  round. 

Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  was  so  fair. 

Walter  Savage  Lanlor. 

- K>* - 

I’M  Growing  Old. 

My  days  pass  pleasantly  away, 

My  nights  are  bless’d  with  sweetest 
sleep ; 

I  feel  no  symptoms  of  decay, 

I  have  no  cause  to  mourn  nor  weep  ; 

My  foes  are  impotent  and  shy, 

My  friends  arc  neither  false  nor  cold. 
And  yet,  of  late,  I  often  sigh, — 

I’m  growing  old ! 

My  growing  talk  of  olden  times, 

My  growing  thirst  for  early  news 


752 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


My  growing  apathy  for  rhymes, 

My  growing  love  for  easy  shoes, 

My  growing  hate  of  crowds  and  noise, 

My  growing  fear  of  taking  cold, 

All  whisper,  in  the  plainest  voice, 

I’m  growing  old  ! 

I’m  growing  fonder  of  my  staff, 

I'm  growing  dimmer  in  the  eyes, 

I’m  growing  fainter  in  my  laugh, 

I’m  growing  deeper  in  my  sighs, 

I’m  growing  careless  of  my  dress, 

I’m  growing  frugal  of  my  gold, 

I’m  growing  wise,  I’m  growing — yes — 

I’m  growing  old ! 

I  see  it  in  my  changing  taste, 

I  see  it  in  my  changing  hair, 

I  see  it  in  my  growing  waist, 

I  see  it  in  my  growing  heir ; 

A  thousand  signs  proclaim  the  truth, 

As  plain  as  truth  was  ever  told, 

That  even  in  my  vaunted  youth 
I’m  growing  old ! 

Ah  me  !  my  very  laurels  breathe 
The  tale  in  my  reluctant  ears ; 

And  every  boon  the  Hours  bequeath 
But  makes  me  debtor  to  the  Years; 

E’en  Flattery’s  honey’d  words  declare 
The  secret  she  would  fain  withhold, 

And  tells  me  in  “  How  young  you  are !” 
I’m  growing  old  ! 

Thanks  for  the  years  whose  rapid  flight 
My  sombre  muse  too  sadly  sings ; 
Thanks  for  the  gleams  of  golden  light 
That  tint  the  darkness  of  their  wings, — 
The  light  that  beams  from  out  the  sky, 
Those  heavenly  mansions  to  unfold, 
Where  all  are  blest,  and  none  may  sigh, 

(l  I’m  growing  old  !” 

John  G.  Saxe. 

■ - *<>• - 

Sonnet. 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old, 
For  as  you  were,  when  first  your  eye  I 
eyed, 

Such  seems  vour  beautv  still.  Three  win- 
ters  cold 

Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  sum¬ 
mers’  pride ; 


Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn 
turn’d, 

In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen ; 

Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes 
burn’d, 

Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are 
green. 

Ah  !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 

Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  per¬ 
ceived  ; 

So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still 
doth  stand, 

Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  de¬ 
ceived  : 

For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  un¬ 
bred, — 

Ere  you  were  born  was  beauty’s  summer 
dead. 

William  Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the 
time, 

And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hideous 
night; 

When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime, 

And  sable  curls  all  silver’d  o’er  with 
white  ; 

When  lofty  trees  I  see  barren  of  leaves, 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd. 

And  Summer’s  green  all  girded  up  in 
sheaves, 

Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly 
beard ; 

Then,  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make, 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time 
must  go, 

Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  themselves 
forsake, 

And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow  ; 

And  nothing  ’gainst  Time’s  scythe  can 
make  defence, 

Save  breed,  to  brave  him,  when  he  takes 
thee  hence. 

William  Shakespeare. 

« 


+0+ 


Sonnet. 

Xot  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful 
rhyme ; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


758 


But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these 
contents 

Than  unswept  stone,  besmear’d  with 
sluttish  time. 

When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 
And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  ma¬ 
sonry, 

Nor  Mars  his  sword,  nor  war’s  quick  fire 
shall  burn 

The  living  record  of  your  memory. 

’Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious  enmity 
Shall  you  pace  forth :  your  praise  shall 
still  find  room 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity, 

That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending 
doom. 

So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise, 

You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers’  eves. 

William  Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

Oh,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beau¬ 
teous  seem, 

By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth 
doth  give! 

The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odor  which  doth  in  it  live. 

The  canker  blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye, 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses  ; 

Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 
When  summer’s  breath  their  masked 
buds  discloses  ; 

But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show, 
They  live  unwoo’d,  and  unrespected  fade; 

Die  to  themselves.  Sweet  roses  do  not  so; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odors 
made : 

And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, 

When  that  shall  fade,  my  verse  distils 
your  truth. 

William  Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent 
thought, 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things 
past,  • 

1  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear 

time's  waste. 

48 


Then,  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow. 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death’s  date¬ 
less  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love’s  long-since  cancell’d 
woe, 

And  moan  th’  expense  of  many  a  van¬ 
ish’d  sight. 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o’er 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay,  as  if  not  paid  be¬ 
fore  ; 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear 
friend, 

All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

William  Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

Like  as  the  waves  make  toward  the  peb¬ 
bled  shore 

So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end  ; 

Each  changing  place  with  that  which 
goes  before, 

In  sequent  toil  all  forward  do  contend. 

Nativity  once  in  the  main  of  light 

Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being 
crown’d, 

Crooked  eclipses  ’gainst  his  glory  fight, 
And  Time  that  gave,  doth  now  his  gift 
confound. 

Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on 
youth, 

And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty’s 
brow  ; 

Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  Nature’s  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to 
mow. 

And  yet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verse  shall 
stand 

Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

William  Shakespeare. 


Sonnet. 

Poor  Soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
Fool’d  by  those  rebel  powers  that  thee 
array, 

Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  suffer 
dearth, 

Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly 
gay  ? 


754 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 

Dost  thou  upon  thy  -fading  mansion 
spend  ? 

Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 

Eat  up  thy  charge  ?  is  this  thy  body’s 
end? 

Then,  Soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant’s 
loss, 

And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store ; 

Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross ; 

Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no 
more  : — 

So  slialt  thou  feed  on  death,  that  feeds  on 
men, 

And  death  once  dead,  there’s  no  more  dy¬ 
ing  then. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- - 

Sonnet. 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and  will 
do  none, 

That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do 
show, 

Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as 
stone, 

Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation 
slow, — 

They  rightly  do  inherit  Heaven’s  graces, 

And  husband  Nature’s  riches  from  ex¬ 
pense  ; 

They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their 
faces, 

Others,  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 

The  summer’s  flower  is  to  the  summer 
sweet, 

Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die  ; 

But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet, 

The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity  : 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their 
deeds ; 

Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. 

William  Shakespeare. 


The  Old  Man’s  Wish. 

If  I  live  to  grow  old,  as  I  find  I  go  down, 
Let  this  be  my  fate  :  in  a  country  town 
May  I  have  a  warm  house,  with  a  stone  at 
my  gate, 

And  a  cleanly  young  girl  to  rub  my  bald 
pate. 


May  I  govern  my  passions  with  an 
absolute  sway, 

Grow  wiser  and  better  as  my  strength 
wears  away, 

Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle 
decav. 

V 

In  a  country  town,  by  a  murmuring  brook, 

With  the  ocean  at  distance,  on  which  I 
may  look, 

With  a  spacious  plain,  without  hedge  or 
stile, 

And  an  easy  pad  nag  to  ride  out  a  mile. 

May  I  govern  my  passions  with  an 
absolute  sway, 

Grow  wiser  and  better  as  my  strength 
wears  away, 

Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle 
decay. 

With  Horace  and  Plutarch,  and  one  or  two 
more 

Of  the  best  wits  that  lived  in  the  ages 
before  ; 

With  a  dish  of  roast  mutton,  not  ven’son 
nor  teal, 

And  clean,  though  coarse  linen  at  every 
meal. 

May  I  govern  my  passions  with  an 
absolute  sway, 

Grow  wiser  and  better  as  my  strength 
wears  away, 

Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle 
decay. 

With  a  pudding  on  Sunday,  and  stout, 
humming  liquor, 

And  remnants  of  Latin  to  puzzle  the 
vicar; 

With  a  hidden  reserve  of  Burgundy  wine 

To  drink  the  king’s  health  as  oft  as  I 
dine. 

May  I  govern  my  passions  with  an 
absolute  sway, 

Grow  wiser  and  better  as  my  strength 
wears  away, 

Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle 

decay. 

With  a  courage  undaunted  may  I  face  my 
last  day, 

And  when  I  am  dead  may  the  better  sort 
say, 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


(  OO 


the  morning  when  sober,  in  the  even¬ 
ing  when  mellow, 

[e’s  gone,  and  hain’t  left  behind  him 
his  fellow  ; 

For  he  govern’d  his  passions  with  an 
absolute  sway, 

And  grew  wiser  and  better  as  his 
strength  wore  away, 

Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle 
decay.” 

Walter  Pope. 


Tiie  Last  Leaf. 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 

As  he  pass’d  by  the  door  ; 

And  again 

The  pavement-stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o’er  the  ground 
With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 

Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 
Cut  him  down, 

Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 
Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 

And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 
Sad  and  wan  ; 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

“  They  are  gone.” 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  press’d 
In  their  bloom  ; 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 
On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 

Poor  old  lady  !  she  is  dead 
Long  ago — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 

And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 
In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 

And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 
Like  a  staff ; 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 

And  a  melancholy  crack 
In  his  laugh. 


I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 
At  him  here, 

But  the  old  three-corner’d  hat, 

And  the  breeches, — and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 
In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 

At  the  old  forsaken  bough 
Where  I  cling. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

- -*<>♦— 

Ode  on  Solitude. 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 
A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 

Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 
In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with 
bread, 

Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire ; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter,  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcern’dly  find 

Hours,  days,  and  years,  slide  soft  away 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 

Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease 
Together  mix’d  ;  sweet  recreation, 

And  innocence,  which  most  does  please 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown  ; 

Thus  unlamented  let  me  die ; 

Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 

Alexander  Pope. 

- *0+ - 

To  my  Picture. 

When  age  hath  made  me  what  I  am  not 
now, 

And  every  wrinkle  tells  me  where  fhe 
plough 

Of  Time  hath  furrow’d ;  when  an  ice  shall 
flow 

Through  every  vein,  and  all  my  head  be 
snow ; 


756 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


When  Death  displays  his  coldness  in  my 
cheek, 

And  I  myself  in  my  own  picture  seek, 

Not  finding  what  I  am,  but  what  I  was, 

In  doubt  which  to  believe — this  or  my 

glass ; 

Yet  though  I  alter,  this  remains  the  same 
As  it  was  drawn,  retains  the  primitive 
frame 

And  first  complexion ;  here  will  still  be  seen 
Blood  on  the  cheek  and  down  upon  the  chin ; 
Here  the  smooth  brow  will  stay,  the  lively 
eye, 

The  ruddy  lip,  and  hair  of  youthful  dye. 
Behold  what  frailty  we  in  man  may  see, 
Whose  shadow  is  less  given  to  change  than 
he ! 

Thomas  Randolph. 

- »o» 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth. 

Crabbed  age  and  youth 
Cannot  live  together  ; 

Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 

Age  is  full  of  care ; 

Youth  like  summer  morn, 

Age  like  winter  weather  ; 

Youth  like  summer  brave, 

Age  like  winter  bare. 

Youth  is  full  of  sport, 

Age’s  breath  is  short ; 

Youth  is  nimble,  age  is  lame; 

Y^outh  is  hot  and  bold, 

Age  is  weak  and  cold  ; 

Youth  is  wild,  and  age  is  tame. 

Age,  I  do  abhor  thee, 

Youth,  I  do  adore  thee; 

Oh,  my  love,  my  love  is  young ! 

Age,  I  do  defy  thee  ; 

0  sweet  shepherd  !  hie  thee, 

For  methinks  thou  stay’st  too  long. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- - 

Life. 

made  a  posy,  while  the  day  ran  by  : 
Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 
My  life  within  this  band. 

But  time  did  beckon  to  the  flowers,  and 
they 

By  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal  away, 
And  wither’d  in  my  hand. 


My  hand  was  next  to  them,  and  then  my 
heart ; 

I  took,  without  more  thinking,  in  good 
part, 

Time’s  gentle  admonition  ; 

Who  did  so  sweetly  death’s  sad  taste  con¬ 
vey, 

Making  my  mind  to  smell  my  fatal  day, 
Yet  sugaring  the  suspicion. 

Farewell,  dear  flowers,  sweetly  your  time 
ye  spent, 

Fit,  while  ye  lived,  for  smell  or  ornament, 
And  after  death  for  cures. 

I  follow  straight  without  complaints  or 
grief, 

Since,  if  my  scent  be  good,  I  care  not  if 
It  be  as  short  as  yours. 

George  Herbert. 

- •<>♦— 

The  Deserted  Village. 

Sweet  Auburn !  loveliest  village  of  the 
plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheer’d  {he 
laboring  swain, 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit 
paid, 

And  parting  summer’s  lingering  blooms 
delay’d — 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and 
ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could 
please — 

How  often  have  I  loiter’d  o’er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endear’d  each 
scene ; 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every 
charm — 

The  shelter’d  cot,  the  cultivated  farm. 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighbor¬ 
ing  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath 
the  shade 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers 
made  ; 

How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day, 

When  toil,  remitting,  lent  its  turn  to  play. 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free. 

Led  up  their  sports  beueath  the  spreading 
tree  ; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


757 


While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the 
shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  sur¬ 
vey’d  ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolick’d  o’er  the 
ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength 
went  round ; 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  in¬ 
spired  : 

The  dancing  pair,  that  simply  sought  re¬ 
nown 

By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted 
face, 

While  secret  laughter  titter’d  round  the 
place  ; 

The  bashful  virgin’s  sidelong  looks  of  love, 
The  matron’s  glance  that  would  those 
looks  reprove : 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village ! 
sports  like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to 
please ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  in¬ 
fluence  shed ; 

These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these 
charms  are  fled. 

Sweet-smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the 
lawn  ! 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms 
withdrawn ; 

Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant’s  hand  is 
seen, 

And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  ; 

One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling 
plain ; 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy 
way  ; 

Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 

The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its 
nest ; 

Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried 
cries ; 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o’ertops  the  moulder¬ 
ing  wall ; 


And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the 
spoiler’s  hand, 

Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a 
prey, 

Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men 
decay ; 

Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may 
fade — 

A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has 
made  ; 

But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country’s  pride, 

When  once  destroy’d,  can  never  be  sup¬ 
plied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England’s  griefs 
began, 

When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain’d 
its  man : 

,  For  him  light  Labor  spread  her  wholesome 
store — 

Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no 
more  ; 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and 
health  ; 

And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter’d :  trade’s  unfeeling 
train 

Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 

Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter’d  hamlets 
rose, 

Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  re¬ 
pose  ; 

And  every  want  to  opulence  allied, 

’  And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 

Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to 
bloom, 

Those  calm  desires  that  ask’d  but  little 
room, 

Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the 
peaceful  scene, 

Lived  in  each  look,  and  brighten’d  all  the 
green, — 

These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 

And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no 
more. 

Sweet  Auburn !  parent  of  the  blissful 
hour, 

Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant’s 
power. 


758 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 

Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruin’d 
grounds, 

And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to 
view 

Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  haw¬ 
thorn  grew, 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy 
train, 

Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to 
pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world 
of  care, 

In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my 
share — 

I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 

Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me 
down  ; 

To  husband  out  life’s  taper  at  the  close, 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  re¬ 
pose  ; 

I  still  had  hopes — for  pride  attends  us 
still — 

Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book- 
learn’d  skill, 

Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to 
draw, 

And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 

And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns 
pursue, 

Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she 
flew, 

I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 

Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

0  blest  retirement !  friend  to  life’s  de¬ 
cline  ! 

Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be 
mine ! 

How  happy  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like 
these, 

A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 

Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  tempta¬ 
tions  try, 

And,  since  ’tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to 
fly. 

For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and 
weep, 

Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous 
deep ; 

No  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 


But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  Virtue’s  friend ; 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  Resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the 
last, 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be 
past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  even¬ 
ing’s  close 

Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose; 
There,  as  I  pass’d  with  careless  steps  and 
slow, 

;  t 

The  mingling  notes  came  soften’d  from 
below : 

The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  low’d  to  meet  their 
young, 

The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o’er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from 
school, 

The  watch-dog’s  voice  that  bay’d  the  whis¬ 
pering  wind, 

And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant 
mind, — 

These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the 
shade, 

And  fill’d  each  pause  the  nightingale  had 
made. 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail ; 

No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the 
gale; 

No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway 
tread, 

For  all  the  bloomv  flush  of  life  is  fled — 

4/ 

All  but  yon  widow’d,  solitary  thing, 

That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plasliy 
spring ; 

She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for 
bread, 

To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses 
spread, 

To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till 
morn, — 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  gar¬ 
den  smiled, 

And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower 
grows  wild, 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


759 


There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place 
disclose, 

The  village  preacher’s  modest  mansion  rose. 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a 
year; 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e’er  had  changed,  nor  wish’d  to 
change,  his  place; 

Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 

By  doctrines  fashion’d  to  the  varying 
hour; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn’d  to 
prize — 

More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to 
rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant 
train ; 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved 
their  pain. 

The  long-remember’d  beggar  was  his 
guest, 

Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged 
breast ; 

The  ruin’d  spendthrift,  now  no  longer 
proud, 

Claim’d  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims 
allow’d  ; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talk’d  the  night 
away — 

Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow 
done, 

Shoulder’d  his  crutch,  and  show’d  how 
fields  were  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man 
learn’d  to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to 
scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his 
pride  ; 

And  e’en  his  failings  lean’d  to  Virtue’s 
side ; 

But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

He  watch’d  and  wept,  he  pray’d  and  felt 
for  all  ; 

And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 

To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the 
skies, 


He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull 
delay, 

Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the 
way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was 
laid, 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dis¬ 
may’d, 

The  reverend  champion  stood.  At  his 
control 

Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling 
soul ; 

Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch 
to  raise, 

And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper’d 
praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected 
grace, 

His  looks  adorn’d  the  venerable  place  ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevail’d  with  double 
sway, 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain’d  to 
pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 

E’en  children  follow’d  with  endearing 
wile, 

And  pluck’d  his  gown,  to  share  the  good 
man’s  smile. 

His  ready  smile  a  parent’s  warmth  ex- 
prest  ; 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares 
distress’d  ; 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs 
were  given — 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in 
heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves 
the  storm, 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds 
are  spread, 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts 
the  way, 

With  blossom’d  furze  unprofitably  gay, 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill’d  to  rule, 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 

A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view — 

I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew  ; 


760 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY , 


Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn’d  to 
trace 

The  day’s  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 

Full  well  they  laugh’d,  with  counterfeited 
glee, 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 

Convey’d  the  dismal  tidings  when  he 
frown’d  ; 

Yet  he  was  kind — or,  if  severe  in  aught, 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he 
knew  ; 

’Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher 
too  ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides 
presage, 

And  e’en  the  story  ran  that  he  could 
gauge. 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own’d  his 
skill, 

For,  e’en  though  vanquish’d,  he  could 
argue  still ; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thun¬ 
dering  sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder 
grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he 
knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame  ;  the  very  spot, 

Where  many  a  time  he  triumph’d,  is  for¬ 
got. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on 

'  high, 

Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  pass¬ 
ing  eye, 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown 
draughts  inspired, 

Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil 
retired, 

Where  village  statesmen  talk’d  with  looks 
profound, 

And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went 
round. 

Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 

The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place: 

The  whitewash’d  wall,  the  nicely-sanded 
floor, 

The  varnish’d  clock  that  click’d  behind 
the  door, 


The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay — 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day, 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of 
goose ; 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill’d  the 
day, 

With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers  and  fennel 

gay; 

While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for 
show, 

Ranged  o’er  the  chimney,  glisten’d  in  a 
row. 

Yain,  transitory  splendors  !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its 
fall? 

Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour’s  importance  to  the  poor  man’s 
heart ; 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 

No  more  the  farmer’s  news,  the  barber’s 
tale, 

No  more  the  woodman’s  ballad  shall  pre¬ 
vail  ; 

No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall 
clear, 

Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to 
hear ; 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest. 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  dis¬ 
dain, 

These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  Nature  has  its 
play, 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born 
sway  ; 

Lightly  they  frolic  o’er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined  ; 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  mas¬ 
querade, 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  ar¬ 
ray’d — 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  ob¬ 
tain, 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


761 


And,  e’en  while  fashion’s  brightest  arts  de¬ 
coy, 

The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who 
survey 

The  rich  man’s  joys  increase,  the  poor’s 
decay  ! 

’Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits 
stand 

Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 

Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted 
ore, 

And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her 
shore ; 

Hoards,  e’en  beyond  the  miser’s  wish, 
abound, 

And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world 
around. 

Yet  count  our  gains  :  this  wealth  is  but  a 
name, 

That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the 
same. 

Not  so  the  loss :  the  man  of  wealth  and 
pride 

Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  sup¬ 
plied — 

Space  for  his  lake,  his  park’s  extended 
bounds — 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and 
hounds ; 

The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken 
cloth 

Has  robb’d  the  neighboring  fields  of  half 
their  growth ; 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 

Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the 
green  ; 

Around  the  world  each  needful  product 
flies, 

For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies ; 

While  thus  the  land,  adorn’d  for  pleasure 
all, 

In  barren  splendor,  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn’d  and 
plain, 

Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her 
reign, 

Slights  every  borrow’d  charm  that  dress 
supplies, 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her 
eyes ; 


But  when  those  charms  are  past — for 
charms  are  frail — 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers 
fail, 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress  : 

Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd  : 

In  Nature’s  simplest  charms  at  first  ar¬ 
ray’d  ; 

But,  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 

While,  scourged  by  famine,  from  the 
smiling  land 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble 
band ; 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to 
save, 

The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a 
grave. 

Where,  then,  ah!  where  shall  poverty 
reside 

To  ’scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 

If  to  some  common’s  fenceless  limits 
stray’d, 

He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty 
blade, 

Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth 
divide, 

And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there  ? 

To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 

To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  com¬ 
bined 

To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind  ; 

To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 

Extorted  from  his  fellow-creatures’  woe. 

Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 

There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly 
trade ; 

Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn 
pomps  display, 

There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the 
way. 

The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  mid¬ 
night  reign, 

Here,  richly  deck’d,  admits  the  gorgeous 
train  ; 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing 
square — 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches 
glare. 


762 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e’er  an¬ 
noy  ! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?  Ah  !  turn 
thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor,  houseless,  shivering  fe¬ 
male  lies ; 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distress’d ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the 
thorn : 

Now  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue 
fled — 

Near  her  betrayer’s  door  she  lays  her 
head, 

And,  pinch’d  with  cold,  and  shrinking 
from  the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless 
hour 

When,  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country 
brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn — thine  the  love¬ 
liest  train — 

Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 

E’en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger 
led, 

At  proud  men’s  doors  they  ask  a  little 
bread. 

Ah,  no !  To  distant  climes,  a  dreary 

scene, 

Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  be¬ 
tween, 

Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps 
they  go, 

Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 

Far  different  there,  from  all  that  charm’d 
before, 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore : 

Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward 
ray, 

And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to 
sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 

Those  pois’nous  fields,  with  rank  luxuri¬ 
ance  crown’d, 

Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death 
around : 


Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to 
wake 

The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless 
prey, 

And  savage  men  more  murderous  still 
than  they ; 

While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the 
skies. 

Far  different  these  from  every  former 
scene — 

The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  shelter’d  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloom’d  that 
parting  day 

That  (Sail’d  them  from  their  native  walks 
away ; 

When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  their  bowers,  and  fondly  look’d 
their  last, 

And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish’d  in 
vain 

For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western 
main, 

And,  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant 
deep, 

Return’d  and  wept,  and  still  return’d  to 
weep ! 

The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others' 
woe ; 

But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish’d  for  worlds  beyond  the 
grave. 

His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover’s  for  a  father’s  arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her 
woes, 

And  bless’d  the  cot  where  every  pleasure 
rose ; 

And  kiss’d  her  thoughtless  babes  with 
many  a  tear, 

And  clasp’d  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly 
dear ; 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend 
relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


763 


O  Luxury !  thou  curst  by  Heaven’s  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these 
for  thee ! 

How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee  to  sickly  greatness 
grown 

Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own. 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large 
they  grow, 

A  bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe; 
Till,  sapp’d  their  strength  and  every  part 
unsound, 

Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin 
round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 

And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I 
stand, 

I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 

Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads 
the  sail 

That,  idly  waiting,  flaps  with  every  gale — 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the 
strand. 

Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 

And  kind  connubial  tenderness  are  there  ; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 

And  steady  loyalty  and  faithful  love. 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest 
maid, 

Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade — 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest 
fame ; 

Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  de¬ 
cried, 

My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride  ! 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe — 
That  found’st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep’st 
me  so  ; 

Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts 
excel, 

Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue — fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell ! — and  oh  !  where’er  thy  voice  be 
tried, 

On  Torno’s  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca’s  side — 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 

Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in 
snow — 


Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 

Redress  the  rigors  of  th’  inclement  clime ; 

Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive 
strain, 

Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain; 

Teach  him  that  states,  of  native  strength 
possest, 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest; 

That  trade’s  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift- 
decay, 

As  ocean  sweeps  the  labor’d  mole  away ; 

While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 

As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

- K>« - 

I  Knew  by  the  Smoke  that  so 
Gracefully  Curled. 

I  kxew  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully 
curl’d 

Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage 
was  near, 

And  I  said,  “  If  there’s  peace  to  be  found 
in  the  world, 

A  heart  that  is  humble  might  hope  for 
it  here  !” 

It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languish’d 
around 

In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee  ; 

Every  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a 
sound 

But  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow 
beech  tree. 

And  “  Here  in  this  lone  little  wood,”  I 
exclaim’d, 

“  With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul 
and  to  eye, 

Who  would  blush  when  I  praised  her,  and 
weep  if  I  blamed, 

How  blest  could  I  live,  and  how  calm 
could  I  die  ! 

“  By  the  shade  of  yon  sumac,  whose  red 
berry  dips 

In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet 
to  recline, 

And  to  know  that  I  sigh’d  upon  innocent 
lips, 

Which  had  never  been  sicrh’d  on  bv  any 

C  4,  J 

but  mine!” 

Thomas  Moore. 


764 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Never  Again. 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain : 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 

It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better, 

Under  manhood’s  sterner  reign : 

Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Follow’d  youth,  with  flying  feet, 

And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanish’d, 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain : 

We  behold  it  everywhere, 

On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 

But  it  never  comes  again  ! 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


Two  Rivers. 

Thy  summer  voice,  Musketaquit, 

Repeats  the  music  of  the  rain ; 

But  sweeter  rivers  pulsing  flit 

Through  thee,  as  thou  through  Concord 
Plain. 

Thou  in  thy  narrow  banks  art  pent : 

The  stream  I  love  unbounded  goes 
Through  flood  and  sea  and  firmament ; 
Through  light,  through  life,  it  forward 
flows. 

I  see  the  inundation  sweet, 

I  hear  the  spending  of  the  stream 
Through  years,  through  men,  through  na¬ 
ture  fleet, 

Through  love  and  thought,  through  power 
and  dream. 

Musketaquit,  a  goblin  strong, 

Of  shard  and  flint  makes  jewels  gay; 
They  lose  their  grief  who  hear  his  song, 
And  where  he  winds  is  the  day  of  day. 

So  forth  and  brighter  fares  my  stream  : 

Who  drink  it  shall  not  thirst  again  ; 

No  darkness  stains  its  equal  gleam, 

And  ages  drop  in  it  like  rain. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


A  Peal  of  Bells. 

Strike  the  bells  wantonly, 

Tinkle  tinkle  well  ; 

Bring  me  wine,  bring  me  flowers, 

Ring  the  silver  bell. 

All  my  lamps  burn  scented  oil, 

Hung  on  laden  orange  trees, 

Whose  shadow’d  foliage  is  the  foil 
To  golden  lamps  and  oranges. 

Heap  my  golden  plates  with  fruit, 
Golden  fruit,  fresh  plucked  and  ripe, 
Strike  the  bells  and  breathe  the  pipe , 
Shut  out  showers  from  summer  hours — 
Silence  that  complaining  lute — 

Shut  out  thinking,  shut  out  pain, 
From  ..ours  that  cannot  come  again. 

Strike  the  bells  solemnly, 

Ding  dong  deep : 

My  friend  is  passing  to  his  bed, 

Fast  asleep ; 

There’s  plaited  linen  round  his  head, 
While  foremost  go  his  feet — 

His  feet  that  cannot  carry  him. 

My  feast’s  a  show,  my  lights  are  dim ; 

Be  still,  your  music  is  not  sweet, — 
There  is  no  music  more  for  him  : 

His  lights  are  out,  his  feast  is  done ; 
His  bowl  that  sparkled  to  the  brim 
Is  drain’d,  is  broken,  cannot  hold ; 

My  blood  is  chill,  his  blood  is  cold  ; 

His  death  is  full,  and  mine  begun. 

Christina  Georgina  Rossetti. 

- »o«  -  ■ 

Those  Evening  Bells. 

Those  evening  bells  !  those  evening  bells  ; 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime  ! 

Those  joyous  hours  are  pass’d  away  ; 

And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 

And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

|  And  so  ’twill  be  when  I  am  gone, — 

That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on ; 

While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 

And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells. 

Thomas  Moore. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


765 


The  Bells. 

i. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells, — 
Silver  bells, — 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody 
foretells  ! 

How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 

While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight, — 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically 
wells 

From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells, — 

From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the 
bells. 

ii. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells, — 
Golden  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony 
foretells ! 

Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 

How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 

What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens  while  she 
gloats 

On  the  moon  ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells 

What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously 
wells ! 

How  it  swells ! 

How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells, — 

To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the 
bells. 

hi. 

Hear  the  loud  alarum-bells, — 

Brazen  bells  ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbu- 
lency  tells  ! 


In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 

They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  the  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy 
of  the  fire, 

In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and 
frantic  fire 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 

And  a  resolute  endeavor, 

Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 

By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 

What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair ! 

How  they  clang  and  clash  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 

By  the  twanging, 

And  the  clanging, 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 

In  the  jangling, 

And  the  wrangling. 

How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger 
of  the  bells, — 

Of  the  bells, — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells, — 

In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  ! 

IV. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, — 

Iron  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  ^heir 
monody  compels ! 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 

How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone ; 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 
Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people, — ah,  the  people, — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 

And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 


766 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 

They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, — 
Tliev  are  neither  brute  nor  human, — 
They  are  ghouls : 

And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls  ; 

And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls, 

A  paean  from  the  bells  ! 

And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
With  the  paean  of  the  bells  ! 

And  he  dances  and  he  yells  ; 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells, — 

Of  the  bells : 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells, — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 

In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells, — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, — 

Bells,  bells,  bells, — 

To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the 
bells. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

- %o% - 

Why  thus  Longing ? 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  for  ever  sighing, 


For  the  far-off,  unattain’d  and  dim, 


Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 


Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still; 
Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preaching 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first 
to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst 
throw — 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  and  ! 
woe; 


If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten — 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own  ; 

If  no  brother’s  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten, 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  win  the  crowd's  ap¬ 
plauses, 

N ot  by  works  that  give  thee  world-renown . 

Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses, 
Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal 
crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and 
lonely, 

Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give ; 

Thou  wilt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only, 
And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning, 

When  all  Nature  hails  the  lord  of  light, 

And  his  smile,  the  mountain-tops  adorn¬ 
ing, 

Robes  yon  fragrant  fields  in  radiance 
bright  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  and 
forest, 

Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine ; 

But  with  fervent  love  if  thou  adorest, 

Thou  art  wealthier — all  the  world  is  thine. 

Yet  if  through  earth’s  wide  domains  thou 
rovest, 

Sighing  that  they  are  not  thine  alone, 

Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thvself  thou 
lovest, 

And  their  beauty  and  thy  wealth  are 
gone. 

Nature  wears  the  color  of  the  spirit; 
Sweetly  to  her  worshipper  she  sings ; 

All  the  glow,  the  grace  she  doth  inherit. 
Round  her  trusting  child  she  fondly 
flings. 

Harriet  Winslow  Sewall. 

- KX - 

A  LAMENT. 

0  world!  O  Life!  O  Time! 

On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  be¬ 
fore  ; 

When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime? 
No  more — oh  never  more  ! 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


767 


Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight: 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter 
hoar 

Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with 
delight 

No  more — oh  never  more  ! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

- •<>• - 

THE  TRAVELLER;  OR,  A  PROSPECT 

of  Society. 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 

Or  by  the  lazy  Scheldt,  or  wandering  Po, 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian 
boor 

Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the 
door, 

Or  where  Campania’s  plain  forsaken  lies, 

A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies ; 
Where’er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravell’d  fondly  turns  to 
thee ; 

Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless 
pain, 

And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening 
chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest 
friend, 

And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints 
attend ! 

Blest  be  that  spot  where  cheerful  guests 
retire 

To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening 
fire ! 

Blest  that  abode  where  want  and  pain  re¬ 
pair, 

And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair  ; 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty 
crown’d, 

Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never 
fail, 

Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good  ! 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to 
share, 

My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent,  and 
care ; 


Impell’d,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good  that  mocks  me  with  the 
view, 

That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and 
skies, 

Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies ; 

My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

E’en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 

I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend  ; 
And,  placed  on  high  above  the  storm’s 
career, 

Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms 
appear : 

Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending 
wide, 

The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd’s  hum¬ 
bler  pride. 

When  thus  creation’s  charms  around 
combine, 

Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride 
repine  ? 

Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good  which  makes  each  humbler 
bosom  vain  ? 

Let  school-taught  jiride  dissemble  all  it 
can, 

These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man  ; 
And  wiser  he  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 

Ye  glittering  towns,  with  wealth  and 
splendor  crown’d  ; 

Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profu¬ 
sion  round ; 

Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy 
gale ; 

Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery 
vale, — 

For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine  : 
Creation’s  heir,  the  world — the  world  is 
mine ! 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it 
o’er, 

Floards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 
Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting 
still : 

Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 
Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to 
man  supplies; 


768 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 
To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small : 
And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consign’d, 
Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering 
hope  at  rest, 

May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  be¬ 
low 

Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to 
know  ? 

The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his 
own  ; 

Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease: 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy 
wine, 

Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid 
wave, 

And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they 
gave. 

Such  is  the  patriot’s  boast  where’er  we 
roam, 

His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet  perhaps,  if  countries  we  com¬ 
pare, 

And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they 
share, 

Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom 
find 

An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind  ; 

As  different  good,  by  Art  or  Nature  given, 
To  different  nations,  makes  their  blessings 
even. 

Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 

Still  grants  her  bliss  at  Labor’s  earnest 
call ; 

With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idra’s  cliffs  as  Arno’s  shelvy  side, 

And  though  the  rocky-crested  summits 
frown, 

These  rocks  by  custom  turn  to  beds  of 
down. 

From  Art  more  various  are  the  blessings 
sent, — 

Wealth,  commerce,  honor,  liberty,  content. 
Yet  these  each  other’s  power  so  strong 
contest, 

That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest. 


Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  content¬ 
ment  fails, 

And  honor  sinks  where  commerce  long 
prevails. 

Hence  every  state,  to  one  loved  blessing 
prone, 

Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone. 

Each  to  the  favorite  happiness  attends, 

And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other 
ends, 

Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 

This  favorite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer 
eyes, 

And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it 
lies : 

Here,  for  a  while,  my  proper  cares  re¬ 
sign’d, 

Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind ; 

Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  random  cast, 

That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every 
blast. 

Far  to  the  right,  where  Apennine  as¬ 
cends, 

Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends ; 

Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain’s 
side, 

Woods  over  woods,  in  gay  theatric  pride, 

While  oft  some  temple’s  mouldering  tops 
between 

With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  Nature’s  bounty  satisfy  the  breast. 

The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest : 

Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  are 
found, 

That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the 
ground ; 

Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 

Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied 
year; 

Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 

With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die ; 

These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred 
soil, 

Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter’s 
toil ; 

While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  ex¬ 
pand, 

To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling 
land. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


769 


But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  be¬ 
stows, 

And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 

In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 

Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles 
here. 

Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners 
reign  : 

Though  poor,  luxurious ;  though  submis¬ 
sive,  vain  ; 

Though  grave,  yet  trifling ;  zealous,  yet 
untrue ; 

And  e’en  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 

All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 

That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind ; 

For  wealth  was  theirs,  not  far  removed 
the  date, 

When  commerce  proudly  flourish’d  through 
the  state. 

At  her  command  the  palace  learn’d  to 
rise, 

Again  the  long-fall’n  column  sought  the 
skies, 

The  canvas  glow’d  beyond  e’en  Nature 
warm, 

The  pregnant  quarry  teem’d  with  human 
form ; 

Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern 
gale, 

Commerce  on  other  shores  display’d  her 
sail ; 

While  naught  remained,  of  all  that  riches 
gave, 

But  towns  unrriann’d,  and  lords  without  a 
slave : 

And  late  the  nation  found,  with  fruitless 
skill, 

Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  sup¬ 
plied 

By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former 
pride ; 

From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fallen 
mind 

An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 

Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  ar¬ 
ray’d, 

The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  caval¬ 
cade  ; 

Processions  form’d  for  piety  and  love, 

A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 

49 


By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  be¬ 
guiled  ; 

The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child : 

Each  nobler  aim,  repress’d  by  long  con¬ 
trol, 

Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 

While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  be¬ 
hind, 

In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind. 

As  in  those  domes  where  Coesars  once 
bore  sway, 

Defaced  by  time,  and  tottering  in  decay, 

There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 

The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his 
shed  ; 

And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger 
pile, 

Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 

My  soul,  turn  from  them !  turn  me  to 
survey, 

Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  dis¬ 
play, 

Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  man¬ 
sion  tread, 

And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread: 

No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford 

But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his 
sword ; 

No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 

But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May ; 

No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain’s 
breast, 

But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  in¬ 
vest. 

Yet  still,  even  here  content  can  spread 
a  charm, 

Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  dis¬ 
arm. 

Though  poor  the  peasant’s  hut,  his  feast 
though  small, 

He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 

Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head, 

To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble 
shed ; 

No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet 
deal, 

To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal  ; 

But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 

Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the 
soil. 


770 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Cheerful  at  morn  he  wakes  from  short  re¬ 
pose, 

Breasts  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he 
goes  ; 

With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 

Or  drives  his  vent’rous  ploughshare  to  the 
steep ; 

Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark 
the  way, 

And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 

At  night  returning,  every  labor  sped, 

He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed ; 

Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  sur¬ 
veys 

His  children’s  looks  that  brighten  at  the 
blaze, 

While  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her 
hoard, 

Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board ; 

And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 

With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  im¬ 
part 

Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 

And  e’en  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion 
rise 

Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  sup¬ 
plies. 

Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  con¬ 
forms, 

And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the 
storms ; 

And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  mo¬ 
lest, 

Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother’s 
breast, 

So  the  loud  torrent  and  the  whirlwind’s 
roar 

But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains 
more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states 
assign’d: 

Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  con¬ 
fined. 

Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, — 

If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but 
few : 

For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast 

Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  re¬ 
dress’d. 


Whence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing 
science  flies, 

That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies  ; 
Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures 
cloy, 

To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy  ; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul 
to  flame, 

Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through 
the  frame. 

Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 
Unquencli’d  by  want,  unfann’d  by  strong 
desire ; 

Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year, 

In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely 
flow, — 

Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but 
low  : 

For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unalter’d,  unimproved  the  manners  run  ; 
And  love’s  and  friendship’s  finely-pointed 
dart 

Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 
Some  sterner  virtues  o’er  the  mountain’s 
breast 

May  sit  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 
But  all  the  gentler  morals, — such  as  play 
Through  life’s  more  cultured  walks,  and 
charm  the  way, — • 

These,  far  dispersed,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 
To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners 
reign, 

I  turn,  and  France  displays  her  bright  do¬ 
main. 

Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world 
can  please, 

How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir 
With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring 
Loire  ? 

Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And,  freshen’d  from  the  wave,  the  zephyr 
flew ; 

And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  fal¬ 
tering  still, 

But  mock’d  all  tune  and  marr’d  the  dan¬ 
cer’s  skill ; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


771 


Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous 
power, 

And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages  :  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirth¬ 
ful  maze ; 

And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill’d  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisk’d  beneath  the  burden  of  three¬ 
score. 

So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms 
display, 

Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away. 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind 
endear, 

For  honor  forms  the  social  temper  here  : 
Honor,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  e’en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 

Here  passes  current ;  paid  from  hand  to 
hand, 

It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land ; 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise : 
They  please,  are  pleased  ;  they  give  to  get 
esteem  ; 

Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what 
they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  sup¬ 
plies, 

It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise  ; 

For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly 
sought, 

Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought ; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another’s  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools 
impart  ; 

Here  Vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper 
lace  ; 

Here  beggar  Pride  defrauds  her  daily 
cheer, 

To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a 
year  ; 

The  mind  stifll  turns  where  shifting  fashion 
draws, 

Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-ap¬ 
plause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom’d  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 


Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me 
stand, 

Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the 
land, 

And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 

Lift  the  tall  rampire’s  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to 
grow, 

Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery 
roar, 

Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the 
shore ;  § 

While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o’er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him 
smile ; 

The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossom’d 
vale, 

The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 

A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus  while  around  the  wave-subjected 
soil 

Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 
And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 

Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that 
springs, 

With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure 
brings, 

Are  here  displayed.  Their  much-loved 
wealth  imparts 

Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts: 
But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  ap¬ 
pear  ; 

E’en  liberty  itself  is  barter’d  here ; 

At  gold’s  superior  charms  all  freedom 
flies, 

The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys. 
A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 
Here  wretches  seek  dishonorable  graves, 
And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 
Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the 
storm. 

Heavens!  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires 
of  old ! 

Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold, 
War  in  each  breast  and  freedom  on  each 
brow ; 

How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain 
now! 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


772 


Fired  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads 
her  wing, 

And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western 
spring ; 

Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian 
pride, 

And  brighter  streams  than  famed  Hydaspes 
glide. 

There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes 
stray, 

There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray  ; 
Creation’s  mildest  charms  are  there  com¬ 
bined, 

Extremes  are  only  in  the  master’s  mind. 
Stern  o’er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her 
state, 

With  daring  aims  irregularly  great; 

Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 

I  see  the  lords  of  humankind  pass  by  : 
Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashion’d,  fresh  from  Nature’s 
hand, 

Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 
True  to  imagined  right,  above  control, — 
While  e’en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights 
to  scan, 

And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pic¬ 
tured  here, 

Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and 
endear ! 

Too  blest  indeed  were  such  without  al¬ 
loy; 

But,  fostered  e’en  by  freedom,  ills  annoy  ; 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the 
social  tie ; 

The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone, 
All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  un¬ 
known  : 

Here,  by  the  bonds  of  Nature  feebly  held, 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  re- 
pell’d ; 

Ferments  arise,  imprison’d  factions  roar, 
Repress’d  ambition  struggles  round  her 
shore, 

Till,  overwrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst:  as  Nature’s  ties  de- 
cav, 

As  duty,  love,  and  honor  fail  to  sway, 


Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and 
law, 

Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling 
awe. 

Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 

And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  un¬ 
known  ; 

Till  time  may  come  when,  stripp’d  of  all 
her  charms, 

The  land  of  scholars  and  the  nurse  of 
arms, 

Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot 
flame, 

Where  kings  have  toil’d  and  poets  wrote 
for  fame, 

One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 

And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonor’d 
die. 

But  think  not,  thus  when  Freedom’s  ills 
I  state, 

I  mean  to  flatter  kings  or  court  the 
great; 

Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  as¬ 
pire, 

Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire ! 

And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to 
feel 

The  rabble’s  rage  and  tyrant’s  angry 
steel ; 

Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 

By  proud  contempt  or  favor’s  fostering 
sun, — 

Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime 
endure ! 

I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure. 

For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 

That  those  who  think  must  govern  those 
that  toil ; 

And  all  that  Freedom’s  highest  aims  can 
reach 

Is  but  to  lay  proportion’d  loads  on  each. 

Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion^ 
grow, 

Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

Oh  then  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  re¬ 
quires, 

Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  as¬ 
pires  ! 

Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 

Except  when  fast-approaching  danger 
warms ; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the 
throne, 

Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their 
own  ; 

When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are 
free, 

Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes 
draw, 

Laws  grind  the  j>oor,  and  rich  men  rule 
the  law, 

The  wealth  of  climes  where  savage  nations 
roam 

Pillaged  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at 
home, — 

Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation,  start, 

Tear  off  reserve  and  bare  my  swelling 
heart ; 

Till,  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 

I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful 
hour 

When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power ; 
And  thus,  polluting  honor  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double 
force. 

Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain’s  peopled 
shore, 

Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless 
ore? 

Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction 
haste, 

Like  flaring  tapers  brightening  as  they 
waste  ? 

Seen  opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 
Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train, 

And  over  fields  where  scatter’d  hamlets 
rose 

In  barren,  solitary  pomp  repose? 

Have  we  not  seen,  at  pleasure’s  lordly  call, 
The  smiling,  long-frequented  village  fall? 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay’d, 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing 
maid, 

Forced  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy 
train, 

To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western 
main, 

Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps 
around, 

And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound? 


E’en  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pil¬ 
grim  strays 

Through  tangled  forests  and  through  dan¬ 
gerous  ways, 

Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire 
claim, 

And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  mur¬ 
derous  aim ;  ^ 

There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 

The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  woe, 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go, 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England’s  glories 
shine, 

And  bids  his  bosom  sympathize  with  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind; 
Why  have  I  stray’d  from  pleasure  and  re¬ 
pose 

To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows? 
In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  re¬ 
strain, 

How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  en¬ 
dure, 

That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause 
or  cure ! 

Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign’d, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find  ; 

With  secret  course  which  no  loud  storms 
annoy 

Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 

Luke’s  iron  crown,  and  Damiens’  bed  of 
steel, 

To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely 
known, 

Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience  all  our 
own. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 
•<>♦  ■  • 

FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 

When  the  hours  of  day  are  number’d, 
And  the  voices  of  the  night 

Wake  the  better  soul  that  slumber’d 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 

And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall ; 


774 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 
Enter  at  the  open  door ; 

The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more. 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherish’d 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perish’d, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 

Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 

Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 

And  is  now  a  saint  in  Heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 

Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Utter’d  not,  yet  comprehended, 

Is  the  spirit’s  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 

Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oft  depress’d  and  lonely, 

All  mv  fears  are  laid  aside, 

4/  7 

If  I  but  remember  only 
Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

- •O^ - 

A  Dream. 

All  yesterday  I  was  spinning, 

Sitting  alone  in  the  sun  ; 

And  the  dream  that  I  spun  was  so  lengthy, 
It  lasted  till  day  was  done. 

I  heeded  not  cloud  or  shadow 
That  flitted  over  the  hill, 

Or  the  humming-bees,  or  the  swallows, 

Or  the  trickling  of  the  rill. 

I  took  the  threads  for  my  spinning, 

All  of  blue  summer  air, 


And  a  flickering  ray  of  sunlight 
Was  woven  in  here  and  there. 

The  shadows  grew  longer  and  longer, 

The  evening  wind  pass’d  by, 

And  the  purple  splendor  of  sunset 
Was  flooding  the  western  sky. 

But  I  could  not  leave  my  spinning, 

For  so  fair  my  dream  had  grown, 

I  heeded  not,  hour  by  hour, 

How  the  silent  day  had  flown. 

At  last  the  gray  shadows  fell  round  me, 
And  the  night  came  dark  and  chill, 

And  I  rose  and  ran  down  the  valley, 

And  left  it  all  on  the  hill. 

I  went  up  the  hill  this  morning, 

To  the  place  where  my  spinning  lay, — 
There  was  nothing  but  glistening  dewdrops 
Remain’d  of  my  dream  to-day. 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 

- »o* - 

The  Day  is  Done. 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist : 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o’er  me. 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 

Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 
Life’s  endless  toil  and  endeavor  ; 

And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


775 


Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gush’d  from  his  heart, 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 
The  restless  pulse  of  care, 

And  come  like  the  benediction 
That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 
The  poem  of  thy  choice  ; 

And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  fill’d  with  music, 
And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 

And  as  silently  steal  away. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

- »o« - 

Night. 

The  crackling  embers  on  the  hearth  are 
dead  ; 

The  indoor  note  of  industry  is  still ; 

The  latch  is  fast ;  upon  the  window-sill 
The  small  birds  wait  not  for  their  daily 
bread ; 

The  voiceless  flowers, — how  quietly  they 
shed 

Their  nightly  odors  ! — and  the  household 
rill 

Murmurs  continuous  dulcet  sounds  that 
fill 

The  vacant  expectation,  and  the  dread 
Of  listening  night.  And  haply  now  she 
sleeps  ; 

For  all  the  garrulous  noises  of  the  air 
Are  hush’d  in  peace ;  the  soft  dew  silent 
weeps, 

Like  hopeless  lovers  for  a  maid  so  fair: — 
Oh,  that  I  were  the  happy  dream  that 
creeps 

To  her  soft  heart,  to  find  my  image 
there ! 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


The  Rainy  Day. 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark  and  dreary  ;  . 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 

The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall. 

But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 

And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary. 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 

My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering 
Past, 

But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart !  and  cease  repining  ; 

Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining ; 

Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 

Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

- *<>• - 

Night. 

When  I  survey  the  bright 
Celestial  sphere, 

So  rich  with  jewels  hung  that  night 
Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appear, 

My  soul  her  wings  doth  spread, 

And  heavenward  flies, 

The  Almighty’s  mysteries  to  read 
In  the  larg<4  volume  of  the  skies. 

For  the  bright  firmament 
Shoots  forth  no  flame 
So  silent  but  is  eloquent 

In  speaking  the  Creator’s  name. 

No  unregarded  star 
Contracts  its  light 
Into  so  small  character, 

Removed  far  from  our  human  sight, 

But  if  we  steadfast  look, 

We  shall  discern 
In  it,  as  in  some  holy  book, 

How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge 
learn. 

It  tells  the  conqueror 
That  far-stretch’d  power, 

Which  his  proud  dangers  traffic  for, 

Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  hour, — 


•+<>+■ 


776 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


That  from  the  farthest  north 
Some  nation  may, 

Yet  undiscover’d,  issue  forth, 

And  o’er  his  new-got  conquest  sway! 

Some  nation,  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice, 

May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sin, 

Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice. 

And  they  likewise  shall 
Their  ruin  have ; 

For  as  yourselves  your  empires  fall, 

And  every  kingdom  hath  a  grave. 

Thus  those  celestial  fires, 

Though  seeming  mute, 

The  fallacy  of  our  desires 

And  all  the  pride  of  life  confute. 

For  they  have  watch’d  since  first 
The  world  had  birth, 

And  found  sin  in  itself  accursed, 

And  nothing  permanent  on  earth. 

William  Habington. 

- »o» - 

Sonnet  on  Sleep. 

Cake-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable 
Night, 

Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness 
born, 

Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light; 

With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care  re¬ 
turn. 

And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill -adventured 
youth  : 

Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn, 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night’s  un¬ 
truth. 

Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the 
morrow  ; 

Never  let  rising  sun  approve  you  liars 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my 
sorrow  : 

Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in 
vain, 

And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day’s  dis¬ 
dain. 

Samuel  Daniel. 


Sonnet  on  Sleep. 

Come  sleep,  0  sleep  !  the  certain  knot  of 
peace, 

The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of 
woe ; 

The  poor  man’s  wealth,  the  prisoner’s  re 
lease, 

The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high 
and  low  ! 

With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from  out 
the  prease 

Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  doth  at  me 
throw. 

Oh  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease  ; 

I  will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 
Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest 
bed, 

A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to 
light, 

A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head  ; 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by 
right, 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  slialt  in 
me,- 

Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella’s  image  see. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

- k>« - 

Ode  to  Fear. 

Thou,  to  whom  the  world  unknown, 

With  all  its  shadowy  shapes,  is  shown, 
Who  seest  appall’d  the  unreal  scene, 

While  Fancy  lifts  the  veil  between : 

Ah,  Fear!  ah,  frantic  Fear! 

I  see — I  see  thee  near. 

I  know  thy  hurried  step,  thy  haggard 
eye! 

Like  thee  I  start,  like  thee  disorder’d  fly, 
For,  lo,  what  monsters  in  thy  train  ap¬ 
pear  ! 

Danger,  whose  limbs  of  giant  mould 
What  mortal  eye  can  fix’d  behold? 

Who  stalks  his  round,  a  hideous  form, 
Howling  amidst  the  midnight  storm, 

Or  throws  him  on  the  ridgy  steep 
Of  some  loose-hanging  rock  to  sleep : 

And  with  him  thousand  phantoms  join’d, 
Who  prompt  to  deeds  accursed  the 
mind : 

And  those,  the  fiends,  who,  near  allied, 
O’er  Nature’s  wounds  and  wrecks  pre¬ 
side  ; 


-•O*- 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


Ill 


Whilst  Vengeance,  in  the  lurid  air, 

Lifts  her  red  arm,  exposed  and  bare : 

On  whom  that  ravening  brood  of  Fate, 

Who  lap  the  blood  of  Sorrow,  wait ; 

Who,  Fear,  this  ghastly  train  can  see, 

And  look  not  madly  wild,  like  thee? 

Epode. 

In  earliest  Greece,  to  thee,  with  partial 
choice, 

The  grief-full  Muse  addrest  her  infant 
tongue ; 

The  maids  and  matrons,  on  her  awful 
voice, 

Silent  and  pale,  in  wild  amazement 
hung. 

Yet  he,  the  bard  who  first  invoked  thy 
name, 

Disdain’d  in  Marathon  its  power  to 
•  feel : 

For  not  alone  he  nursed  the  poet’s  flame, 

But  reach’d  from  Virtue’s  hand  the 
patriot’s  steel. 

But  who  is  he,  whom  later  garlands  grace, 

Who  left  a  while  o’er  Hybla’s  dews  to 
rove, 

With  trembling  eyes  thy  dreary  steps  to 
trace, 

Where  thou  and  Furies  shared  the  bale¬ 
ful  grove? 

Wrapt  in  thy  cloudy  veil,  the  incestuous 
queen 

Sigh’d  the  sad  call  her  son  and  husband 
heard  : 

When  once  alone  it  broke  the  silent  scene, 

And  he,  the  wretch  of  Thebes,  no  more 
appear’d. 

O  Fear,  I  know  thee  by  my  throbbing 
heart : 

Thy  withering  power  inspired  each 
mournful  line  : 

Though  gentle  Pity  claim  her  mingled 
part, 

Yet  all  the  thunders  of  the  scene  are 
thine ! 

Antistropiie. 

Thou  who  such  weary  lengths  hast  past, 

Where  wilt  thou  rest,  mad  nymph,  at 
last? 


Say,  wilt  thou  shroud  in  haunted  cell, 
Where  gloomy  Rape  and  Murder  dwell  ? 
Or,  in  some  hollow’d  seat 
’Gainst  which  the  big  waves  beat, 

Hear  drowming  seamen’s  cries  in  tempests 
brought  ? 

Dark  power,  with  shuddering  meek  sub¬ 
mitted  thought, 

Be  mine  to  read  the  visions  old 
Which  thy  awakening  bards  have  told  : 
And,  lest  thou  meet  my  blasted  view, 

Hold  each  strange  tale  devoutly  true; 
Ne’er  be  I  found,  by  thee  o’erawed, 

In  that  thrice-hallow’d  eve,  abroad, 

When  ghosts,  as  cottage-maids  believe, 
Their  pebbled  beds  permitted  leave, 

And  goblins  haunt  from  fire,  or  fen, 

Or  mine,  or  flood,  the  walks  of  men  ! 

O  thou,  whose  spirit  most  possest 
The  sacred  seat  of  Shakespeare’s  breast ! 
By  all  that  from  thy  prophet  broke, 

In  thy  divine  emotions  spoke ; 

Hither  again  thy  fury  deal, 

Teach  me  but  once  like  him  to  feel : 

His  cypress  wreath  my  meed  decree, 

And  I,  O  Fear,  will  dwell  with  thee ! 

William  Collins. 

- %o+ - 

Hymn  to  Adversity. 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power, 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 

Whose  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour 
The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best ! 

I  Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain, 

And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and 
alone. 

When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 
Virtue,  his  darling  child,  design’d, 

To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth, 

And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 

Stern,  rugged  nurse  !  thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore  : 

What  sorrow  was  thou  bad’st  her  know, 
And  from  her  own  she  learn’d  to  melt  at 
others’  woe. 

Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 
Self-pleasing  Folly’s  idle  brood, 


778 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Wild  Laughter,  Noise  and  thoughtless 

Joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 

Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe ; 

By  vain  Prosperity  received, 

To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again 
believed. 


Wisdom  in  sable  garb  array’d, 

Immers’d  in  rapturous  thought  pro¬ 
found, 

And  Melancholy,  silent  maid, 

With  leaden  eye  that  loves  the  ground, 
Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend  : 

Warm  Charity,  the  general  friend, 

With  Justice,  to  herself  severe, 

And  Pity  dropping  soft  the  sadly-pleasing 
tear. 


Oh,  gently  on  thy  suppliant’s  head, 

Dread  goddess,  lay  thy  chastening 
hand  ! 

Not  in  thy  Gorgon  terrors  clad, 

Not  circled  with  the  vengeful  band 
(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen) 

With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening 
mien, 

With  screaming  Horror’s  funeral  cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly 
Poverty  : 


Thy  form  benign,  0  goddess,  wear, 

Thy  milder  influence  impart, 

Thy  philosophic  train  be  there 
To  soften,  not  to  wound  my  heart. 

The  generous  spark  extinct  revive, 

Teach  me  to  love  and  to  forgive, 

Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan, 

What  others  are  to  feel,  and  know  myself 
a  Man. 


Thomas  Gray. 


Whilst  as  Fickle  Fortune 
Smiled. 

Whilst  as  fickle  Fortune  smiled, 
Thou  and  I  were  both  beguiled. 
Every  one  that  flatters  thee 
Is  no  friend  in  misery. 

Words  are  easy,  like  the  wind  ; 
Faithful  friends  are  hard  to  find. 


Every  man  will  be  thy  friend 
Whilst  thou  hast  wherewith  to  spend ; 
But,  if  stores  of  crowns  be  scant, 

No  man  will  supply  thy  want. 

If  that  one  be  prodigal, 

Bountiful  they  will  him  call ; 

And,  with  such-like  flattering, 

“  Pity  but  he  were  a  king.” 

If  he  be  addict  to  vice, 

Quickly  him  they  will  entice ; 

But  if  Fortune  once  do  frown, 

Then  farewell  his  great  renown  ! 

They  that  fawn’d  on  him  before 
Use  his  company  no  more. 

He  that  is  thy  friend  indeed, 

He  will  help  thee  in  thy  need ; 

If  thou  sorrow,  he  will  weep, 

If  thou  wake,  he  cannot  sleep. 

Thus,  of  every  grief  in  heart, 

He  with  thee  doth  bear  a  part. 

These  are  certain  signs  to  know 
Faithful  friend  from  flattering  foe. 

Richard  Barnefield. 


Times  Go  by  Turns. 

The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again  ; 

Most  naked  plants  renew  both  fruit  and 
flower ; 

The  sorest  wight  may  find  release  of 
pain, 

The  driest  soil  suck  in  some  moist’ning 
shower : 

Times  go  by  turns,  and  chances  change 
by  course, 

From  foul  to  fair,  from  better  hap  to 
worse. 

The  sea  of  Fortune  doth  not  ever  flow  ; 

She  draws  her  favors  to  the  lowest  ebb  ; 

Her  tides  have  equal  times  to  come  and 
go  I 

Her  loom  doth  weave  the  fine  and 
coarsest  web  : 

No  joy  so  great  but  runneth  to  an  end, 

No  hap  so  hard  but  may  in  fine  amend. 

Not  always  fall  of  leaf,  nor  ever  spring, 

No  endless  night,  yet  not  eternal  day  ; 

The  saddest  birds  a  season  find  to  sing, 

The  roughest  storm  a  calm  may  soon 
allay  ; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


779 


Thus  with  succeeding  turns  God  tempereth 
all, 

That  man  may  hope  to  rise,  yet  fear  to 
fall. 

A  chance  may  win  that  by  mischance  was 
lost ; 

The  well  that  holds  no  great,  takes  little 
fish  ; 

In  some  things  all,  in  all  things  none  are 
cross’d  ; 

Few  all  they  need,  but  none  have  all 
they  wish  ; 

Unmeddled  joys  here  to  no  man  befall ; 
Who  least,  hath  some ;  who  most,  hath 
never  all. 

Robert  Southwell. 

■  ■  ■  •<>>  ■  ■  — 

Song. 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 

Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 
Many  a  day  and  night  ? 

Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
’Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 
Win  thee  back  again  ? 

With  the  joyous  and  the  free 
Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 

Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 
All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 
Of  a  trembling  leaf, 

Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismay’d  ; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 
To  a  merry  measure  ; — 

Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure; — 

Pity,  then,  will  cut  away 

Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 

The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  drest 
And  the  starry  night ; 

Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 


I  love  snow  and  all  the  forms 
Of  the  radiant  frost ; 

I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 
Everything  almost 
Which  is  Nature’s,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man’s  misery. 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good  ; 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference  ?  But  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

I  love  Love — though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee, 

But  above  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  I  love  thee — 

Thou  art  love  and  life  !  Oh  come  ! 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home  ! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

■ - K>« - 

To  Lady  Anne  Hamilton . 

Too  late  I  stay’d, — forgive  the  crime ! 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours  ; 

How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 
That  only  treads  on  flowers  ! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 
The  ebbing  of  the  glass, 

When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 
That  dazzle  as  they  pass  ? 

Oh,  who  to  sober  measurement 
Time’s  happy  swiftness  brings, 

When  birds  of  paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  for  his  wings  ? 

William  Robert  Spencer. 

- - 

0  Fairest  of  tiie  Rural 
MAIDS! 

O  fairest  of  the  rural  maids ! 

Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades ; 

Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild  ; 

And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 


780 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks ; 

Thy  step  is  as  the  wind  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen ; 

Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unpress’d, 

Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast ; 
The  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 

Of  those  calm  solitudes  is  there. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

- - 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of 
Miner  va. 

Beneath  the  warrior’s  helm  behold 
The  flowing  tresses  of  a  woman ! 
Minerva — Pallas — what  you  will, — 

A  winsome  creature,  Greek  or  Roman. 

Minerva?  No!  ’tis  some  sly  minx 
In  cousin’s  helmet  masquerading ; 

If  not,  then  Wisdom  was  a  dame 
For  sonnets  and  for  serenading. 

I  thought  the  goddess  cold,  austere, 

Not  made  for  love’s  despairs  and  blisses : 
Did  Pallas  wear  her  hair  like  that? 

Was  Wisdom’s  mouth  so  shaped  for 
kisses? 

The  nightingale  should  be  her  bird, 

And  not  the  owl,  big-eyed  and  solemn  : 
How  very  fresh  she  looks, — and  yet 
She’s  older  far  than  Trajan’s  Column  ! 

The  magic  hand  that  carved  this  face, 

And  set  this  vine-work  round  it  running, 
Perhaps  ere  mighty  Phidias  wrought 
Had  lost  its  subtle  skill  and  cunning. 

Who  was  he?  Was  he  glad  or  sad, 

Who  knew  to  carve  in  such  a  fashion  ? 
Perchance  he  ’graved  the  dainty  head 
For  some  brown  girl  that  scorn’d  his 
passion. 

Perchance,  in  some  still  garden-place, 
Where  neither  fount  nor  tree  to-day  is, 
He  flung  the  jewel  at  the  feet 

Of  Phryne,  or  perhaps  ’twas  Lais. 


But  he  is  dust ;  we  may  not  know 
His  happy  or  unhappy  story : 

Nameless,  and  dead  these  centuries, 

His  work  outlives  him — there’s  his 
glory ! 

Both  man  and  jewel  lay  in  earth 
Beneath  a  lava-buried  city  ; 

The  countless  summers  came  and  went 
With  neither  haste,  nor  hate,  nor  pity. 

Years  blotted  out  the  man,  but  left 
The  jewel  fresh  as  any  blossom, 

Till  some  Visconti  dug  it  up, 

To  rise  and  fall  on  Mabel’s  bosom ! 

O  nameless  brother  !  see  how  Time 
Your  gracious  handiwork  has  guarded; 
See  how  your  loving,  patient  art 
Has  come,  at  last,  to  be  rewarded. 

Who  would  not  suffer  slights  of  men, 

And  pangs  of  hopeless  passion  also, 

To  have  his  carven  agate-stone 
On  such  a  bosom  rise  and  fall  so  ? 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

- •<>• - 

Dolcino  to  Margaret. 

The  world  goes  up  and  the  world  goes 
down, 

And  the  sunshine  follows  the  rain ; 

And  yesterday’s  sneer,  and  yesterday’s 
frown 

Can  never  come  over  again, 

Sweet  wife, 

No,  never  come  over  again. 

For  woman  is  warm,  though  man  be  cold, 
And  the  night  will  hallow  the  day ; 

Till  the  heart  which  at  even  was  weary 
and  old 

Can  rise  in  the  morning  gay, 

Sweet  wife, 

To  its  work  in  the  morning  gay. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


Sonnet. 

Sweet  is  the  rose,  but  grows  upon  a 
brere  ; 

Sweet  is  the  juniper,  but  sharp  his 
bough  ; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


781 


Sweet  is  the  eglantine,  but  pricketh  near, 
Sweet  is  the  firbloom,  but  his  branches 
rough  ; 

Sweet  is  the  Cyprus,  but  his  rind  is 
tough ; 

Sweet  is  the  nut,  but  bitter  is  his  pill ; 
Sweet  is  the  broom-flower,  but  yet  sour 
enough ; 

And  sweet  is  moly,  but  his  root  is  ill ; 

So,  every  sweet  with  sour  is  temper’d  still, 
That  maketh  it  be  coveted  the  more : 

For  easy  things  that  may  be  got  at  will 
Most  sorts  of  men  do  set  but  little  store. 

Why  then  should  I  account  of  little  pain 

That  endless  pleasure  shall  unto  me  gain  ? 

Edmund  Spenser. 

♦<>♦ - 

Sonnet. 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have 
frown’d, 

Mindless  of  its  just  honors;  with  this  Key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart ;  the 
melody 

Of  this  small  Lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch’s 
wound, 

A  thousand  times  this  Pipe  did  Tasso 
sound  ; 

Oamoens  soothed  with  it  an  Exile’s  grief; 

The  Sonnet  glitter’d  a  gay  myrtle  Leaf 

Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante 
crown’d 

His  visionary  brow  :  a  glow-worm  Lamp, 
It  cheer’d  mild  Spenser,  call’d  from 
Faery-land 

To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and,  when 
a  damp 

Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his 
hand 

The  Thing  became  a  Trumpet,  whence  he 
blew 

Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 

■■■ 

Sonnet. 

Because  I  oft  in  dark  abstracted  guise 
Seem  most  alone  in  greatest  company, 
With  dearth  of  words,  or  answers  quite 
awry 

To  them  that  would  make  speech  of  speech 
arise, 


They  deem,  and  of  their  doom  the  rumor 
flies, 

That  poison  foul  of  bubbling  Pride  doth 
lie 

So  in  my  swelling  breast,  that  only  I 

Fawn  on  myself,  and  others  do  despise. 

Yet  Pride,  I  think,  doth  not  my  soul  pos¬ 
sess, 

Which  looks  too  oft  in  his  unflattering 
glass ; 

But  one  worse  fault  Ambition  I  confess, 

That  makes  me  oft  my  best  friends 
overpass, 

Unseen,  unheard,  while  thought  to  high¬ 
est  place 

Bends  all  his  powers,  even  unto  Stella’s 
grace. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

- - 

FAREWELL  TO  THEE ,  ARARY'S 
DA  UGH  TER. 

Farewell,  —  farewell  to  thee,  Araby’s 
daughter ! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark 
sea) ; 

No  pearl  ever  lay  under  Oman’s  green 
water 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  spirit  in 
thee. 

# 

Oh,  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to  thee 
growing, 

How  light  was  thy  heart  till  love’s  witch¬ 
ery  came, 

Like  the  wind  of  the  south  o’er  a  summer 
lute  blowing, 

And  hush’d  all  its  music  and  wither’d  its 
frame ! 

But  long  upon  Araby’s  green  sunny  high¬ 
lands 

Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember 
the  doom 

Of  her  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl 
Islands, 

With  naught  but  the  sea-star  to  light  up 
her  tomb. 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is 
burning, 

And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young 
and  the  old, 


782 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  happiest  there,  from  their  pastime  re¬ 
turning 

At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  story  is 
told. 

p 

The  young  village  maid,  when  with  flowers 

she  dresses 

Her  dark-flowing  hair  for  some  festival 
day, 

Will  think  of  thy  fate  till,  neglecting  her 
tresses, 

She  mournfully  turns  from  the  mirror 
away. 

Nor  shall  Iran,  beloved  of  her  hero!  forget 
thee, — 

Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as 
they  start, 

Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  hero  she’ll 
set  thee, 

Embalm’d  in  the  innermost  shrine  of 
her  heart. 

Farewell! — be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy 
pillow 

With  everything  beauteous  that  grows  in 
the  deep ; 

Each  flower  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of 
the  billow 

Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy 
sleep. 

% 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest 
amber 

That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has 
wept ; 

With  many  a  shell,  in  whose  hollow- 
wreathed  chamber 

We,  Peris  of  Ocean,  by  moonlight  have 
slept. 

We’ll  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie 
darkling, 

And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy 
head  ; 

We’ll  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian 
are  sparkling, 

And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy 
bed. 

F arewell !  —  farewell !  —  until  Pity’s  sweet 
fountain 

Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the 
brave, 


They’ll  weep  for  the  Chieftain  who  died  on 
that  mountain, 

They’ll  weep  for  the  Maiden  who  sleeps 
in  the  wave. 

Thomas  Moore. 


Stanzas. 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought; 

Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils ; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen ; 

All  our  deep  communing  fails 
To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known  ; 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet; 

We  are  columns  left  alone 
Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 

Far  apart  though  seeming  near, 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie ; 

All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream? 

What  our  wise  philosophy 
But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought, 
Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught. 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  fount  which  gave  them  birth. 
And  by  inspiration  led 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

We,  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 

Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 

Melting,  flowing  into  one. 

Christopher  Pearse  Cranch. 

- - 

The  Morning  Street. 

Alone  I  walk  the  morning  street, 

Filled  with  the  silence  vague  and  sweet: 
All  seems  as  strange,  as  still,  as  dead, 

As  if  unnumbered  years  had  fled, 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


-  o  o 

OO 


Letting  the  noisy  Babel  lie 
Breathless  and.  dumb  against  the  sky ; 

The  light  wind  walks  with  me  alone 
Where  the  hot  day  flame-like  was  blown, 
Where  the  wheels  roared,  the  dust  was 
beat : 

The  dew  is  in  the  morning  street. 

Where  are  the  restless  throngs  that  pour 
Along  this  mighty  corridor 
While  the  noon  shines? — the  hurrying 
crowd 

Whose  footsteps  make  the  city  loud, — 

The  myriad  faces,  hearts  that  beat 
No  more  in  the  deserted  street? 

Those  footsteps  in  their  dreaming  maze 
Cross  thresholds  of  forgotten  days ; 

Those  faces  brighten  from  the  years 
In  rising  suns  long  set  in  tears; 

Those  hearts, — far  in  the  Past  they  beat, 
Unheard  within  the  morning  street. 

A  city  of  the  world’s  gray  prime, 

Lost  in  some  desert  far  from  time, 

Where  noiseless  ages,  gliding  through, 
Have  onlv  sifted  sand  and  dew, — 

Yet  a  mysterious  hand  of  man 
Lying  on  all  the  haunted  plan, 

The  passions  of  the  human  heart 
Quickening  the  marble  breast  of  Art, — 
Were  not  more  strange  to  one  who  first 
Upon  its  ghostly  silence  burst 
Than  this  vast  quiet  where  the  tide 
Of  life,  upheaved  on  either  side, 

Hangs  trembling,  ready  soon  to  beat 
With  human  waves  the  morning  street. 

Ay,  soon  the  glowing  morning  flood 
Breaks  through  the  charmed  solitude  : 

This  silent  stone,  to  music  won, 

Shall  murmur  to  the  rising  sun ; 

The  busy  place,  in  dust  and  heat, 

Shall  rush  with  wheels  and  swarm  with 
feet ; 

The  Arachne-threads  of  Purpose  stream 
Unseen  within  the  morning  gleam; 

The  life  shall  move,  the  death  be  plain  ; 
The  bridal  throng,  the  funeral  train, 
Together,  face  to  face  shall  meet 
And  pass  within  the  morning  street. 

John  James  Piatt. 


Pee-  Ex  is  ten  ce. 

While  sauntering  through  the  crowded 
street, 

Some  lialf-remembered  face  I  meet, 

Albeit  upon  no  mortal  shore 

That  face,  metliinks,  has  smiled  before 

Lost  in  a  gay  and  festal  throng, 

I  tremble  at  some  tender  song, — 

Set  to  an  air  whose  golden  bars 
I  must  have  heard  in  other  stars. 

In  sacred  aisles  I  pause  to  share 
The  blessings  of  a  priestly  prayer, — 

When  the  whole  scene  which  greets  mine 
eyes 

In  some  strange  mode  I  recognize 

As  one  whose  every  mystic  part 
I  feel  prefigured  in  my  heart. 

At  sunset,  as  I  calmly  stand, 

A  stranger  on  an  alien  strand, 

Familiar  as  my  childhood’s  home 
Seems  the  long  stretch  of  wave  and  foam. 

One  sails  toward  me  o’er  the  bay, 

And  what  lie  comes  to  do  and  say 

I  can  foretell.  A  prescient  lore 
Springs  from  some  life  outlived  of  yore. 

0  swift,  instinctive,  startling  gleams 
Of  deep  soul-knowledge  !  not  as  dreams 

For  aye  ye  vaguely  dawn  and  die, 

But  oft  with  lightning  certainty 

Pierce  through  the  dark,  oblivious  brain, 
To  make  old  thoughts  and  memories  plain: 

Thoughts  which  perchance  must  travel 
back 

Across  the  wild,  bewildering  track 

Of  countless  seons  ;  memories  far, 
High-reaching  as  yon  pallid  star, 

Unknown,  scarce  seen,  whose  flickering 
grace 

Faints  on  the  outmost  rings  of  space ! 

Paul  Hamilton  IIayne. 


7S4 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Sonnet  on  Parting  with  his 
Books. 

As  one  who  destined  from  his  friends  to  part 
Regrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  erewhile 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their 
smile, 

And  tempers,  as  he  may,  affliction’s  dart ; 
Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art, 
Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  be¬ 
guile 

My  tedious  hours  and  lighten  every  toil, 
I  now  resign  you !  Nor  with  fainting  heart; 
For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore ; 
When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  pow¬ 
ers, 

Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion 
hold, 

And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 

William  Roscoe. 

- KX - 

Sir  Marmaduke. 

Sir  Marmaduke  was  a  hearty  knight; 

Good  man  !  old  man  ! 

He’s  painted  standing  bolt  upright, 

With  his  hose  rolled  over  his  knee ; 
His  periwig’s  as  white  as  chalk, 

And  on  his  fist  he  holds  a  hawk, 

And  he  looks  like  the  head 
Of  an  ancient  family. 

His  dining-room  was  long  and  wide ; 

Good  man  !  old  man  ! 

His  spaniels  lay  by  the  fireside ; 

And  in  other  parts,  d’ye  see, 
Cross-bows,  tobacco-pipes,  old  hats, 

A  saddle,  his  wife,  and  a  litter  of  cats; 
And  he  looked  like  the  head 
Of  an  ancient  family. 

He  never  turned  the  poor  from  his  gate ; 

Good  man  !  old  man  ! 

But  was  always  ready  to  break  the  pate 
Of  his  country’s  enemy. 

What  knight  could  do  a  better  thing 
Than  serve  the  poor  and  fight  for  his  king? 
And  so  may  every  head 
Of  an  ancient  family. 

George  Colman  the  Younger. 


Praxiteles  and  Phryne. 

A  thousand  silent  years  ago, 

The  twilight  faint  and  pale 
Was  drawing  o’er  the  sunset  glow 
Its  soft  and  shadowv  veil ; 

When  from  his  work  the  Sculptor  stayed 
His  hand,  and  turned  to  one 
Who  stood  beside  him,  half  in  shade, 
Said,  with  a  sigh,  “  ’Tis  done. 

“  Thus  much  is  saved  from  chance  and 
change, 

That  waits  for  me  and  thee; 

Thus  much — how  little  ! — from  the  range 
Of  Death  and  Destiny. 

“  Phryne,  thy  human  lips  shall  pale, 

Thy  rounded  limbs  decay, — 

Nor  love  nor  prayers  can  aught  avail 
To  bid  thy  beauty  stay  ; 

“But  there  thy  smile  for  centuries 
On  marble  lips  shall  live, — 

For  Art  can  grant  what  love  denies, 

And  fix  the  fugitive. 

“Sad  thought !  nor  age  nor  death  shall  fade 
The  youth  of  this  cold  bust ; 

When  this  quick  brain  and  hand  that  made, 
And  thou  and  I  are  dust ! 

“When  all  our  hopes  and  fears  are  dead, 
And  both  our  hearts  are  cold, 

And  love  is  like  a  tune  that’s  played, 

And  Life  a  tale  that’s  told, 

“This  senseless  stone,  so  coldly  fair, 

That  love  nor  life  can  warm, 

The  same  enchanting  look  shall  wear, 
The  same  enchanting  form. 

“Its  peace  no  sorrow  shall  destroy; 

Its  beauty  age  shall  spare 
The  bitterness  of  vanished  joy, 

The  wearing  waste  of  care. 

“  And  there  upon  that  silent  face 
Shall  unborn  ages  see 
Perennial  youth,  perennial  grace, 

And  sealed  serenity. 

“And  strangers,  when  we  sleep  in  peace, 
Shall  say,  not  quite  unmoved, 

So  smiled  upon  Praxiteles 

The  Phryne  whom  he  loved.” 

William  Wetmore  Story. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


785 


The  House  is  Dark  and  Dreary. 

The  house  is  dark  and  dreary, 

And  my  heart  is  full  of  gloom  ; 

But  out  of  doors,  in  the  blessed  air, 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  fair, 

And  the  flowers  are  still  in  bloom. 

A  moment  ago  in  the  garden 
I  scattered  the  shining  dew : 

The  wind  was  soft  in  the  swaying  trees, 
The  morning-glories  were  full  of  bees, 

And  straight  in  my  face  they  flew ! 

Yet  I  left  them  unmolested, 

Draining  their  honey-wine, 

And  entered  the  weary  house  again, 

To  sit,  as  now,  by  a  bed  of  pain, 

With  a  fevered  hand  in  mine. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 

- »o» - 

Excelsior. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  pass’d 
A  youth,  who  bore,  ’mid  snow  and  ice, 

A  banner,  with  the  strange  device — 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath 
Flash’d  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath  ; 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue — 
Excelsior  ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and 
bright : 

Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 

And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan — 
Excelsior  ! 

“  Try  not  the  pass,”  the  old  man  said  : 

“  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead  ; 

The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide !” 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

“  Oh  stay,”  the  maiden  said,  “  and  rest 

Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !” 

A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 

But  still  he  answer’d  with  a  sigh, 

Excelsior ! 

50 


“  Beware  the  pine  tree’s  wither’d  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !”' 

This  was  the  peasant’s  last  good-night : 

A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard 
Utter’d  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 

A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 

Half  buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 

Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior !  • 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 

And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 

A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star — 
Excelsior ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

- »<>•■ - 

Fa  te. 

“  The  sky  is  clouded,  the  rocks  are  bare, 
The  spray  of  the  tempest  is  white  in  air, 
The  winds  are  out  with  the  waves  at  play, 
And  I  shall  not  tempt  the  sea  to-day. 

“  The  trail  is  narrow,  the  wood  is  dim, 

The  panther  clings  to  the  arching  limb, 
And  the  lion’s  whelps  are  abroad  at 
play, 

And  I  shall  not  join  in  the  chase  to-day.” 

But  the  ship  sail’d  safely  over  the  sea, 

And  the  hunters  came  from  the  chase  in 
glee, 

And  the  town  that  was  builded  upon  a 
rock 

Was  swallow’d  up  in  the  earthquake 
shock. 

Francis  Bret  Harte. 

The  Wretch ,  Condemned  with 
Life  to  Part. 

The  wretch,  condemn’d  with  life  to  part 
Still,  still  on  hope  relies, 

And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart 
Bids  expectation  rise. 


rm 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Hope,  like  the  glimm’ring  taper’s  light, 

Adorns  and  cheers  the  way ; 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 

Emits  a  brighter  ray. 

'Oliver  Goldsmith. 


T  Veep  no  more. 

Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan, 
Sorrow  calls  no  time  that’s  gone ; 

Violets  pluck’d,  the  sweetest  rain 
Makes  not  fresh  nor  grow  again  ; 

Trim  thy  locks,  look  cheerfully, 

Fate’s  hidden  ends  eyes  cannot  see; 

Jovs  as  winged  dreams  flv  fast, 

Why  should  sadness  longer  last? 

Grief  is  but  a  wound  to  woe ; 

Gentlest  fair  one,  mourn  no  mo. 

John  Fletcher. 

•o* 

After  the  Ball. 

They  sat  and  comb’d  their  beautiful 
hair, 

Their  long,  bright  tresses,  one  by  one, 
As  they  laugh’d  and  talk’d  in  the  chamber 
there, 

After  the  revel  was  done. 

Idly  they  talk’d  of  waltz  and  quadrille, 
Idly  they  laugh’d,  like  other  girls, 

Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still, 

Comb  out  their  braids  and  curls. 

Robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 

Knots  of  flowers  and  ribbons,  too, 
Scatter’d  about  in  every  place, 

For  the  revel  is  through. 

And  Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 
The  prettiest  night-gowns  under  the  sun, 
Stockingless,  slipperless,  sit  in  the  night, 
For  the  revel  is  done, — 

Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair, 

Those  wonderful  wraves  of  brown  and 
gold, 

Till  the  fire  is  out  in  the  chamber  there, 
And  the  little  bare  feet  are  cold. 

Then  out  of  the  gathering  winter  chill, 

All  out  of  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather, 
While  the  fire  is  out  and  the  house  is  still, 
Maud  and  Madge  together, — 


Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 

The  prettiest  night-gowns  under  the 
sun, 

Curtain’d  away  from  the  chilly  night, 
After  the  revel  is  done, — 

Float  along  in  a  splendid  dream. 

To  a  golden  gittern’s  tinkling  tune, 
While  a  thousand  lustres  shimmering 
stream 

In  a  palace’s  grand  saloon. 

Flashing  of  jewels  and  flutter  of  laces, 
Tropical  odors  sweeter  than  musk, 

Men  and  women  with  beautiful  faces, 

And  eyes  of  tropical  dusk  ; 

And  one  face  shining  out  like  a  star, 

One  face  haunting  the  dreams  of  each. 
And  one  voice,  sweeter  than  others  are, 
Breaking  into  silvery  speech, — 

Telling,  through  lips  of  bearded  bloom, 

An  old,  old  story  over  again, 

As  down  the  royal  banner’d  room, 

To  the  golden  gittern’s  strain, 

Two  and  two,  they  dreamily  walk, 

While  an  unseen  spirit  walks  beside, 
And  all  unheard  in  the  lovers’  talk, 

He  claimetk  one  for  a  bride. 

O  Maud  and  Madge,  dream  on  together, 
With  never  a  pang  of  jealous  fear ! 

For,  ere  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather 
Shall  whiten  another  year, 

Robed  for  the  bridal,  and  robed  for  the 
tomb, 

Braided  brown  hair  and  golden  tress, 
There’ll  be  only  one  of  you  left  for  the 
bloom 

Of  the  bearded  lips  to  press, — 

Only  one  for  the  bridal  pearls, 

The  robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, — 
Only  one  to  blush  through  her  curls 
At  the  sight  of  a  lover’s  face. 

O  beautiful  Madge,  in  your  bridal  white, 
For  you  the  revel  has  just  begun, 

But  for  her  wrho  sleeps  in  your  arms  to¬ 
night 

The  revel  of  Life  is  done ! 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


i  o/ 


But  robed  and  crown’d  with  yonr  saintly- 
bliss, 

Queen  of  heaven  and  bride  of  the  sun, 
O  beautiful  Maud,  you’ll  never  miss 

The  kisses  another  hath  won. 

Nora  Perry. 

-  ♦<>•  - 

Indian  Revelry. 

We  meet  ’neath  the  sounding  rafter, 

And  the  walls  around  are  bare ; 

As  they  shout  back  our  peals  of  laughter 
It  seems  that  the  dead  are  there. 

Then  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

We  drink  in  our  comrades’  eyes ; 

One  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 

Not  here  are  the  goblets  glowing, 

Not  here  is  the  vintage  sweet; 

’Tis  cold,  as  our  hearts  are  growing, 

And  dark  as  the  doom  we  meet. 

But  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

And  soon  shall  our  pulses  rise ; 

A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

There’s  many  a  hand  that’s  shaking, 

And  many  a  cheek  that’s  sunk ; 

•But  soon,  though  our  hearts  are  breaking, 
They’ll  burn  with  the  wine  we’ve  drunk. 
Then  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady ! 

’Tis  here  the  revival  lies ; 

Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Time  was  when  we  laugh’d  at  others  ; 

We  thought  we  were  wiser  then  ; 

Ha!  ha!  let  them  think  of  their  mothers, 
Who  hope  to  see  them  again. 

No!  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

The  thoughtless  is  here  the  wise; 

One  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Not  a  sigh  for  the  lot  that  darkles, 

Not  a  tear  for  the  friends  that  sink  ; 
We’ll  fall,  ’midst  the  wine-cup’s  sparkles, 
As  mute  as  the  wine  we  drink. 

Come  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

’Tis  this  that  the  respite  buys ; 

A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 


There’s  a  mist  on  the  glass  congealing, 

’Tis  the  hurricane’s  sultry  breath  ; 

'  And  thus  does  the  warmth  of  feeling 
Turn  ice  in  the  grasp  of  Death. 

But  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady ! 

For  a  moment  the  vapor  flies  ; 

Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Who  dreads  to  the  dust  returning  ? 

Who  shrinks  from  the  sable  shore, 
Where  the  high  and  haughty  yearning 
Of  the  soul  can  sting  no  more? 

No,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

The  world  is  a  world  of  lies  ; 

A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Cut  off  from  the  land  that  bore  us, 
Betray’d  by  the  land  we  find, 

When  the  brightest  have  gone  before  us, 
And  the  dullest  are  most  behind — 
Stand,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady! 

’Tis  all  we  have  left  to  prize ; 

One  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Bartholomew  Dowling. 

- K>« - 

Tithonus. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and 
fall, 

The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the 
ground, 

Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies 
beneath, 

And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 
Me  only  cruel  immortality 
Consumes :  I  wither  slowly  in  thine 
arms, 

Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 

A  white-hair’d  shadow  roaming  like  a 
dream 

The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of 
morn. 

Alas  !  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a  man — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice, 
Who  madest  him  thv  chosen,  that  he 
seem’d 

To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  god  ! 


788 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


I  ask’d  thee,  “  Give  me  immortality.” 

Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with  a 
smile, 

Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they 
give. 

But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work’d 
their  wills, 

And  beat  me  down  and  marr’d  and  wasted 
me, 

And  tlio’  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me 
maim’d 

To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth, 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 

And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.  Can  thy  love, 
Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho’  even  now, 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide, 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill  with 
tears 

To  hear  me  ?  Let  me  go :  take  back  thy 
gift: 

Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 

Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 
Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet 
for  all? 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart:  there 
comes 

A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was 
born. 

Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer 
steals 

From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoul¬ 
ders  pure, 

And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  re¬ 
new’d. 

Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro’  the 
gloom, 

Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to 
mine, 

Ere  vet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild 
team 

Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke, 
arise, 

And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loos¬ 
en’d  manes, 

And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo  !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer 
given 

Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek. 


Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy 
tears, 

And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying 
learnt, 

In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be 
true : 

“  The  gods  themselves  cannot  recall  their 
gifts.” 

Ay  me !  ay  me  !  with  what  another  heart 

In  davs  far-off,  and  with  what  other  eves 

I  used  to  watch — if  I  be  he  that  watch’d — 

The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee, 
saw 

The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings, 

Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt 
my  blood 

1  Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson’d 
all 

Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I 
lay, 

Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy- 
warm 

With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening 
buds 

Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that 
kiss’d 

Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and 
sweet, 

Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo 
sing, 

While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine  East : 

How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with 
thine? 

Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 

Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled 
feet 

Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when 
the  steam 

Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the 
homes 

Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die, 

And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 

Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground; 

Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my 
grave ; 

Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by 
morn ; 

I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty 
courts, 

And  thee  returning  on  thy  silvei*  wheels. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


789 


Ships  a  t  Sea. 

I  have  ships  that  went  to  sea 
More  than  fifty  years  ago  : 

None  have  yet  come  home  to  me, 

But  keep  sailing  to  and  fro. 

I  have  seen  them,  in  my  sleep, 
Plunging  through  the  shoreless  deep, 
With  tattered  sails  and  battered  hulls, 
While  around  them  screamed  the  gulls, 
Flying  low,  flying  low. 

I  have  wondered  why  they  stayed 
From  me,  sailing  round  the  world ; 
And  I’ve  said,  “I’m  half  afraid 
That  their  sails  will  ne’er  be  furled.” 
Great  the  treasures  that  they  hold — 
Silks  and  plumes,  and  bars  of  gold  ; 
While  the  spices  which  they  bear 
Fill  with  fragrance  all  the  air, 

As  they  sail,  as  they  sail. 

Every  sailor  in  the  port 
Knows  that  I  have  ships  at  sea, 

Of  the  waves  and  winds  the  sport ; 

And  the  sailors  pity  me. 

Oft  they  come  and  with  me  walk, 
Cheering  me  with  hopeful  talk, 

Till  I  put  my  fears  aside, 

And  contented  watch  the  tide 
Rise  and  fall,  rise  and  fall. 

I  have  waited  on  the  piers, 

Gazing  for  them  down  the  bay, 

Days  and  nights,  for  many  years, 

Till  I  turned  heart-sick  away. 

But  the  pilots,  when  they  land, 

Stop  and  take  me  by  the  hand, 

Saying,  “  You  will  live  to  see 
Your  proud  vessels  come  from  sea, 

One  and  all,  one  and  all.” 

So  I  never  quite  despair, 

Nor  let  hope  or  courage  fail ; 

And  some  day  when  skies  are  fair, 

Up  the  bay  my  ship  will  sail. 

I  can  buy  then  all  I  need — 

Prints  to  look  at,  books  to  read, 

Horses,  wines,  and  works  of  art, 
Everything  except  a  heart : 

That  is  lost,  that  is  lost. 

Once  when  I  was  pure  and  young, 
Poorer,  too,  than  I  am  now, 

Ere  a  cloud  was  o’er  me  flung, 

Or  a  wrinkle  creased  my  brow, 


There  was  one  whose  heart  was  mine  ; 

But  she’s  something  now  divine, 

And  though  come  my  ships  from  sea, 

They  can  bring  no  heart  to  me, 

Evermore,  evermore. 

R.  B.  Coffin. 

■ - *o« - 

My  Ship. 

Down  to  the  wharves,  as  the  sun  goes  down. 
And  the  daylight’s  tumult  and  dust  and 
din 

Are  dying  away  in  the  busy  town, 

I  go  to  see  if  my  ship  comes  in. 

I  gaze  far  over  the  quiet  sea, 

Rosy  with  sunset,  like  mellow  wine, 
Where  ships,  like  lilies,  lie  tranquilly, 
Many  and  fair,  but  I  see  not  mine. 

I  question  the  sailors  every  night 
Who  over  the  bulwarks  idly  lean, 
Noting  the  sails  as  they  come  in  sight : 

“  Have  you  seen  my  beautiful  ship  come 
in?” 

“  Whence  does  she  come?”  they  ask  of  me  ; 

“Who  is  her  master,  and  what  her  name?” 
And  they  smile  upon  me  pityingly 

When  my  answer  is  ever  and  ever  the 
same. 

Oh  mine  was  a  vessel  of  strength  and  truth, 
Her  sails  were  white  as  a  young  lamb’s 
fleece, 

She  sailed  long  since  from  the  port  of 
Youth, — 

Her  master  was  Love,  and  her  name  was 
Peace. 

And  like  all  beloved  and  beauteous  things, 
She  faded  in  distance  and  doubt  away, — 
With  only  a  tremble  of  snowy  wings 
She  floated,  swan-like,  adown  the  bay, 

Carrying  with  her  a  precious  freight, — 

All  I  had  gathered  by  years  of  pain ; 

A  tempting  prize  to  the  pirate  Fate, — 

And  still  I  watch  for  her  back  again — 

Watch  from  the  earliest  morning  light, 

Till  the  pale  stars  grieve  o’er  the  dying 
day, 

To  catch  the  gleam  of  her  canvas  white 
Among  the  islands  which  gem  the  bay. 


790 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  she  conies  not  yet — she  will  never  come 
To  gladden  my  eyes  and  my  spirit  more; 

And  my  heart  grows  hopeless  and  faint  and 
dumb, 

As  I  wait  and  wait  on  the  lonesome 
shore, 

Knowing  that  tempest  and  time  and  storm 
Have  wrecked  and  shattered  my  beau¬ 
teous  bark ; 

Rank  sea- weeds  cover  her  wasting  form, 
And  her  sails  are  tattered  and  stained 
and  dark. 

But  the  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes 
down, 

And  the  daylight  follows  the  night’s 
eclipse, — 

And  still  with  the  sailors,  tanned  and 
brown, 

I  wait  on  the  wharves  and  watch  the 
ships. 

And  still  with  a  patience  that  is  not  hope, 
For  vain  and  empty  it  long  hath  been, 

I  sit  on  the  rough  shore’s  rocky  slope, 

And  watch  to  see  if  my  ship  comes  in. 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 

- k>« - 

The  Dream. 
i. 

Our  life  is  twofold :  sleep  hath  its  own 
world — 

A  boundarv  between  the  things  misnamed 

<—j 

Death  and  existence :  sleep  hath  its  own 
world, 

And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality ; 

And  dreams  in  their  development  have 
breath, 

And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of 

joy; 

They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking 
thoughts ; 

They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking 
toils ; 

They  do  divide  our  being ;  they  become 

A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 

And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity; 

They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past, — they 
speak 

Like  sibyls  of  the  future  ;  they  have  power  — 

The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 


They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what 
thev  will ; 

And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that’s  gone  by, 
The  dread  of  vanished  shadows — are  they 
so  ? 

Is  not  the  past  all  shadow?  What  are  they? 
Creations  of  the  mind? — the  mind  can 
make 

Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and 
give 

A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all 
flesh. 

I  would  recall  a  vision,  which  I  dreamed 
Perchance  in  sleep — for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

u. 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 

Green  and  of  mild  declivity  ;  the  last, 

As  ’twere  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of 
men 

Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs ; — the  hill 
Was  crowned  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array — so  fixed, 

Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man. 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing — the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  ; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beauti¬ 
ful  ; 

And  both  were  young — yet  not  alike  in 
youth. 

As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon’s  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 
The  bov  had  fewer  summers  ;  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  vears,  and  to  his  eve 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him  ;  he  had  looked 
LTpon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away ; 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers; 
She  was  his  voice ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words ;  she  was  his 
sight, 

For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with 
hers, 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT. 


791 


Which  colored  all  his  objects; — he  had 
ceased 

To  live  within  himself ;  she  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all ;  upon  a  tone, 

A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and 
flow, 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously — his 
heart 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share  : 
Her  sighs  were  not  for  him  ;  to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a  brother — but  no  more  ;  ’twas 
much; 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestowed  on  him ; 
Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 
Of  a  time-honored  race. — It  was  a  name 
Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him 
not — and  why  ? 

Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer — when  she 
loved 

Another.  Even  now  she  loved  another  ; 
And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 
Looking  afar,  if  yet  her  lover’s  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 

in. 

A  change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 
There  was  an  ancient  mansion  ;  and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparisoned. 
Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 
The  boy  of  whom  1  spake; — he  wras  alone, 
And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro.  Anon 
He  sate  him  dowm,  and  seized  a  pen  and 
traced 

Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;  then 
he  leaned 

His  bowed  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook 
as  ’twere 

With  a  convulsion — then  arose  again  ; 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands 
did  tear 

What  he  had  written  ;  but  he  shed  no  tears,  i 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a  kind  of  quiet.  As  he  paused 
The  lady  of  his  love  re-entered  there ; 

She  was  serene  and  smiling  then  ;  and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  bv  him  beloved :  she  knew, 
For  quickly  conies  such  knowledge,  that 
his  heart 

Was  darkened  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 
That  he  was  wretched ;  but  she  saw  not  all. 


j  He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 
He  took  her  hand ;  a  moment  o’er  his  face 
A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced  ;  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came. 
He  dropped  the  hand  he  held,  and  with 
slow  steps 

Retired  ;  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 

For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles.  He 
passed 

From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  hall, 
And,  mounting  on  his  steed,  he  went  his 
way ; 

And  ne’er  repassed  that  hoary  threshold 
more. 

IV. 

A  change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The  boy  was  sprung  to  manhood.  In  the 
wilds 

Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home, 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams ;  he 
was  girt 

With  strange  and  dusky  aspects ;  he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  ;  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer ; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all ;  and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couched  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruined  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  reared  them  ;  by  his  sleeping 
side 

Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly 
steeds 

Were  fastened  near  a  fountain  ;  and  a  man 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumbered  around : 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky, 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven. 

v. 

A  change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The  lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 
Who  did  not  love  her  better.  In  her  home, 
A  thousand  leagues  from  his, — her  nati\r8 
home — 

She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  beauty.  But  behold  f 
Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 

|  As  if  its  lids  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 


792 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


What  could  her  grief  be? — She  had  all  she 
loved ; 

And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes  or  evil  wish, 

Or  ill-repressed  affection,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be? — she  had  loved 
him  not, 

Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  be¬ 
loved  ; 

Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  preyed 
Upon  her  mind — a  spectre  of  the  past. 

VI. 

A  change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream: 
The  wanderer  was  returned — I  saw  him 
stand 

Before  an  altar,  with  a  gentle  bride  ; 

Her  face  was  fair ;  but  was  not  that  which 
made 

The  starlight  of  his  boyhood.  As  he  stood, 
Even  at  the  altar,  o’er  his  brow  there  came 
The  self-same  aspect,  and  the  quivering 
shock 

That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude  ;  and  then — 

As  in  that  hour — a  moment  o’er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came ; 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet;  and  he 
spoke 

The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own 
words ; 

And  all  things  reeled  around  him;  he  could 
see 

Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should 
have  been — 

But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustomed 
hall, 

And  the  remembered  chambers,  and  the 
place, 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the 
shade, 

All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destinv,  came  back 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and 
the  light  : 

What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a 
time? 

VII. 

A  change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The  lady  of  his  love — oh !  she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ;  her  mind 


Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling ;  and  her 

eyes, 

They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth ;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm ;  her 
thoughts 

Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things; 
And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others’  sight  familiar  were  to  hers. 

And  this  the  World  calls  frenzy;  but  the 
wise 

Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift ; 

What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 

VIII. 

A  change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 
The  wanderer  was  alone,  as  heretofore; 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were 
gone 

Or  were  at  war  with  him ;  he  was  a  mark 
For  blight  and  desolation  —  compassed 
round 

With  hatred  and  contention ;  pain  was 
mixed 

In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him  ;  until, 

Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days, 

He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power, 

But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment.  He  lived 

Through  that  which  had  been  death  to 

many  men, 

J  # 

And  made  him  friends  of  mountains.  With 
the  stars, 

I  And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  Universe, 

He  held  his  dialogues,  and  they  did  teach 
To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries ; 

To  him  the  book  of  night  was  opened 
wide, 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  revealed 
A  marvel  and  a  secret — Be  it  so. 

IX. 

My  dream  was  past;  it  had  no  further 
change.  • 

It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 
Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus 
traced  out 

Almost  like  a  reality — the  one 
To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery. 

Lord  Byron. 


Weird  and  Fantastic. 


The  Fairy  Queen. 

Come,  follow,  follow  me — 

You,  fairy  elves  that  be, 

Which  circle  on  the  green — 

Come,  follow  Mab,  your  queen! 

Hand  in  hand  let’s  dance  around, 

For  this  place  is  fairy  ground. 

When  mortals  are  at  rest, 

And  snoring  in  their  nest, 

Unheard  and  unespied, 

Through  keyholes  we  do  glide; 

Over  tables,  stools,  and  shelves, 

We  trip  it  with  our  fairy  elves. 

And  if  the  house  be  foul 
With  platter,  dish,  or  bowl. 

Up  stairs  we  nimbly  creep, 

And  find  the  sluts  asleep  ; 

There  we  pinch  their  arms  and  thighs — 
None  escapes,  nor  none  espies. 

But  if  the  house  be  swept, 

And  from  uncleanness  kept, 

We  praise  the  household  maid, 

And  duly  she  is  paid  ; 

For  we  use,  before  we  go, 

To  drop  a  tester  in  her  shoe. 

Upon  a  mushroom’s  head 
Our  tablecloth  we  spread  ; 

A  grain  of  rye  or  wheat 
Is  manchet,  which  we  eat  ; 

Pearly  drops  of  dew  we  drink, 

In  acorn  cups,  fill’d  to  the  brink. 

The  brains  of  nightingales, 

With  unctuous  fat  of  snails, 

Between  two  cockles  stew’d, 

Is  meat  that’s  easily  chew’d  ; 

Tails  of  worms,  and  marrow  of  mice, 

Do  make  a  dish  that’s  wondrous  nice. 


The  grasshopper,  gnat,  and  fly, 

Serve  us  for  our  minstrelsy ; 

Grace  said,  we  dance  a  while, 

And  so  the  time  beguile ; 

And  if  the  moon  doth  hide  her  head, 
The  glow-worm  lights  us  home  to  bed. 

On  tops  of  dewy  grass 
So  nimbly  do  we  pass, 

The  young  and  tender  stalk 
Ne’er  bends  when  we  do  walk; 

Yet  in  the  morning  may  be  seen 
Where  we  the  night  before  have  been. 

Author  Unknown. 

■  ■  #o» - - 

Song  of  the  Fairies. 

By  the  moon  we  sport  and  play ; 

With  the  night  begins  our  day : 

As  we  dance  the  dew  doth  fall ; 

Trip  it,  little  urchins,  all. 

Lightly  as  the  little  bee, 

Two  by  two,  and  three  bv  three, 

And  about  go  we,  and  about  go  we. 

John  Lylt. 

■  »o« - 

Fairy  Song. 

Shed  no  tear !  oh,  shed  no  tear ! 

The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 

Weep  no  more!  oh,  weep  no  more! 

Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root’s  white  core, 
Dry  vour  eves  !  oh,  drv  your  eyes  ! 

For  I  was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies, — 

Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead !  look  overhead ! 

’Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red,— 

Look  up,  look  up !  I  flutter  now 
On  this  fresh  pomegranate  bough. 

793 


794 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


See  me !  ’tis  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man’s  ill. 

Shed  no  tear !  oh,  shed  no  tear ! 

The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Adieu,  adieu — I  fly — adieu  ! 

I  vanish  in  the  Heaven’s  blue, — 

Adieu,  adieu ! 

John  Keats. 

- k>« - 

Over  Hill ,  Over  Dale. 

From  “  A  Midsummer  Night’s  Dream.” 

Oyer  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I  do  wander  everywhere, 

Swifter  than  the  moon’s  sphere  ; 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be ! 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see ; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors, 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savors : 

I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here, 

And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip’s  ear. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- K>« - 

Ariel's  Songs. 

From  “  The  Tempest.” 

I. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands : 

Court’sied  when  you  have,  and  kiss’d, — 
The  wild  waves  whist, — 

Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 

And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 
Hark,  hark ! 

Bow,  wow. 

The  watch-dogs  bark — 

Bow,  wow. 

Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 

The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 

Cry  Cock-a-diddle-dow. 

II. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies  ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 

Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes ; 
Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 


But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 

Ding-dong. 

Hark !  now  I  hear  them — ding,  dong,  bell ! 

hi. 

Where  the  bee  sucks  there  suck  I ; 

In  a  cowslip’s  bell  I  lie ; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry ; 

On  the  bat’s  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the 
bough. 

William  Shakespeare. 

- K>« - 

Song  of  Fairies. 

We  the  fairies,  blithe  and  antic, 

Of  dimensions  not  gigantic, 

Though  the  moonshine  mostly  keep  us, 
Oft  in  orchards  frisk  and  peep  us. 

Stolen  sweets  are  always  sweeter ; 

Stolen  kisses  much  completer ; 

Stolen  looks  are  nice  in  chapels : 

Stolen,  stolen  be  your  apples. 

When  to  bed  the  world  are  bobbing, 
Then’s  the  time  for  orchard-robbing; 
Yet  the  fruit  were  scarce  worth  peeling 
Were  it  not  for  stealing,  stealing. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

(From  the  Latin  of  Thomas  Randolph.) 

The  Fairies. 

A  Child’s  Song. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 

We  daren’t  go  a-hunting 
For  fear  of  little  men  ; 

Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 

Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl’s  feather ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 
Some  make  their  home, 

They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 
Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


795 


Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 

With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 
The  old  King  sits  ; 

He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 
He’s  nigh  lost  his  wits. 

With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 
Columbkill  he  crosses, 

On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses  ; 

Or  going  up  with  music 
On  cold  starry  nights, 

To  sup  with  the-  Queen 
Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 
For  seven  years  long  ; 

When  she  came  down  again 
Her  friends  were  all  gone. 

They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow, 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 
But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 

They  have  kept  her  ever  since 
Deep  within  the  lakes, 

On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 

They  have  planted  thorn  trees 
For  pleasure  here  and  there. 

Is  any  man  so  daring 
As  dig  one  up  in  spite, 

He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 
In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 

We  daren’t  go  a-huntiug 
For  fear  of  little  men  ; 

Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 

Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl’s  feather  ! 

William  Allingiiam. 


The  Rape  of  the  Lock. 

An  Heroi-Comical  Poem. 

Nolueram,  Belinda,  tuos  violare  capillos  ; 

Sed  juvat  hoc  precibus  me  tribuisse  tuis. — Mart. 

CANTO  I. 

What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes 
springs, 

What  mighty  contests  rise  from  trivial 
things, 

I  sing — This  verse  to  Caryl,  muse  !  is  due  ; 

This,  e’en  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view; 

Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise, 

If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays. 

Say  what  strange  motive,  goddess  !  could 
compel 

A  well-bred  lord  t’  assault  a  gentle  belle? 

Oh,  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unex¬ 
plored, 

Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord? 

In  tasks  so  bold  can  little  men  engage, 

And  in  soft  bosoms  dwell  such  mighty  rage? 

Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a  timor¬ 
ous  ray, 

And  oped  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the 
day. 

Now  lap-dogs  give  themselves  the  rousing 
shake, 

And  sleepless  lovers  just  at  twelve  awake: 

Thrice  rung  the  bell,  the  slipper  knock’d 
the  ground, 

And  the  press’d  watch  returned  a  silver 
sound. 

Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  prest — 

Her  guardian  sylph  prolong’d  the  balmy 
rest; 

’Twas  he  had  summon’d  to  her  silent  bed 

The  morning-dream  that  hover’d  o’er  her 
head : 

A  youth  more  glittering  than  a  birthnight 
beau 

(That  e’en  in  slumber  caused  her  cheek  to 
glow), 

Seem’d  to  her  ear  his  winning  lips  to  lay, 

And  thus  in  whispers  said,  or  seem’d  to 
say : 

“  Fairest  of  mortals,  thou  distinguish’d 
care 

Of  thousand  bright  inhabitants  of  air! 

If  e’er  one  vision  touch’d  thy  infant  thought, 

Of  all  the  nurse  and  all  the  priest  have 
taught, 


796 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


Of  airy  elves  by  moonlight  shadows  seen, 
The  silver  token,  and  the  circled  green  ; 

Or  virgins  visited  by  angel  powers 
With  golden  crowns  and  wreaths  of  heav¬ 
enly  flowers — 

Hear  and  believe!  thy  own  importance 
know, 

Nor  bound  thy  narrow  views  to  things 
below. 

Some  secret  truths,  from  learned  pride  con¬ 
cealed, 

To  maids  alone  and  children  are  re¬ 
veal’d  : 

What  though  no  credit  doubting  wits  may 
give? 

The  fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe. 
Know,  then,  unnumber’d  spirits  round 
thee  fly — 

The  light  militia  of  the  lower  sky : 

These,  though  unseen,  are  ever  on  the 
wing, 

Hang  o’er  the  box,  and  hover  round  the 
ring. 

Think  what  an  equipage  thou  hast  in  air, 
And  view  with  scorn  two  pages  and  a 
chair. 

As  now  your  own,  our  beings  weje  of  old, 
And  once  enclosed  in  woman’s  beauteous 
mould ; 

Thence,  by  a  soft  transition,  we  repair 
From  earthly  vehicles  to  these  of  air. 
Think  not,  when  woman’s  transient  breath 
is  fled, 

That  all  her  vanities  at  once  are  dead; 
Succeeding  vanities  she  still  regards, 

And,  though  she  plays  no  more,  o’erlooks 
the  cards. 

Her  joy  in  gilded  chariots,  when  alive, 
And  love  of  ombre,  after  death  survive ; 
For  when  the  fair  in  all  their  pride  ex¬ 
pire, 

To  their  first  elements  their  souls  retire, 
The  sprites  of  fiery  termagants  in  flame 
Mount  up,  and  take  a  salamander’s  name; 
Soft  yielding  minds  to  water  glide  away, 
And  sip,  with  nymphs,  their  elemental  tea; 
The  graver  prude  sinks  downward  to  a 
gnome 

In  search  of  mischief  still  on  earth  to 
roam ; 

The  light  coquettes  in  sylphs  aloft  repair, 
And  sport  and  flutter  in  the  fields  of  air. 


“  Know  further  yet ;  whoever  fair  and 
chaste 

Rejects  mankind,  is  by  some  sylph  em¬ 
braced  : 

For  spirits,  freed  from  mortal  laws,  with 
ease 

Assume  what  sexes  and  what  shapes  they 
please. 

What  guards  the  purity  of  melting  maids. 

In  courtly  balls  and  midnight  masquerades, 

Safe  from  the  treacherous  friend,  the  dar¬ 
ing  spark, 

The  glance  by  day,  the  whisper  in  the 
dark — 

When  kind  occasion  prompts  their  warm 
desires, 

When  music  softens,  and  when  dancing 
fires? 

’Tis  but  their  sylph,  the  wise  celestials 
know, 

Though  honor  is  the  word  with  men  be¬ 
low. 

“  Some  nymphs  there  are,  too  conscious 
of  their  face, 

For  life  predestined  to  the  gnome’s  em¬ 
brace  ; 

These  swell  their  prospects  and  exalt  their 
pride, 

When  offers  are  disdain’d,  and  love  de¬ 
nied  ; 

Then  gay  ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 

While  peers,  and  dukes,  and  all  their 
sweeping  train, 

And  garters,  stars,  and  coronets  appear, 

And  in  soft  sounds  ‘Your  Grace’  salutes 
their  ear. 

’Tis  these  that  early  taint  the  female 
soul, 

Instruct  the  eyes  of  young  coquettes  to 
roll ; 

Teach  infant  cheeks  a  bidden  blush  to 
know, 

And  little  hearts  to  flutter  at  a  beau. 

“  Oft  when  the  world  imagine  women 
stray, 

The  sylphs  through  mystic  mazes  guide 
their  way  ; 

Through  all  the  giddy  circle  they  pursue. 

And  old  impertinence  expel  by  new. 

What  tender  maid  but  must  a  victim  fall 

To  one  man’s  treat,  but  for  another’s 
ball? 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


797 


When  Florio  speaks,  what  virgin  could 
withstand, 

If  gentle  Damon  did  not  squeeze  her 
hand? 

With  varying  vanities  from  every  part 
They  shift  the  moving  toy-shop  of  their 
heart, 

Where  wigs  with  wigs,  with  sword-knots 
sword-knots  strive, 

Beaux  banish  beaux,  and  coaches  coaches 
drive. 

This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call — 

Oh,  blind  to  truth !  the  sylphs  contrive  it 
all. 

“Of  these  am  I,  who  thy  protection 
claim ; 

A  watchful  sprite,  and  Ariel  is  my  name. 
Late,  as  I  ranged  the  crystal  wilds  of 
air, 

In  the  clear  mirror  of  tliy  ruling  star, 

I  saw,  alas !  some  dread  event  impend, 

Ere  to  the  main  this  morning’s  sun  de¬ 
scend  ; 

But  Heaven  reveals  not  what,  or  how,  or 
where : 

Warn’d  by  the  sylph,  0  pious  maid,  be¬ 
ware  ! 

This  to  disclose  is  all  thy  guardian  can ; 
Beware  of  all,  but  most  beware  of  man  !” 

He  said  ;  when  Shock,  who  thought  she 
slept  too  long, 

Leap’d  up,  and  waked  his  mistress  with 
his  tongue. 

’Twas  then,  Belinda,  if  report  say  true, 
Thy  eyes  first  open’d  on  a  billet-doux  ; 
Wounds,  charms,  and  ardors,  were  no 
sooner  read, 

But  all  the  vision  vanish’d  from  thy  head. 

And  now,  unveil’d,  the  toilet  stands  dis¬ 
play’d, 

Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  robed  in  white,  the  nympli  intent 
adores, 

With  head  uncover’d,  the  cosmetic  powers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears — 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she 
rears ; 

Th’  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar’s  side, 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
XInnumber’d  treasures  ope  at  once,  and 
here 

The  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear; 


From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious 
toil, 

And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering 
spoil. 

This  casket  India’s  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 
Transform’d  to  combs — the  speckled,  and 
the  white. 

Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining 
rows  ; 

Puffs,  powders,  patches,  Bibles,  billet-doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms  ; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms, 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her 
face  ; 

Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 

And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her 
eyes. 

The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling 
care, 

These  set  the  head,  and  these  divide  the 
hair ; 

Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait 
the  gown ; 

And  Betty’s  praised  for  labors  not  her 
own. 

CANTO  II. 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  th’  ethereal 
plain, 

The  sun  first  rises  o’er  the  purpled  main, 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launch’d  on  the  bosom  of  •  the  silver 
Thames. 

Fair  nymphs  and  well-dress’d  youths 
around  her  shone, 

But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 

On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she 
wore, 

Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels 
adore ; 

Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  dis¬ 
close — 

Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfix’d  as 
those ; 

Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends ; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers 
strike  ; 

And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 


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FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of 
pride, 

Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults 
to  hide  : 

If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you’ll  forget  them 
all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  man¬ 
kind, 

Nourish’d  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung 
behind 

In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth,  ivory 
neck. 

Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender 
chains. 

With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray  ; 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny 
prey  ; 

Fair  tresses  man’s  imperial  race  ensnare, 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 

Th’  adventurous  baron  the  bright  locks 
admired ; 

He  saw,  he  wish’d,  and  to  the  prize  as¬ 
pired. 

Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way, 

Bv  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betrav  ; 

For  when  success  a  lover’s  toil  attends, 
Few  ask  if  fraud  or  force  attain’d  his 
ends. 

For  this,  ere  Phoebus  rose,  he  had  im¬ 
plored 

Propitious  Heaven,  and  every  power 
adored  ; 

But  chiefly  Love — to  Love  an  altar  built, 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances  neatly 
gilt. 

There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of 
gloves, 

And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves  ; 
With  tender  billet-doux  he  lights  the  pyre, 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise 
the  fire. 

Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent 
eyes 

Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the 
prize. 

The  powers  gave  ear,  and  granted  half 
his  prayer ; 

The  rest  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty 
air. 


But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel 
glides, 

The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating 
tides, 

While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 

And  soften’d  sounds  along  the  waters 
die ; 

Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently 
play, 

Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was 

gay. 

All  but  the  sylph — with  careful  thoughts 
oppress’d, 

Th’  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his 
breast. 

He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air: 

The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  re¬ 
pair  ; 

Soft  o’er  the  shrouds  aerial  whispers 
breathe, 

That  seem’d  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  be¬ 
neath. 

Some  to  the  sun  their  insect-wings  un¬ 
fold, 

Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of 
gold, 

Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal 
sight, 

Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light; 

Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments 
flew, 

Thin,  glittering  textures  of  the  filmy  dew, 

Dipp’d  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the 
skies, 

Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling 
dyes; 

While  every  beam  new  transient  colors 
flings, 

Colors  that  change  whene’er  they  wave 
their  wings. 

Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast, 

Superior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  placed ; 

His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun, 

He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  be¬ 
gun  : 

“  Ye  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  your  chief 
give  ear ! 

Fays,  fairies,  genii,  elves,  and  demons, 
hear ! 

Ye  know  the  spheres  and  various  tasks 
assign’d 

By  laws  eternal  to  th’  aerial  kind : 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


799 


Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  ether  play, 

And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of 
day; 

Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs 
on  high, 

Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless 
sky; 

Some,  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon’s 
pale  light 

Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the 
night, 

Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below, 

Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow, 

Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry 
main, 

Or  o’er  the  glebe  distil  the  kindly  rain. 

Others,  on  earth,  o’er  human  race  pre¬ 
side, 

Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions 
guide : 

Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  J 
own, 

And  guard  with  arms  divine  the  British 
throne. 

“  Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the 
fair, 

Not  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious 
care  ; 

To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale, 

Nor  let  th’  imprison’d  essences  exhale; 

To  draw  fresh  colors  from  the  vernal 
flowers  ; 

To  steal  from  rainbows,  ere  they  drop  in 
showers, 

A  brighter  wash  ;  to  curl  their  waving 
hairs, 

Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their 
airs  ; 

Nay  oft,  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow, 

To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow. 

“  This  day  black  omens  threat  the  bright¬ 
est  fair 

That  e’er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit’s 
care ; 

Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force  or  sleight  ; 

But  what,  or  where,  the  Fates  have  wrapp’d 
in  night — 

Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana’s 
law, 

Or  some  frail  china  jar  receive  a  flaw  ; 

Or  stain  her  honor,  or  her  new  brocade ; 

Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a  masquerade; 


Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace,  at  a  ball ; 
Or  whether  Heaven  has  doom’d  that  Shock 
must  fall — 

Haste,  then,  ye  spirits !  to  your  charge  re¬ 
pair  : 

The  fluttering  fan  be  Zephyretta’s  care  ; 
The  drops  to  thee,  Brillante,  we  consign ; 
And,  Momentilla,  let  the  wgflcli  be  thine; 
Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  favorite  lock ; 
Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock. 

“  To  fifty  chosen  sylphs,  of  special  note, 
We  trust  th’  important  charge,  the  petti¬ 
coat — 

Oft  have  we  known  that  seven-fold  fence 
to  fail, 

Though  stiff  with  hoops,  and  arm’d  with 
ribs  of  whale — 

Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound, 
And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around. 

“  Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge, 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at 
large, 

Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o’ertake 
his  sins, 

Be  stopp’d  in  vials,  or  transfix’d  with 
pins  ; 

Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie, 
Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin’s  eye; 
Gums  and  pomatums  shall  his  flight  re¬ 
strain, 

While  clogg’d  he  beats  his  silken  wings  in 
vain  ; 

Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  power 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  rivell'd 
flower ; 

Or,  as  Ixion  fix’d,  the  wretch  shall  feel 
The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill ; 

In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow, 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  be¬ 
low  !” 

He  spoke ;  the  spirits  from  the  sails  de¬ 
scend  ; 

Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  ex¬ 
tend  ; 

Some  thread  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her 
hair ; 

Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her 
ear  ; 

With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they 
wait, 

Anxious,  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of 
fate. 


800 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


CANTO  III. 

Close  by  those  meads,  for  ever  crown’d 
with  flowers, 

Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his 
rising  towers, 

There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic 
frame, 

Which  from  the  neighboring  Hampton 
takes  its  name. 

Here  Britain’s  statesmen  oft  the  fall  fore¬ 
doom 

Of  foreign  tyrants,  and  of  nymphs  at 
home ; 

Here  thou,  great  Anna !  whom  three 
realms  obey, 

Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  some¬ 
times  tea. 

Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  re¬ 
sort, 

To  taste  a  while  the  pleasures  of  a  court ; 

In  various  talk  th’  instructive  hours  they 
past  : 

Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last ; 

One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British 
queen ; 

And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian 
screen ; 

A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and 
eyes — 

At  every  word  a  reputation  dies ; 

Snuff,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of 
chat, 

With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all 
that. 

Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of 
day, 

The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning 
ray; 

The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence 
sign, 

And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may 
dine ; 

The  merchant  from  th’  Exchange  returns 
in  peace, 

\nd  the  long  labors  of  the  toilet  cease. 

Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  in¬ 
vites, 

Burns  to  encounter  two  adventurous 
knights 

At  ombre  singly  to  decide  their  doom, 

And  swells  her  breast  with  conquests  yet 
to  come. 


Straight  the  three  bands  prepare  in  arms 
to  join, 

Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred 
Nine. 

Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  the  aerial 
guard 

Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card : 

First  Ariel  perch’d  upon  a  matadore, 

Then  each  according  to  the  rank  they 
bore ; 

For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient 
race, 

Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of 
place. 

Behold;  four  kings  in  majesty  revered, 

With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forky  beard ; 

And  four  fair  queens,  whose  hands  sustain 
a  flower, 

Tli’  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer 
power ; 

Four  knaves,  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty 
band, 

Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their 
hand ; 

And  parti-colored  troops,  a  shining  train, 

Draw  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet 
plain. 

The  skilful  nymph  reviews  her  force  with 
care; 

“  Let  spades  be  trumps !”  she  said,  and 
trumps  they  were. 

Now  move  to  war  her  sable  matadores, 

In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 

Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  lord  ! 

Led  off  two  captive  trumps,  and  swept  the 
board. 

As  many  more  Manillio  forced  to  yield, 

And  march’d  a  victor  from  the  verdant 
field. 

Him  Basto  follow’d,  but  his  fate  more 
hard 

Gain’d  but  one  trump  and  one  plebeian 
card. 

With  his  broad  sabre  next,  a  chief  iu 
years, 

The  hoary  majesty  of  spades  appears, 

Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  re¬ 
veal’d, 

The  rest  his  manv-color’d  robe  conceal'd. 

The  rebel  knave,  who  dares  his  prince  en¬ 

gage 

Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage. 


AT  EVERY  WDI1  A  BEPUTATOOtS  DP  11  E  §  . 


I 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


801 


E'en  mighty  Pam,  that  kings  and  queens 
o’erthrew, 

And  mow’d  down  armies  in  the  fights  of 
loo, 

Sad  chance  of  war !  now  destitute  of  aid, 
Falls  undistinguish’d  by  the  victor  spade  ! 

•Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield ; 
Now  to  the  baron  fate  inclines  the  field. 
His  warlike  amazon  her  host  invades, 

Th’  imperial  consort  of  the  crown  of 
spades. 

The  club’s  black  tyrant  first  her  victim 
died, 

Spite  of  his  haughty  mien  and  barbarous 
pride : 

What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head, 
His  giant  limbs,  in  state  unwieldy 
spread — 

That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pompous 
robe, 

And,  of  all  monarchs,  only  grasps  the 
globe  ? 

The  baron  now  his  diamonds  pours 
apace ; 

Th’  embroider’d  king  who  shows  but  half 
his  face, 

And  his  refulgent  queen,  with  powers 
combined, 

Of  broken  troops  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  diamonds,  hearts,  in  wild  disorder 
seen, 

With  throngs  promiscuous  strew  the  level 
green. 

Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs, 
Of  Asia’s  troops,  and  Afric’s  sable  sons — 
With  like  confusion  different  nations  fly, 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye ; 

The  pierced  battalions  disunited  fall 
In  heaps  on  heaps — one  fate  o’erwhelms 
them  all. 

The  knave  of  diamonds  tries  his  wily  arts, 
And  wins  (oh,  shameful  chance!)  the 
queen  of  hearts. 

At  this  the  blood  the  virgin’s  cheek  for¬ 
sook, 

A  livid  paleness  spreads  o’er  all  her  look ; 
She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th’  approaching 

.  iU’ 

Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codille. 

And  now  (as  oft  in  some  distemper’d 
state) 

On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  general  fate : 

51 


An  ace  of  hearts  steps  forth :  the  king  un¬ 
seen 

Lurk’d  in  her  hand,  and  mourn’d  his  cap¬ 
tive  queen  : 

He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager 
pace, 

And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate 
ace. 

The  nymph,  exulting,  fills  with  shouts  the 
sky  ; 

The  walls,  the  woods,  and  long  canals  re¬ 
ply* 

O  thoughtless  mortals !  ever  blind  to 
fate, 

Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate ! 

Sudden  these  honors  shall  be  snatch’d 
away, 

And  cursed  for  ever  this  victorious  day. 

For  lo  !  The  board  with  cups  and  spoons 
is  crown’d  ; 

The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns 
round ; 

On  shining  altars  of  japan  they  raise 

The  silver  lamp  ;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze  ; 

From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors 
glide, 

While  China’s  earth  receives  the  smoking 
tide. 

At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste, 

And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 

Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy 
band : 

Some,  as  she  sipp’d,  the  fuming  liquor 
fann’d  ; 

Some  o’er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  dis¬ 
play’d, 

Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich 
brocade. 

Coffee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise, 

And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half¬ 
shut  eyes) 

Sent  up  in  vapors  to  the  baron’s  brain 

New  stratagems,  the  radiant  lock  to  gain. 

Ah  cease,  rash  youth  !  desist  ere  ’tis  too 
late ; 

Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla’s 
fate  ! 

Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 

She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus’  injured  hair  ! 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their 
will, 

How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill! 


802 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Just  then,  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting 

grace 

A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining 
case : 

So  ladies,  in  romance,  assist  their  knight — 
Present  the  spear  and  arm  him  for  the 
fight. 

He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  ex¬ 
tends 

The  little  engine  on  his  fingers’  ends ; 

This  just  behind  Belinda’s  neck  he  spread, 
As  o’er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her 
head. 

Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair, 
A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back 
the  hair  ; 

And  thrice  they  twitch’d  the  diamond  in 
her  ear  ; 

Thrice  she  look’d  back,  and  thrice  the  foe 
drew  near. 

Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin’s  thought  : 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined, 
He  watch’d  the  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 
Sudden  he  view’d,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  power  ex¬ 
pired, 

Resign’d  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 

The  peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  for- 
fex  wide, 

T’  enclose  the  lock  ;  now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
E’en  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed ; 
Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph 
in  twain 

(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again) ; 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dis¬ 
sever 

From  the  fair  head,  for  ever,  and  for  ever ! 

Then  flash’d  the  living  lightning  from 
her  eves, 

And  screams  of  horror  rend  th’  affrighted 
skies. 

Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  Heaven  are 
cast 

When  husbands,  or  when  lapdogs,  breathe 
their  last ; 

Or  when  rich  china  vessels,  fallen  from 
high; 

Tn  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments 
lie ! 


“.Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  my 
temples  twine,” 

The  victor  cried,  “  the  glorious  prize  is 
mine ! 

While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in 
air ; 

Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair; 

As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read, 

Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady’s  bed; 

While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 

When  numerous  wax-lights  in  bright  order 
blaze ; 

While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations 
give, 

So  long  my  honor,  name,  and  praise  shall 
live ! 

What  time  would  spare,  from  steel  re¬ 
ceives  its  date ; 

And  monuments,  like*  men,  submit  to 
fate ! 

t 

Steel  could  the  labor  of  the  gods  destroy, 

And  strike  to  dust  th’  imperial  towers  of 
Troy; 

Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  con¬ 
found, 

And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 

What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph  !  thy  hairs 
should  feel 

The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel  ?” 

CANTO  IV. 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph  op- 
prest, 

And  secret  passions  labor’d  in  her  breast. 

Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive ; 

Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  sur¬ 
vive  ; 

Not  ardent  lovers  robb’d  of  all  their 
bliss ; 

Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a  kiss; 

Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die ; 

Not  Cynthia  when  her  manteau’s  pinn’d 
awry, 

E’er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  des¬ 
pair, 

As  thou,  sad  virgin!  for  thy  ravish’d 
hair. 

For,  that  sad  moment,  when  the  sy  Iphs 
withdrew, 

And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 

Umbriel,  a  dusky,  melancholy  sprite, 

As  ever  sullied  the  fair  face  of  light, 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


803 


Down  to  the  central  earth,  his  proper 
scene, 

Repair’d  to  search  the  gloomy  cave  of 
Spleen. 

Swift  on  his  sooty  pinions  flits  the 
gnome, 

And  in  a  vapor  reach’d  the  dismal  dome. 

No  cheerful  breeze  this  sullen  region 
knows ; 

The  dreaded  east  is  all  the  wind  that 
blows. 

Here  in  a  grotto  shelter’d  close  from  air, 

And  screen’d  in  shades  from  day’s  detested 
glare, 

She  sighs  for  ever  on  her  pensive  bed, 

Pain  at  her  side,  and  Megrim  at  her 
head. 

Two  handmaids  wait  the  throne;  alike 
in  place, 

But  differing  far  in  figure  and  in  face. 

Here  stood  Ill-nature,  like  an  ancient 
maid, 

Her  wrinkled  form  in  black  and  white 
array’d ; 

With  store  of  prayers  for  mornings,  nights, 
and  noons, 

Her  hand  is  fill’d;  her  bosom  with  lam¬ 
poons. 

There  Affectation  with  a  sickly  mien, 

Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen ; 

Practised  to  lisp,  and  hang  the  head  aside, 

Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with 
pride ; 

On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming 
woe, 

Wrapt  in  a  gown,  for  sickness,  and  for 
show. 

The  fair  ones  feel  such  maladies  as  these, 

When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a  new 
disease. 

A  constant  vapor  o’er  the  palace  flies  ; 

Strange  phantoms  rising  as  the  mists 
arise — 

Dreadful,  as  hermits’  dreams  in  haunted 
shades, 

Or  bright,  as  visions  of  expiring  maids. 

Now  glaring  fiends,  and  snakes  on  rolling 
spires, 

Pale  spectres,  gaping  tombs,  and  purple 
fires ; 

Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes, 

And  crystal  domes,  and  angels  in  machines. 


Unnumber’d  throngs  on  every  side  are 
seen, 

Of  bodies  changed  to  various  forms  by 
Spleen. 

Here  living  teapots  stand,  one  arm  held 
out, 

One  bent — the  handle  this,  and  that  the 
spout ; 

A  pipkin  there,  like  Homer’s  tripod,  walks; 
Here  sighs  a  jar,  and  there  a  goose-pie 
talks  ; 

Men  prove  with  child,  as  powerful  fancy 
works  ; 

And  maids,  turn’d  bottles,  call  aloud  for 
corks. 

Safe  pass’d  the  gnome  through  this  fan¬ 
tastic  band, 

A  branch  of  healing  spleenwort  in  his 
hand. 

Then  thus  address’d  the  power — “  Hail, 
wayward  queen  ! 

Who  rule  the  sex  to  fifty  from  fifteen  ; 
Parent  of  vapors  and  of  female  wit, 

Who  give  tli’  hysteric  or  poetic  fit, 

On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways, 
Make  some  take  physic,  others  scribble 
plays ; 

Who  cause  the  proud  their  visits  to  delay, 
And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray  ; 

A  nymph  there  is  that  all  your  power  dis¬ 
dains, 

And  thousands  more  in  equal  mirth  main¬ 
tains. 

But  oh !  if  e’er  thy  gnome  could  spoil  a 
grace, 

Or  raise  a  pimple  on  a  beauteous  face, 
Like  citron-waters  matrons’  cheeks  in¬ 
flame, 

Or  change  complexions  at  a  losing  game — 
If  e’er  with  airy  horns  I  planted  heads, 

Or  rumpled  petticoats  or  tumbled  beds, 

Or  caused  suspicion  when  no  soul  was  rude, 
Or  discomposed  the  head-dress  of  a  prude, 
Or  e’er  to  costive  lapdog  gave  disease, 
Which  not  the  tears  of  brightest  eyes 
could  ease — 

Hear  me,  and  touch  Belinda  with  chagrin  ; 
That  single  act  gives  half  the  world  the 
spleen,” 

The  goddess,  with  a  discontented  air, 
Seems  to  reject  him,  though  she  grants  his 
prayer. 


804 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


A  wondrous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she 
binds, 

Like  that  where  once  Ulysses  held  the 
winds  ; 

There  she  collects  the  force  of  female 
lungs, 

Sighs,  sobs,  and  passions,  and  the  war  of 
tongues. 

A  vial  next  she  fills  with  fainting  fears, 
Soft  sorrows,  melting  griefs,  and  flowing 
tears. 

The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away, 
Spreads  his  black  wings,  and  slowly  mounts 
to  day. 

I 

Sunk  in  Thalestris’  arms  the  nymph  he 
found, 

Her  eyes  dejected,  and  her  hair  unbound. 
Full  o’er  their  heads  the  swelling  bag  he 
rent, 

And  all  the  furies  issued  at  the  vent. 
Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire, 
And  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fire. 
aO  wretched  maid!”  she  spread  her  hands 
and  cried 

(While  Hampton’s  echoes,  “Wretched 
maid,”  replied), 

“  Was  it  for  this  vou  took  such  constant 
care 

The  bodkin,  comb,  and  essence  to  pre¬ 
pare? 

For  this  your  locks  in  paper  durance 
bound  ? 

For  this  with  torturing  irons  wreathed 
around  ? 

For  this  with  fillets  strain’d  your  tender 
head? 

And  bravely  bore  the  double  loads  of 
lead? 

Gods !  shall  the  ravisher  display  your 
hair, 

While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies 
stare  ? 

Honor  forbid  !  at  whose  unrivall’d  shrine 
Ease,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign. 
Methinks  already  I  your  tears  survey, 
Already  hear  the  horrid  things  they  say ; 
Adready  see  you  a  degraded  toast, 

And  all  your  honor  in  a  whisper  lost ! 
How  shall  I,  then,  your  hapless  fame  de¬ 
fend  ? 

’Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your 
friend ! 


And  shall  this  prize,  th’  inestimable 
prize, 

Exposed  through  crystal  to  the  gazing 
eyes, 

And  heighten’d  by  the  diamond’s  circling 

ravs, 

«•  * 

On  that  rapacious  hand  for  ever  blaze  ? 

Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  Park  circus 
grow, 

And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of 
Bowr ; 

Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall, 

Men,  monkeys,  lapdogs,  parrots,  perish 
all !” 

She  said ;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  re¬ 
pairs, 

And  bids  her  beau  demand  the  precious 
hairs. 

Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain, 

And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cane, 

With  earnest  eyes,  and  round,  unthinking 
face, 

He  first  the  snuff-box  open’d,  then  the 
case, 

And  thus  broke  out — “  My  lord,  whv,  what 
the  devil ! 

Z — ds!  damn  the  lock!  ’fore  Gad,  you  must 
be  civil ! 

Plague  on’t !  ’tis  past  a  jest — nay,  prithee, 
pox! 

Give  her  the  hair.” — He  spoke,  and  rapp’d 
his  box. 

“  It  grieves  me  much  (replied  the  peer 
again) 

Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak  in 
vain  ; 

But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock,  I  swear 

(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted 
hair ; 

Which  never  more  its  honors  shall  renew, 

Clipp’d  from  the  lovely  head  where  late  it 
grew), 

That,  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air, 

This  hand,  which  won  it,  shall  for  ever 
wear.” 

He  spoke,  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph 
spread 

The  long-contended  honors  of  her  head. 

But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome,  forbears 
not  so ; 

,  He  breaks  the  vial  whence  the  sorrows 
flow. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


805 


Then  see!  the  nymph  in  beauteous  grief 
appears, 

Her  eyes  half  languishing,  half  drown’d 
in  tears ; 

On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping 
head, 

Which  with  a  sigh  she  raised,  and  thus  she 
said : 

“  For  ever  cursed  be  this  detested  day, 

Which  snatch’d  my  best,  my  favorite  curl 
away ; 

Happy!  ah,  ten  times  happy  had  I  been, 

If  Hampton  Court  these  eyes  had  never 
seen ! 

Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid 

By  love  of  courts  to  numerous  ills  be¬ 
tray’d. 

Oh  had  I  rather  unadmired  remain’d 

In  some  lone  isle,  or  distant  northern 
land ; 

Where  the  gilt  chariot  never  marks  the 
way, 

Where  none  learn  ombre,  none  e’er  taste 
bohea  ! 

There  kept  my  charms  conceal’d  from 
mortal  eye, 

Like  roses,  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 

What  moved  my  mind  with  youthful  lords 
to  roam? 

Oh  had  I  stay’d,  and  said  my  prayers  at 
home! 

’Twas  this  the  morning  omens  seem’d  to 
tell. 

Thrice  from  my  trembling  hand  the  patch- 
box  fell ; 

The  tottering  china  shook  without  a 
wind, 

Nay,  Poll  sat  mute,  and  Shock  was  most 
unkind ! 

A  sylph,  too,  warn’d  me  of  the  threats  of 
fate, 

In  mystic  visions,  now  believed  too  late ! 

See  the  poor  remnants  of  these  slighted 
hairs ! 

My  hand  shall  rend  what  e’en  thy  rapine 
spares : 

These  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to 
break, 

Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy 
neck ; 

The  sister-lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone, 

And  in  its  fellow’s  fate  foresees  its  own ; 


Uncurl’d  it  hangs,  the  fatal  shears  de¬ 
mands, 

And  tempts  once  more  thy  sacrilegious 
hands. 

Oh  hadst  thou,  cruel !  been  content  to 
seize 

Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  these !” 

CAXTO  V. 

She  said :  the  pitying  audience  melt  in 
tears ; 

But  Fate  and  Jove  had  stopp’d  the  baron’s 
ears. 

In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails, 

For  who  can  move  when  fair  Belinda 
fails  ? 

Not  half  so  fix’d  the  Trojan  could  remain, 

While  Anna  begg’d  and  Dido  raged  in 
vain. 

Then  grave  Clarissa  graceful  waved  her 
fan ; 

Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  be¬ 
gan : 

“  Say,  why  are  beauties  praised  and  hon¬ 
or’d  most, 

The  wise  man’s  passion,  and  the  vain  man’s 
toast  ? 

Why  deck’d  with  all  that  land  and  sea 
afford  ? 

Why  angels  call’d,  and  angel-like  adored  ? 

Why  round  our  coaches  crowd  the  white- 
gloved  beaux  ? 

Why  bows  the  side-box  from  its  inmost 
rows  ? 

How  vain  are  all  these  glories,  all  our 
pains, 

Unless  good  sense  preserve  what  beauty 
gains ; 

That  men  may  say,  when  we  the  front  box 
grace, 

Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in  face ! 

Oh  !  if  to  dance  all  night,  and  dress  all 
day, 

Charm’d  the  small-pox,  or  chased  old  age 
away, 

Who  would  not  scorn  what  housewife’s 
cares  produce, 

Or  who  would  learn  one  earthly  thing  of 
use? 

To  patch,  nay  ogle,  might  become  a 
saint ; 

Nor  could  it,  sure,  be  such  a  sin  to  paint. 


806 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  since,  alas  !  frail  beauty  must  decay  ; 

Curl’d  or  uncurl’d,  since  locks  will  turn  to 
gray; 

Since  painted,  or  not  painted,  all  shall 
fade, 

And  she  who  scorns  a  man  must  die  a 
maid; 

What  then  remains,  but  well  our  power  to 
use, 

And  keep  good  humor  still,  whate’er  we 
lose  ? 

And  trust  me,  dear,  good  humor  can  pre¬ 
vail, 

When  airs,  and  flights,  and  screams,  and 
scolding  fail. 

Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may 
roll — - 

Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins  the 
soul.” 

So  spoke  the  dame,  but  no  applause  en¬ 
sued  ; 

Belinda  frown’d,  Thalestris  call’d  her 
prude. 

“  To  arms,  to  arms !”  the  fierce  virago 
cries, 

And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 

All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th’  attack  ; 

Fans  clap,  silks  rustle,  and  tough  whale¬ 
bones  crack ; 

Heroes’  and  heroines’  shouts  confusedly 
rise, 

And  bass  and  treble  voices  strike  the 
skies. 

No  common  weapons  in  their  hands  are 
found — 

Like  gods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a  mortal 
wound. 

So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  en¬ 
gage, 

And  heavenly  breasts  with  human  passions 
rage; 

’Gainst  Pallas  Mars;  Latona  Hermes 
arms ; 

And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms : 

Jove’s  thunder  roars,  Heaven  trembles  all 
around, 

Blue  Neptune  storms,  'the  bellowifig  deeps 
resound  : 

Earth  shakes  her  nodding  towers,  the 
ground  gives  way, 

And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of 
day ! 


Triumphant  Umbriel,  on  a  sconce’s 
height, 

Clapp’d  his  glad  wings,  and  sat  to  view  the 
fight : 

Propp’d  on  their  bodkin-spears,  the  sprites 
survey 

The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray. 

While  through  the  press  enraged  Thales¬ 
tris  flies, 

And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her 
eyes, 

A  beau  and  witling  perish’d  in  the  throng — - 

One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song  : 

“  O  cruel  nymph  !  a  living  death  I  bear,” 

Cried  Dapperwit,  and  sunk  beside  his 
chair. 

A  mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upward 
cast, 

“  Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing  ” — was 
his  last. 

Thus  on  Mseander’s  flowery  margin  lies 

Th’  expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he 
dies. 

When  bold  Sir  Plume  had  drawn  Cla¬ 
rissa  down, 

Chloe  stepp’d  in,  and  kill’d  him  with  a 
frown  ; 

She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 

But  at  her  smile  the  beau  revived  again. 

Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in 
air, 

Weighs  the  men’s  wits  against  the  lady’s 
hair  ; 

The  doubtful  beam  long  nods  from  side  to 
side  ; 

At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs 
subside. 

See,  fierce  Belinda  on  the  baron  flies, 

With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her 

eyes : 

Nor  fear’d  the  chief  th’  unequal  fight  to 
try, 

Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to 
die. 

But  this  bold  lord,  with  manly  strength 
endued, 

She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  subdued  : 

Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils 
drew, 

A  charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw ; 

The  gnomes  direct,  to  every  atom  just, 

The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


807 


Sudden,  with  starting  tears  each  eye  o’er- 
flows, 

And  the  high  doftie  re-echoes  to  his  nose. 

“  Now  meet  thy  fate  !”  incensed  Belinda 
cried, 

And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 

(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck, 

Her  great-great-grandsire  wore  about  his 
neck, 

In  three  seal-rings  ;  which  after,  melted 
down, 

Form’d  a  vast  buckle  for  his  widow’s 
gown  ; 

Her  infant  grandame’s  whistle  next  it 
grew  ; 

The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  blew ; 

Then  in  a  bodkin  graced  her  mother’s 
hairs, 

Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Belinda 
wears.) 

“  Boast  not  my  fall  (he  cried),  insulting 
foe ! 

Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as  low  ; 

Nor  think,  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind  ; 

All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind  ! 

Rather  than  so,  ah  let  me  still  survive, 

And  burn  in  Cupid’s  flames — but  burn 
alive.” 

“  Restore  the  lock  !”  she  cries  ;  and  all 
around 

“  Restore  the  lock  !”  the  vaulted  roofs  re¬ 
bound. 

Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a  strain 

Roar’d  for  the  handkerchief  that  caused 
his  pain. 

But  see  how  oft  ambitious  aims  are  cross’d, 

And  chiefs  contend  till  all  the  prize  is  lost ! 

The  lock,  obtain’d  with  guilt,  and  kept 
with  pain, 

In  every  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in 
vain  : 

With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blest, 

So  Heaven  decrees  !  with  Heaven  who  can 
contest  ? 

Some  thought  it  mounted  to  the  lunar 
sphere, 

Since  all  things  lost  on  earth  are  treasured 
there. 

There  heroes’  wits  are  kept  in  ponderous 
vases, 

And  beaux’  in  snuff-boxes  and  tweezer- 
cases  ; 


There  broken  vows,  and  deathbed  alms  are 
found, 

And  lovers’  hearts  with  ends  of  riband 
bound, 

The  courtier’s  promises,  and  sick  men’s 
prayers, 

The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of 
heirs, 

Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea, 

Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 

But  trust  the  Muse — she  saw  it  upward 
rise, 

Though  mark’d  by  none  but  quick  poetic 

eyes 

(So  Rome’s  great  founder  to  the  heavens 
withdrew, 

To  Proculus  alone  confess’d  in  view)  ; 

A  sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air, 

And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 

Not  Berenice’s  locks  first  rose  so  bright, 

The  heavens  bespangling  with  dishevell’d 
light. 

The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies, 

And,  pleased,  pursue  its  progress  through 
the  skies. 

This  the  beau  monde  shall  from  the 
Mall  survey, 

And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray  ; 

This  the  blest  lover  shall  for  Venus  take, 

And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda’s 
lake  ; 

This  Partridge  soon  shall  view  in  cloudless 
skies 

When  next  he  looks  through  Galileo’s 
eyes ; 

And  hence  th’  egregious  wizard  shall 
foredoom 

The  fate  of  Louis,  and  the  fall  of  Rome. 

Then  cease,  bright  nymph  !  to  mourn 
thy  ravish’d  hair, 

Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining 
sphere  ! 

Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can 
boast 

Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  lock  you  lost. 

For  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye, 

When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall 
die  ; 

When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they 
must, 

And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in 
dust — 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


808 


This  lock  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to 
fame, 

And  ’midst  the  stars  inscribe  Belinda’s 
name. 

Alexander  Pope. 

- »<>•  ■  -  - 

The  Merry  Pranks  of  Robin 
Good-Fello  \v. 

From  Oberon,  in  fairy-land, 

The  king  of  ghosts  and  shadowes  there, 
Mad  Robin,  I,  at  his  command, 

Am  sent  to  view  the  night-sports  here. 
What  revell  rout 
Is  kept  about 

In  every  corner  where  I  go, 

I  will  o’ersee, 

And  merrie  be, 

And  make  good  sport  with  ho,  ho,  ho! 

More  swift  than  lightning  can  I  flye 
About  this  aery  welkin  soone, 

And  in  a  minute’s  space  descrye 
Each  thing  that’s  done  belowe  the  moone. 
There’s  not  a  hag 
Or  ghost  shall  wag, 

Or  cry  ’Ware  goblins !  where  I  go ; 
But  Robin,  I, 

Their  feates  will  spy, 

And  send  them  home  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Whene’er  such  wanderers  I  meete, 

As  from  their  night-sports  they  trudge 
home, 

With  counterfeiting  voice  I  greete, 

And  call  them  on  with  me  to  roame 
Thro’  woods,  thro’  lakes, 

Thro’  bogs,  thro’  brakes  ; 

Or  else  unseene,  with  them  I  go, 

All  in  the  nicke 
To  play  some  tricke, 

And  frolick  it  with  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

Sometimes  I  meete  them  like  a  man, 
Sometimes  an  ox,  sometimes  a  hound, 
And  to  a  horse  I  turn  me  can, 

To  trip  and  trot  about  them  round  ; 

But  if,  to  ride, 

My  backe  they  stride, 

More  swift  than  wind  away  I  goe ; 
O’er  hedge  and  lands, 

Through  pools  and  ponds, 

I  whirry,  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho ! 


When  lads  and  lasses  merry  be, 

With  possets,  and  with  junkets  fine, 
Unseene  of  all  the  company, 

I  eat  their  cakes  and  sip  their  wine ; 

And  to  make  sport 
I  fume  and  snort, 

And  out  the  candles  I  do  blow. 

The  maids  I  kiss, — 

They  shrieke,  Who’s  this? 

I  answer  naught  but  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

Yet  now  and  then,  the  maids  to  please, 

At  midnight  I  card  up  their  wooll, 

And  while  they  sleepe  and  take  their  ease, 
With  wheel  to  threads  their  flax  I  pull. 

I  grind  at  mill 
Their  malt  up  still ; 

I  dress  their  hemp,  I  spin  their  tow. 

If  any  wake, 

And  would  me  take, 

I  wend  me,  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  house  or  hearth  doth  sluttish  lye, 

I  pinch  the  maidens  black  and  blue ; 
The  bedd-clothes  from  the  bedd  pull  I, 
And  lay  them  naked  all  to  view. 

’Twixt  sleepe  and  wake 
I  do  them  take, 

And  on  the  key-cold  floor  them  throw; 
If  out  they  cry, 

Then  forth  I  fly, 

And  loudly  laugh  out,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  any  need  to  borrow  aught, 

We  lend  them  what  they  do  require, 
And  for  the  use  demand  we  naught, — 

Our  owne  is  all  we  do  desire. 

If  to  repay 
Thev  do  delav, 

Abroad  amongst  them  then  I  go ; 

And  night  by  night 
I  them  affright, 

With  pincliings,  dreams,  and  ho,  ho, 
ho  ! 

When  lazie  queans  have  naught  to  do 
But  study  how  to  cog  and  lye, 

To  make  debate  and  mischief  too, 

’Twixt  one  another  secretly, 

I  marke  their  gloze, 

And  it  disclose 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


809 


To  them  whom  they  have  wronged  so. 
When  I  have  done 
I  get  me  gone, 

And  leave  them  scolding,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  men  do  traps  and  engines  set 
In  loope  holes,  where  the  vermine  creepe, 
Who  from  their  foldes  and  houses  get 
Their  duckes  and  geese,  and  lambes  and 
sheepe, 

I  spy  the  gin, 

And  enter  in, 

And  seeme  a  vermine  taken  so ; 

But  when  they  there 
Approach  me  neare, 

I  leap  out,  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

By  wells  and  rills,  in  meadowes  greene, 

We  nightly  dance  our  hey-day  guise, 
And  to  our  fairye  kinge  and  queene 
We  chant  our  moon-lighte  minstrelsies. 
When  larkes  ’gin  sing 
Away  we  fling, 

And  babes  new-born  steale  as  we  go, 
And  elfe  in  bed 
We  leave  instead, 

And  wend  us,  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

From  hag-bred  Merlin’s  time  have  I 
Thus  nightly  revell’d  to  and  fro, 

And,  for  my  prankes,  men  call  me  by 
The  name  of  Robin  Good-Fellow. 
Fiends,  ghosts,  and  sprites 
Who  haunt  the  nightes, 

The  hags  and  goblins,  do  me  know ; 
And  beldames  old 
My  feates  have  told, — 

So  vale,  vale  !  Ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Author  Unknown. 

- *<>• - 

The  Fairies  of  the  Cal  don 
Low. 

A  Midsummer  Legend. 

“  And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 
And  where  have  you  been  from  me  ?” 
“  I’ve  been  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon  Low, 
The  midsummer  night  to  see  !” 

“  And  what  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon  Low  ?” 

“  I  saw  the  glad  sunshine  come  down, 

And  I  saw  the  merry  winds  blow.” 


“And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon  Hill  ?” 

“  I  heard  the  drops  of  the  water  made, 
And  the  ears  of  the  green  corn  fill.” 

“  Oh  !  tell  me  all,  my  Mary — 

All,  all  that  ever  you  know  ; 

For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies 
Last  night  on  the  Caldon  Low.” 

“  Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother ; 
And  listen,  mother  of  mine  : 

A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 
And  the  harpers  they  were  nine ; 

“  And  their  harp-strings  rung  so  merrily 
To  their  dancing  feet  so  small ; 

But  oh  !  the  words  of  their  talking 
Were  merrier  far  than  all.” 

“  And  what  were  the  words,  my  Mary, 
That  then  you  heard  them  say  ?” 

“  I’ll  tell  you  all,  my  mother  ; 

But  let  me  have  my  way. 

“  Some  of  them  play’d  with  the  water, 
And  roll’d  it  down  the  hill ; 

‘  And  this,’  they  said,  ‘shall  speedily  turn 
The  poor  old  miller’s  mill  ; 

‘“For  there  has  been  no  water 
Ever  since  the  first  of  May  ; 

And  a  busy  man  will  the  miller  be 
At  dawning  of  the  day. 

“‘Oh!  the  miller,  how  he  will  laugh 
When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise! 

The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh 
Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eyes!’ 

“  And  some  they  seized  the  little  winds 
That  sounded  over  the  hill; 

And  each  put  a  horn  unto  his  mouth, 
And  blew  both  loud  and  shrill ; 

“‘And  there,’  they  said,  ‘the  merry  winds 
go 

Awav  from  every  horn ; 

And  they  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 
From  the  blind  old  widow’s  corn. 

“‘Oh  !  the  poor,  blind  widow, 

Though  she  lias  been  blind  so  long, 
She’ll  be  blithe  enough  when  the  mil¬ 
dew’s  gone, 

And  the  corn  stands  tall  and  strong.’ 


810 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  And  some  they  brought  the  brown  lint- 
seed, 

And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low; 

And  this,’  they  said,  ‘by  the  sunrise, 

In  the  weaver’s  croft  shall  grow. 

Oh  !  the  poor,  lame  weaver, 

How  he  will  laugh  outright 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax-field 
All  full  of  flowers  by  night !’ 

“  And  then  outspoke  a  brownie, 

With  a  long  beard  on  his  chin; 

‘  I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow,’  said  he, 

And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 

“‘I’ve  spun  a  piece  of  hempen  cloth, 

And  I  want  to  spin  another ; 

A  little  sheet  for  Mary’s  bed, 

And  an  apron  for  her  mother. 

“  With  that  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
And  I  laugh’d  out  loud  and  free ; 

And  then  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon 
Low 

There  was  no  one  left  but  me. 

“  And  all  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon  Low 
The  mists  were  cold  and  gray, 

And  nothing  I  saw  but  the  mossy  stones 
That  round  about  me  lay. 

“  But,  coming  down  from  the  hill-top, 

I  heard  afar  below, 

How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was, 

And  how  the  wheel  did  go. 

“  And  I  peep’d  into  the  widow’s  field, 
And,  sure  enough,  were  seen 
The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildew’d  corn, 
All  standing  stout  and  green. 

“  And  down  by  the  weaver’s  croft  I  stole, 
To  see  if  the  flax  were  sprung; 

And  I  met  the  weaver  at  his  gate, 

With  the  good  news  on  his  tongue. 

“Now  this  is  all  I  heard,  mother, 

And  all  that  I  did  see; 

So,  pr’ythee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 

For  I’m  tired  as  I  can  be.” 

Mary  Howitt. 


The  Culprit  Fay. 

“  My  visual  orbs  are  purged  from  film,  and,  lo  ! 

Instead  of  Auster’s  turnip-bearing  vales, 

I  see  old  fairyland’s  miraculous  show  : 

Her  trees  of  tinsel  kiss’d  by  freakish  gales, 

Her  ouphs  that,  cloak’d  in  leaf-gold,  skim  the  breeze, 
And  fairies,  swarming  .  . 

Tennant’s  Ansler  Fair. 

I. 

’Tis  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer’s 
night — 

The  earth  is  dark,  but  the  heavens  are 
bright ; 

Naught  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high 
But  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the 
cloudless  sky, 

And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue, 

A  river  of  light  on  the  welkin  blue. 

The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cronest ; 

She  mellows  the  shades  on  his  shaggy 
breast, 

And  seems  his  huge  gray  form  to  throw 
In  a  silver  cone  on  the  wave  below  ; 

His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade, 

By  the  walnut  bough  and  the  cedar  made, 
And  through  their  clustering  branches 
dark 

Glimmers  and  dies  the  fire-fly’s  spark — 
Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 
Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tem¬ 
pest’s  rack. 

II. 

The  stars  are  on  the  moving  stream, 

And  fling,  as  its  ripples  gently  flow, 

A  burnish’d  length  of  wavy  beam 
In  an  eel-like,  spiral  line  below  ; 

The  winds  are  whist,  and  the  owl  is  still ; 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid  ; 

And  naught  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill 
But  the  cricket’s  chirp,  and  the  answer 
shrill 

Of  the  gauze-wing’d  katv-did  ; 

And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whip-poor- 
will, 

Who  moans  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings, 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  woe, 

Till  Morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings, 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow. 

hi. 

’Tis  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell : 

The  wood- tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well ; 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


811 


He  has  counted  them  all  with  click  and 
stroke 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain-oak, 
And  he  has  awaken’d  the  sentry  elve 
Who  sleeps  with  him  in  the  haunted 
tree, 

To  bid  him  ring  the  hour  of  twelve, 

And  call  the  fays  to  their  revelry  ; 
Twelve  small  strokes  on  his  tinkling  bell 
(’Twas  made  of  the  white  snail’s  pearly 
shell)  — 

“  Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well ! 

Hither,  hither,  wing  your  way  ! 

’Tis  the  dawn  of  the  fairy  day.” 

IV. 

They  come  from  beds  of  lichen  green, 
They  creep  from  the  mullein’s  velvet 
screen  ; 

Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly 
From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touch’d 
trees, 

Where  they  swung  in  their  cobweb  ham¬ 
mocks  high, 

And  rock’d  about  in  the  evening  breeze  ; 

Some  from  the  hum-bird’s  downy  nest — 
They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power, 
And,  pillow’d  on  plumes  of  his  rainbow 
breast, 

Had  slumber’d  there  till  the  charmed 
hour  ; 

Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 
With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid  ; 

And  some  had  open’d  the  four-o’clock, 
And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 

And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight 
glade, 

Above — below — on  every  side, 

Their  little  minim  forms  array’d 
In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride ! 

y. 

They  come  not  now  to  print  the  lea 
In  freak  and  dance  around  the  tree, 

Or  at  the  mushroom  board  to  sup, 

And  drink  the  dew  from  the  buttercup  ; — 
A  scene  of  sorrow  waits  them  now, 

For  an  ouphe  has  broken  his  vestal  vow  ; 
He  has  loved  an  earthly  maid, 

And  left  for  her  his  woodland  shade  ; 

He  has  lain  upon  her  lip  of  dew, 

And  sunn’d  him  in  her  eye  of  blue, 


Fann’d  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air, 
Play’d  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 

And,  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 

Forgot  the  lily-king’s  behest. 

For  this  the  shadowy  tribes  of  air 
To  the  elfin  court  must  haste  away  : — 
And  now  they  stand  expectant  there, 

To  hear  the  doom  of  the  culprit  fay. 

VI. 

The  throne  was  rear’d  upon  the  grass, 

Of  spice-wood  and  the  sassafras  ; 

On  pillars  of  mottled  tortoise-shell 
Hung  the  burnish’d  canopy — 

And  over  it  gorgeous  curtains  fell 
Of  the  tulip’s  crimson  drapery. 

The  monarch  sat  on  his  judgment-seat, 

On  his  brow  the  crown  imperial  shone, 
The  prisoner  fay  was  at  his  feet, 

And  his  peers  were  ranged  around  the 
throne. 

He  waved  his  sceptre  in  the  air, 

He  look’d  around  and  calmly  spoke ; 

His  brow  was  grave  and  his  eye  severe, 

But  his  voice  in  a  soften’d  accent  broke: 

VII. 

“  Fairy  !  fairy  !  list  and  mark  : 

Thou  hast  broke  thine  elfin  chain ; 

Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quench’d  and 
dark, 

And  thy  wings  are  dyed  with  a  deadly 
stain — 

Thou  hast  sullied  thine  elfin  purity 

In  the  glance  of  a  mortal  maiden’s 
eye; 

Thou  hast  scorn’d  our  dread  decree, 

And  thou  shouldst  pay  the  forfeit  high. 
But  well  I  know  her  sinless  mind 
Is  pure  as  the  angel  forms  above, 

Gentle  and  meek,  and  chaste  and  kind, 
Such  as  a  spirit  well  might  love ; 

Fairy  !  had  she  spot  or  taint, 

Bitter  had  been  thy  punishment : 

Tied  to  the  hornet’s  shardy  wings ; 

Toss’d  on  the  pricks  of  nettle  stings; 

Or  seven  long  ages  doom’d  to  dwell 
With  the  lazy  worm  in  the  walnut-shell; 
Or  every  night  to  writhe  and  bleed 
Beneath  the  tread  of  the  centipede; 

Or  bound  in  a  cobweb  dungeon  dim, 

Your  jailer  a  spider,  huge  and  grim, 


812 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Amid  the  carrion  bodies  to  lie 
Of  the  worm,  and  the  bug,  and  the  mur¬ 
der’d  fly : 

These  it  had  been  your  lot  to  bear, 

Had  a  stain  been  found  on  the  earthly 
fair. 

Now  list,  and  mark  our  mild  decree — 
Fairy,  this  your  doom  must  be  : 

VIII. 

“  Thou  shalt  seek  the  beach  of  sand 
Where  the  water  bounds  the  elfin  land  ; 
Thou  shalt  watch  the  oozy  brine 
Till  the  sturgeon  leaps  in  the  bright  moon¬ 
shine, 

Then  dart  the  glistening  arch  below, 

And  catch  a  drop  from  his  silver  bow. 

The  water-sprites  will  wield  their  arms 
And  dash  around,  with  roar  and  rave, 
And  vain  are  the  woodland  spirits’  charms; 

They  are  the  imps  that  rule  the  wave. 
Yet  trust  thee  in  thy  single  might: 

If  thy  heart  be  pure  and  thy  spirit  right, 
Thou  shalt  win  the  warlock  fight. 

IX. 

“  If  the  spray-bead  gem  be  won, 

The  stain  of  thy  wing  is  wash’d  away  ; 
But  another  errand  must  be  done 
Ere  tliy  crime  be  lost  for  aye  : 

Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quench’d  and 
dark, 

Thou  must  reillume  its  spark. 

Mount  thy  steed  and  spur  him  high 
To  the  heaven’s  blue  canopy; 

And  when  thou  seest  a  shooting  star, 
Follow  it  fast,  and  follow  it  far — 

The  last  faint  spark  of  its  burning  train 
Shall  light  the  elfin  lamp  again. 

Thou  hast  heard  our  sentence,  fay ; 

Hence!  to  the  water-side,  away!” 

x. 

The  goblin  mark’d  his  monarch  well ; 

He  spake  not,  but  he  bow’d  him  low, 
Then  pluck’d  a  crimson  colen-bell, 

And  turn’d  him  round  in  act  to  go. 

The  way  is  long,  he  cannot  fly, 

His  soiled  wing  has  lost  its  power, 

And  he  winds  adown  the  mountain  high, 
For  many  a  sore  and  weary  hour. 


Through  dreary  beds  of  tangled  fern, 
Through  groves  of  nightshade  dark  and 
dern, 

Over  the  grass  and  through  the  brake, 
Where  toils  the  ant  and  sleeps  the  snake ; 

Now  over  the  violet’s  azure  flush 
He  skips  along  in  lightsome  mood ; 

And  now  he  tlirids  the  bramble-bush, 
Till  its  points  are  dyed  in  fairy  blood. 

He  has  leap’d  the  bog,  he  has  pierced  the 
brier, 

He  has  swum  the  brook,  and  waded  the 
mire, 

Till  his  spirits  sank,  and  his  limbs  grew 
weak, 

And  the  red  wax’d  fainter  in  his  cheek. 

He  had  fallen  to  the  ground  outright, 

For  rugged  and  dim  was  his  onward 
track, 

But  there  came  a  spotted  toad  in  sight, 
And  he  laugh’d  as  he  jump’d  upon  her 
back  ; 

He  bridled  her  mouth  with  a  silkweed 
twist, 

He  lash’d  her  sides  with  an  osier  thong  ; 
And  now,  through  evening’s  dewy  mist, 
With  leap  and  spring  they  bound  along, 
Till  the  mountain’s  magic  verge  is  past, 
And  the  beach  of  sand  is  reach’d  at  last. 

XI. 

Soft  and  pale  is  the  moony  beam, 

Moveless  still  the  glassy  stream  ; 

The  wave  is  clear,  the  beach  is  bright 
With  snowy  shells  and  sparkling  stones : 
The  shore-surge  comes  in  ripples  light, 

In  murmurings  faint  and  distant  moans  ; 
And  ever  afar  in  the  silence  deep 
Is  heard  the  splash  of  the  sturgeon’s 
leap, 

And  the  bend  of  his  graceful  bow  is  seen — 
A  glittering  arch  of  silver  sheen, 

Spanning  the  wave  of  burnish’d  blue, 

And  dripping  with  gems  of  the  river-dew. 

XII. 

The  elfin  cast  a  glance  around, 

As  he  lighted  down  from  his  courser 
toad  ; 

Then  round  his  breast  his  wings  he  wound, 
And  close  to  the  river’s  brink  he  strode ; 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC \ 


813 


He  sprang  on  a  rock,  lie  breathed  a  prayer, 
Above  his  head  his  arms  he  threw, 

Then  toss’d  a  tiny  curve  in  air, 

And  headlong  plunged  in  the  waters 
blue. 

XIII. 

Up  sprung  the  spirits  of  the  waves 
From  the  sea-silk  beds  in  their  coral 
caves  ; 

With  snail-plate  armor  snatch’d  in  haste, 
They  speed  their  way  through  the  liquid 
waste  ; 

Some  are  rapidly  borne  along 
On  the  mailed  shrimp  or  the  prickly 
prong ; 

Some  on  blood-red  leeches  glide, 

Some  on  the  stonv  star-fish  ride. 

Some  on  the  back  of  the  lancing  squab, 
Some  on  the  sideling  soldier-crab  ; 

And  some  on  the  jellied  quarl,  that  flings 
At  once  a  thousand  streamy  stings  ; 

They  cut  the  wave  with  the  living  oar, 
And  hurry  on  to  the  moonlight  shore, 

To  guard  their  realms  and  chase  away 
The  footsteps  of  the  invading  fay. 

XIV. 

Fearlessly  he  skims  along, 

His  hope  is  high,  and  his  limbs  are 
strong  ; 

He  spreads  his  arms  like  the  swallow’s 
wing, 

And  throws  his  feet  with  a  frog-like  fling ; 
His  locks  of  gold  on  the  waters  shine, 

At  his  breast  the  tiny  foam-beads  rise, 
His  back  gleams  bright  above  the  brine, 
And  the  wake-line  foam  behind  him 
lies. 

But  the  water-sprites  are  gathering  near 
To  check  his  course  along  the  tide  ; 
Their  warriors  come  in  swift  career 
And  hem  him  round  on  every  side  ; 

On  his  thigh  the  leech  has  fix’d  his  hold, 
The  quarl’s  long  arms  are  round  him 
roll’d, 

The  prickly  prong  has  pierced  his  skin, 
And  the  squab  has  thrown  his  javelin; 

The  gritty  star  has  rubb’d  him  raw, 

And  the  crab  has  struck  with  his  giant 
claw  ; 


He  howls  with  rage,  and  he  shrieks  with 
pain  ; 

He  strikes  around,  but  his  blows  are  vain  ; 
Hopeless  is  the  unequal  fight, 

Fairy  !  naught  is  left  but  flight. 

XY. 

He  turn’d  him  round,  and  fled  amain 
With  hurry  and  dash  to  the  beach  again ; 
He  twisted  over  from  side  to  side, 

And  laid  his  cheek  to  the  cleaving  tide  ; 
Tbe  strokes  of  his  plunging  arms  are  fleet, 
And  with  all  his  might  he  flings  his  feet, 
But  the  water-sprites  are  round  him  still, 
To  cross  his  path  and  work  him  ill. 

They  bade  the  waves  before  him  rise ; 

They  flung  the  sea-fire  in  his  eyes ; 

And  they  stunn’d  his  ears  with  the  scal¬ 
lop  stroke, 

With  the  porpoise  heave  and  the  drum-fish 
croak. 

Oh  !  but  a  weary  wight  was  he 
When  he  reach’d  the  foot  of  the  dogwood 
tree. 

Gash’d  and  wounded,  and  stiff  and  sore, 
He  laid  him  down  on  the  sandy  shore ; 

He  bless’d  the  force  of  the  charmed  line, 
And  he  bann’d  the  water-goblins’  spite, 
For  he  saw  around  in  the  sweet  moon¬ 
shine 

Their  little  wee  faces  above  the  brine, 
Giggling  and  laughing  with  all  their 
might 

At  the  piteous  hap  of  the  fairy  wight. 

XVI. 

Soon  he  gather’d  the  balsam  dew 

From  the  sorrel-leaf  and  the  henbane- 
bud  ; 

Over  each  wound  the  balm  he  drew, 

And  with  cobweb  lint  he  stanch’d  the 
blood. 

The  mild  west  wind  was  soft  and  low, 

It  cool’d  the  heat  of  his  burning  brow, 
And  he  felt  new  life  in  his  sinews  shoot, 

As  he  suck’d  the  juice  of  the  calamus-root ; 
And  now  he  treads  the  fatal  shore 
As  fresh  and  vigorous  as  before. 

XVII. 

Wrapp’d  in  musing  stands  the  sprite; 
i  ’Tis  the  middle  wane  of  night; 


814 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


His  task  is  hard,  his  way  is  far, 

But  he  must  do  his  errand  right 

Ere  dawning  mounts  her  beamy  car, 
And  rolls  her  chariot-wheels  of  light  ; 

And  vain  are  the  spells  of  fairy-land, — 
He  must  work  with  a  human  hand. 

XVIII. 

He  cast  a  sadden’d  look  around, 

But  he  felt  new  joy  his  bosom  swell, 
When,  glittering  on  the  shadow’d  ground, 
He  saw  a  purple  mussel-shell ; 

Thither  he  ran,  and  he  bent  him  low, 

He  heaved  at  the  stern  and  he  heaved  at 
the  bow, 

And  he  push’d  her  over  the  yielding  sand, 
Till  he  came  to  the  verge  of  the  haunted 
land. 

She  was  as  lovely  a  pleasure-boat 
As  ever  fairy  had  travell’d  in, 

For  she  glow’d  with  purple  paint  without, 
And  shone  with  silvery  pearl  within ; 

A  sculler’s  notch  in  the  stern  he  made, 

An  oar  he  shaped  of  the  bootle-blade ; 
Then  sprung  to  his  seat  with  a  lightsome 
leap, 

And  launch’d  afar  on  the  calm,  blue 
deep. 

XIX. 

The  imps  of  the  river  yell  and  rave ; 

They  had  no  power  above  the  wave  ; 

But  they  heaved  the  billow  before  the  prow, 
And  they  dash’d  the  surge  against  her 
side, 

And  they  struck  her  keel  with  jerk  and 
blow, 

Till  the  gunwale  bent  to  the  rocking 
tide. 

She  whimpled  about  to  the  pale  moon¬ 
beam, 

Like  a  feather  that  floats  on  a  wind-toss’d 
stream  ; 

And  momently  athwart  her  track 
The  quarl  uprear’d  his  island  back, 

And  the  fluttering  scallop  behind  would 
float, 

And  spatter  the  water  about  the  boat; 

But  he  bail’d  her  out  with  his  colen-bell, 
And  he  kept  her  tri min’d  with  a  wary 
tread, 

While  on  every  side  like  lightning  fell 
The  heavy  strokes  of  his  bootle-blade. 


XX. 

Onward  still  he  held  his  way, 

Till  he  came  where  the  column  of  moon¬ 
shine  lay, 

And  saw  beneath  the  surface  dim 
The  brown-back’d  sturgeon  slowly  swim  ; 
Around  him  were  the  goblin  train, 

But  he  scull’d  with  all  his  might  and  main, 
And  follow’d  wherever  the  sturgeon  led, 
Till  he  saw  him  upward  point  his  head  ; 
Then  he  dropp’d  his  paddle  blade, 
i  And  held  his  colen-goblet  up 
To  catch  the  drop  in  its  crimson  cup. 

XXI. 

With  sweeping  tail  and  quivering  fin 
Through  the  wave  the  sturgeon  flew, 
And,  like  the  heaven-shot  javelin, 

He  sprung  above  the  waters  blue. 
Instant  as  the  star-fall  light, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  deep  again, 

But  left  an  arch  of  silver  bright, 

The  rainbow  of  the  moony  main. 

It  was  a  strange  and  lovely  sight 
To  see  the  puny  goblin  there ; 

He  seem’d  an  angel  form  of  light, 

With  azure  wings  and  sunny  hair, 
Throned  on  a  cloud  of  purple  fair, 
Circled  with  blue  and  edged  with  white, 
And  sitting  at  the  fall  of  even 
Beneath  the  bow  of  summer  heaven. 

XXII. 

A  moment,  and  its  lustre  fell ; 

But  ere  it  met  the  billow  blue, 

He  caught  within  his  crimson  bell 
A  droplet  of  its  sparkling  dew — 

Joy  to  thee,  fay !  thy  task  is  done, 

Thy  wings  are  pure,  for  the  gem  is  won — ■ 
Cheerly  ply  thy  dripping  oar, 

And  haste  away  to  the  elfin  shore. 

XXIII. 

He  turns,  and,  lo  !  on  either  side 
The  ripples  on  his  path  divide; 

And  the  track  o’er  which  his  boat  must 
pass 

Is  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  polish’d  glass. 
Around,  their  limbs  the  sea-nymphs  lave, 
With  snowy  arms  half  swelling  out, 
While  on  the  gloss’d  and  gleamy  wave 
Their  sea-green  ringlets  loosely  float; 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


815 


They  swim  around  with  smile  and  song ; 

They  press  the  bark  with  pearly  hand, 
And  gently  urge  her  course  along, 

Toward  the  beach  of  speckled  sand ; 
And,  as  he  lightly  leap’d  to  land, 

They  bade  adieu  with  nod  and  bow ; 

Then  gavlv  kiss’d  each  little  hand, 

And  dropp’d  in  the  crystal  deep  below. 

XXIV. 

A  moment  stay’d  the  fairy  there ; 

He  kiss’d  the  beach  and  breathed  a  prayer ; 
Then  spread  his  wings  of  gilded  blue, 

And  on  to  the  elfin  court  he  flew : 

As  ever  ye  saw  a  bubble  rise, 

And  shine  with  a  thousand  changing  dyes, 
Till,  lessening  far,  through  ether  driven, 

It  mingles  with  the  hues  of  heaven  ; 

As,  at  the  glimpse  of  morning  pale, 

The  lance-fly  spreads  his  silken  sail, 

And  gleams  with  blendings  soft  and 
bright, 

Till  lost  in  the  shades  of  fading  night; 

So  rose  from  earth  the  lovely  fay — 

So  vanish’d,  far  in  heaven  away ! 

****** 

Up,  fairy!  quit  thy  chickweed  bower, 

The  cricket  has  call’d  the  second  hour ; 
Twice  again,  and  the  lark  will  rise 
To  kiss  the  streakings  of  the  skies — 

Up  !  thy  charmed  armor  don, 

Thou’lt  need  it  ere  the  night  be  gone. 

XXY. 

He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on ; 

It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle¬ 
down  ; 

The  corslet-plate  that  guarded  his  breast 
Was  once  the  wild  bee’s  golden  vest; 

His  cloak,  of  a  thousand  mingled  dyes, 
Was  form’d  of  the  wings  of  butterflies ; 
His  shield  was  the  shell  of  a  lady-bug 
queen, 

Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green ; 

And  the  quivering  lance  which  he  brand¬ 
ish’d  bright 

Was  the  sting  of  a  wasp  he  had  slain 
in  fight. 

Swift  he  bestrode  his  fire-fly  steed  ; 

He  bared  his  blade  of  the  bent-grass 
blue; 


He  drove  his  spurs  of  the  cockle-seed, 

And  away  like  a  glance  of  thought  he 
flew, 

To  skim  the  heavens,  and  follow  far 
The  fiery  trail  of  the  rocket-star. 

XXVI. 

The  moth-fly,  as  he  shot  in  air, 

Crept  under  the  leaf,  and  hid  her  there ; 
The  katy-did  forgot  its  lay, 

The  prowling  gnat  fled  fast  away, 

The  fell  mosquito  check’d  his  drone 
And  folded  his  wings  till  the  fay  was 
gone, 

And  the  wily  beetle  dropp’d  his  head, 

And  fell  on  the  ground  as  if  he  were 
dead  ; 

They  crouch’d  them  close  in  the  darksome 
shade, 

They  quaked  all  o’er  with  awe  and 
fear, 

For  they  had  felt  the  blue-bent  blade, 

And  writhed  at  the  prick  of  the  elfin 
spear ; 

Many  a  time,  on  a  summer’s  night, 

When  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  moon  was 
bright, 

They  had  been  roused  from  the  haunted 
ground 

By  the  yelp  and  bay  of  the  fairy  hound ; 

They  had  heard  the  tiny  bugle-horn, 
They  had  heard  the  twang  of  the  maize- 
silk  string, 

When  the  vine-twig  bows  were  tightly 
drawn, 

And  the  nettle-shaft  through  the  air  was 
borne, 

Feather’d  with  down  of  the  hum-bird’s 
wing. 

And  now  they  deem’d  the  courier  oupne 

Some  hunter-sprite  of  the  elfin  ground  ; 
And  they  watch’d  till  they  saw  him  mount 
the  roof 

\ 

That  canopies  the  world  around  ; 

Then  glad  they  left  their  covert  lair, 

And  freak’d  about  in  the  midnight  air, 

XXVII. 

Up  to  the  vaulted  firmament 
His  path  the  fire-fly  courser  bent, 

And  at  every  gallop  on  the  wind, 

He  flung  a  glittering  spark  behind  ; 


816 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


He  flies  like  a  feather  in  the  blast 
Till  the  first  light  cloud  in  heaven  is  past. 
But  the  shapes  of  air  have  begun  their 
work, 

And  a  drizzly  mist  is  round  him  cast ; 

He  cannot  see  through  the  mantle 
murk  ; 

He  shivers  with  cold,  but  he  urges  fast ; 
Through  storm  and  darkness,  sleet  and 
shade, 

He  lashes  his  steed,  and  spurs  amain — 
For  shadowy  hands  have  twitch’d  the 
rein, 

And  flame-shot  tongues  around  him 
play’d, 

And  near  him  many  a  fiendish  eye 
Glared  with  a  fell  malignity, 

And  yells  of  rage,  and  shrieks  of  fear, 
Came  screaming  on  his  startled  ear. 

XXVIII. 

His  wings  are  wet  around  his  breast, 

The  plume  hangs  dripping  from  his  crest, 
His  eyes  are  blurr’d  by  the  lightning’s 
glare, 

And  his  ears  are  stunn’d  with  the  thun¬ 
der’s  blare, 

But  he  gave  a  shout,  and  his  blade  he 
drew, 

He  thrust  before  and  he  struck  behind, 
Till  he  pierced  their  cloudy  bodies  through, 
And  gash’d  their  shadowy  limbs  of 
wind  ; 

Howling  the  misty  spectres  flew, 

They  rend  the  air  with  frightful  cries  ; 
For  he  has  gain’d  the  welkin  blue, 

And  the  land  of  clouds  beneath  him 
lies. 

XXIX. 

Up  to  the  cope  careering  swift, 

In  breathless  motion  fast, 

Fleet  as  the  swallow  cuts  the  drift. 

Or  the  sea-roc  rides  the  blast, 

The  sapphire  sheet  of  eve  is  shot, 

The  sphered  moon  is  past, 

The  earth  but  seems  a  tiny  blot 
On  a  sheet  of  azure  cast. 

Oh  !  it  was  sweet,  in  the  clear  moonlight, 
To  tread  the  starry  plain  of  even  ! 

To  meet  the  thousand  eyes  of  night, 

And  feel  the  cooling  breath  of  heaven  ! 


But  the  elfin  made  no  stop  or  stay 
Till  he  came  to  the  bank  of  the  milky- 
way  ; 

Then  he  check’d  his  courser’s  foot, 

And  watch’d  for  the  glimpse  of  the  planet- 
shoot. 

XXX. 

Sudden  along  the  snowy  tide 
That  swell’d  to  meet  their  footsteps'  fall, 
The  sylphs  of  heaven  were  seen  to  glide, 
Attired  in  sunset’s  crimson  pall ; 

Around  the  fay  they  weave  the  dance, 

They  skip  before  him  on  the  plain, 

And  one  has  taken  his  wasp-sting  lance, 
And  one  upholds  his  bridle-rein  ; 

With  warblings  wild  they  lead  him  on 
To  where  through  clouds  of  amber  seen. 
Studded  with  stars,  resplendent  shone 
The  palace  of  the  sylphid  queen. 

Its  spiral  columns,  gleaming  bright, 

Were  streamers  of  the  northern  light ; 

Its  curtain’s  light  and  lovely  flush 
Was  of  the  morning’s  rosy  blush  ; 

And  the  ceiling  fair,  that  rose  aboon, 

The  white  and  feathery  fleece  of  noon. 

XXXI. 

But,  oh  !  how  fair  the  shape  that  lay 
Beneath  a  rainbow  bending  bright ; 

She  seem’d  to  the  entranced  fay 
The  loveliest  of  the  forms  of  light ; 

Her  mantle  was  the  purple  roll’d 
At  twilight  in  the  west  afar  ; 

’Twas  tied  with  threads  of  dawning  gold, 
And  button’d  with  a  sparkling  star. 

Her  face  was  like  the  lily  roon 
That  veils  the  vestal  planet’s  hue  ; 

Her  eyes,  two  beamlets  from  the  moon, 

Set  floating  in  the  welkin  blue. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  sunny  beam, 

And  the  diamond  gems  which  round  it 
gleam 

Are  the  pure  drops  of  dewy  even 
That  ne’er  have  left  their  native  heaven. 

XXXII. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  wondering 
sprite, 

And  they  leap’d  with  smiles ;  for  well  I 
ween 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


817 


Never  before  in  the  bowers  of  light 

Had  the  form  of  an  earthly  fay  been 
seen. 

Long  she  look’d  in  his  tiny  face; 

Long  with  his  butterfly  cloak  she 
play’d  ; 

She  smoothed  his  wings  of  azure  lace, 

And  handled  the  tassel  of  his  blade; 
And  as  he  told  in  accents  low 
The  story  of  his  love  and  woe, 

She  felt  new  pains  in  her  bosom  rise, 

And  the  tear-drop  started  in  her  eyes. 

And  “  O  sweet  spirit  of  earth,”  she  cried, 

“  Return  no  more  to  your  woodland 
height, 

But  ever  here  with  me  abide 
In  the  land  of  everlasting  light ! 

Within  the  fleecy  drift  we’ll  lie, 

We’ll  hang  upon  the  rainbow’s  rim ; 

And  all  the  jewels  of  the  sky 

Around  thy  brow  shall  brightly  beam ! 
And  thou  shalt  bathe  thee  in  the  stream 
That  rolls  its  whitening  foam  aboon, 
And  ride  upon  the  lightning’s  gleam, 

And  dance  upon  the  orbed  moon  ! 

We’ll  sit  within  the  Pleiad  ring, 

We’ll  rest  on  Orion’s  starry  belt, 

And  I  will  bid  my  sylphs  to  sing 

The  song  that  makes  the  dew-mist  melt ; 
Their  harps  are  of  the  umber  shade 
That  hides  the  blush  of  waking  day, 
And  every  gleamy  string  is  made 

Of  silvery  moonshine’s  lengthen’d  ray; 
And  thou  shalt  pillow  on  my  breast, 

While  heavenly  breathings  float  around, 
And,  with  the  sylphs  of  ether  blest, 

Forget  the  joys  of  fairy  ground.” 

XXXIII. 

She  was  lovely  and  fair  to  see, 

And  the  elfin’s  heart  beat  fitfully ; 

But  lovelier  far,  and  still  more  fair, 

The  earthly  form  imprinted  there  ; 

Naught  he  saw  in  the  heavens  above 
Was  half  so  dear  as  his  mortal  love, 

For  he  thought  upon  her  look  so  meek, 
And  he  thought  of  the  light  flush  on  her 
cheek  ; 

Never  again  might  he  bask  and  lie 
On  that  sweet  cheek  and  moonlight  eye  ; 
But  in  his  dreams  her  form  to  see, 

To  clasp  her  in  his  revery, 


To  think  upon  his  virgin  bride, 

Was  worth  all  heaven,  and  earth  beside. 

XXXIV. 

“  Lady,”  he  cried,  “  I  have  sworn  to-night, 
On  the  word  of  a  fairy-knight, 

To  do  my  sentence-task  aright ; 

My  honor  scarce  is  free  from  stain — 

I  may  not  soil  its  snows  again  ; 

Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 

Its  mandate  must  be  answer’d  now.” 

Her  bosom  heaved  with  many  a  sigh, 

The  tear  was  in  her  drooping  eye  ; 

But  she  led  him  to  the  palace-gate, 

And  call’d  the  sylphs  who  hover’d  there, 
And  bade  them  fly  and  bring  him  straight, 
Of  clouds  condensed,  a  sable  car. 

With  charm  and  spell  she  bless’d  it  there, 
From  all  the  fiends  of  upper  air  ; 

Then  round  him  cast  the  shadowy  shroud, 
And  tied  his  steed  behind  the  cloud  ; 

And  press’d  his  hand  as  she  bade  him  fly 
Far  to  the  verge  of  the  northern  sky, 

For  by  its  wan  and  wavering  light 
There  was  a  star  would  fall  to-night. 

XXXV. 

Borne  afar  on  the  wings  of  the  blast, 
Northward  away  he  speeds  him  fast, 

And  his  courser  follows  the  cloudy  wain 
Till  the  hoof-strokes  fall  like  pattering 
rain. 

The  clouds  roll  backward  as  he  flies, 

Each  flickering  star  behind  him  lies, 

And  he  has  reach’d  the  northern  plain, 
And  back’d  his  fire-fly  steed  again, 

Ready  to  follow  in  its  flight 
The  streaming  of  the  rocket-light. 

XXXVI. 

The  star  is  yet  in  the  vault  of  heaven, 

But  it  rocks  in  the  summer  gale  ; 

And  now  ’tis  fitful  and  uneven, 

And  now  ’tis  deadly  pale ; 

And  now  ’tis  wrapp’d  in  sulphur-smoke, 
And  quench’d  is  its  rayless  beam  ; 

And  now  with  a  rattling  thunder-stroke 
It  bursts  in  flash  and  flame. 

As  swift  as  the  glance  of  the  arrowy  lance 
That  the  storm-spirit  flings  from  high, 
The  star-shot  flew  o’er  the  welkin  blue, 

As  it  fell  from  the  sheeted  sky. 


818 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


As  swift  as  the  wind  in  its  train  behind 
The  elfin  gallops  along  : 

The  fiends  of  the  clouds  are  bellowing  loud, 
But  the  sylphid  charm  is  strong  ; 

He  gallops  unhurt  in  the  shower  of  fire, 
While  the  cloud -fiends  fly  from  the 
blaze  ; 

He  watches  each  flake  till  its  sparks  expire,  I 
And  rides  in  the  light  of  its  rays. 

But  he  drove  his  steed  to  the  lightning’s 
speed, 

And  caught  a  glimmering  spark  ; 

Then  wheel’d  around  to  the  fairy  ground, 
And  sped  through  the  midnight  dark. 

****** 

Ouphe  and  goblin  !  imp  and  sprite  ! 

Elf  of  eve  !  and  starry  fay  ! 

Ye  that  love  the  moon’s  soft  light, 

Hither— hither  wend  your  way  ; 

Twine  ye  in  a  jocund  ring, 

Sing  and  trip  it  merrily, 

Hand  to  hand,  and  wing  to  wing, 

Bound  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

Hail  the  wanderer  again 

With  dance  and  song,  and  lute  and  lyre ; 
Pure  his  wing  and  strong  his  chain, 

And  doubly  bright  his  fairy  fire. 

Twine  ye  in  an  airy  round, 

Brush  the  dew  and  print  the  lea  ; 

Skip  and  gambol,  hop  and  bound, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

The  beetle  guards  our  holy  ground, 

He  flies  about  the  haunted  place, 

And  if  mortal  there  be  found, 

He  hums  in  his  ears  and  flaps  his  face ; 
The  leaf-harp  sounds  our  roundelay, 

The  owlet’s  eyes  our  lanterns  be  ; 

Thus  we  sing  and  dance  and  play 
Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

XXXVII. 

But  hark  !  from  tower  on  tree-top  high 
The  sentry-elf  his  call  has  made ; 

A  streak  is  in  the  eastern  sky, 

Shapes  of  moonlight !  flit  and  fade  ! 

The  hill-tops  gleam  in  morning’s  spring, 
The  skylark  shakes  his  dabbled  wing, 

The  day-glimpse  glimmers  on  the  lawn, 

The  cock  has  crow’d,  and  the  fays  are  gone,  i 

Joseph  Hodman  Drake.  i 


Comus:  a  Mask. 

The  First  Scene  Discovers  a  Wild 
Wood. 

The  Attendant  Spirit  descends  or  enters. 

Before  the  starry  threshold  of  Jove’s 
court 

My  mansion  is,  where  those  immortal 
shapes 

Of  bright  aerial  spirits  live  inspher’d 
In  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air, 
Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim 
spot, 

Which  men  call  Earth ;  and  with  low- 
thoughted  care 

Confined,  and  pester’d  in  this  pinfold  here, 
Strive  to  keep  up  a  frail  and  feverish 
being, 

Unmindful  of  the  crown  that  Virtue  gives, 
After  this  mortal  change,  to  her  true  ser¬ 
vants, 

Amongst  the  enthroned  gods  on  sainted 
seats. 

Yet  some  there  be  that  by  due  steps  aspire 
To  lay  their  just  hands  on  that  golden 
key, 

That  opes  the  palace  of  eternity ; 

To  such  my  errand  is ;  and  but  for  such, 

I  would  not  soil  these  pure  ambrosial 
weeds 

With  the  rank  vapors  of  this  sin-worn 
mould. 

But  to  my  task.  Neptune,  besides  the 
sway 

Of  every  salt  flood,  and  each  ebbing 
stream, 

Took  in  by  lot  ’twixt  high  and  nether 
Jove 

Imperial  rule  of  all  the  sea-girt  isles, 

That  like  to  rich  and  various  gems  inlay 
The  unadorned  bosom  of  the  deep  ; 

Which  he,  to  grace  his  tributary  gods, 

By  course  commits  to  several  government, 
And  gives  them  leave  to  wear  their  sap¬ 
phire  crowns, 

And  wield  their  little  tridents  :  but  this 
Isle, 

The  greatest  and  the  best  of  all  the  main, 
He  quarters  to  his  blue-hair’d  deities: 

And  all  this  tract  that  fronts  the  falling 
•  sun 

A  noble  Peer  of  mickle  trust  and  power 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


819 


Has  in  his  charge,  with  temper’d  awe  to 
guide 

An  old  and  haughty  nation  proud  in  arms: 
Where  his  fair  offspring,  nursed  in  princely 
lore, 

Are  coming  to  attend  their  father’s  state, 
And  new-entrusted  sceptre  ;  but  their  way 
Lies  through  the  perplex’d  paths  of  this 
drear  wood, 

The  nodding  horror  of  whose  shady  brows 
Threats  the  forlorn  and  wandering  pas¬ 
senger  ; 

And  here  their  tender  age  might  suffer 
peril, 

But  that  by  quick  command  from  sover¬ 
eign  Jove 

I  was  despatch’d  for  their  defence  and 
guard ; 

And  listen  why,  for  I  will  tell  you  now 
Wliat  never  yet  was  heard  in  tale  or  song, 
From  old  or  modern  bard,  in  hall  or  bower. 

Bacchus,  that  first  from  out  the  purple 
grape 

Crush’d  the  sweet  poison  of  misused  wine, 
After  the  Tuscan  mariners  transform’d, 
Coasting  the  Tyrrhene  shore,  as  the  winds 
listed, 

On  Circe’s  island  fell.  (Who  knows  not 
Circe, 

The  daughter  of  the  Sun,  whose  charmed 
cup 

Whoever  tasted,  lost  his  upright  shape, 
And  downward  fell  into  a  grovelling 
swine?) 

This  Nymph  that  gazed  upon  his  clust’ring 
locks, 

With  ivy  berries  wreathed,  and  his  blithe 
youth, 

Had  by  him,  ere  he  parted  thence,  a  son 
Much  like  his  father,  but  his  mother  more, 
Whom  therefore  she  brought  up,  and 
Comus  named : 

Who  ripe,  and  frolic  of  his  full-grown  age, 
Roving  the  Celtic  and  Iberian  fields, 

At  last  betakes  him  to  this  ominous  wood, 
And  in  thick  shelter  of  black  shades  em¬ 
bower’d 

Excels  his  mother  at  her  mightv  art. 
Offering  to  every  weary  traveller 
His  orient  liquor  in  a  crystal  glass, 

To  quench  the  drouth  of  Phoebus  ;  which 
as  they  taste 


(For  most  do  taste  through  fond  intern- 
p’rate  thirst), 

Soon  as  the  potion  works,  their  human 
count’nance, 

Th’  express  resemblance  of  the  gods,  is 
changed 

Into  some  brutish  form  of  wolf,  or  bear, 
Or  ounce,  or  tiger,  hog,  or  bearded  goat, 
All  other  parts  remaining  as  they  were ; 
And  they,  so  perfect  is  their  misery, 

Not  once  perceive  their  foul  disfigure¬ 
ment, 

But  boast  themselves  more  comely  than 
before, 

And  all  their  friends  and  native  home  for¬ 
get, 

To  roll  with  pleasure  in  a  sensual  sty. 
Therefore,  when  any  favor’d  of  high  Jove 
Chances  to  pass  through  this  adventurous 
glade, 

Swift  as  the  sparkle  of  a  glancing  star 
I  shoot  from  heaven,  to  give  him  safe  con¬ 
voy, 

As  now  I  do :  But  first  I  must  put  off 
These  my  sky  robes  spun  out  of  Iris’ 
woof, 

And  take  the  weeds  and  likeness  of  a 
swain, 

That  to  the  service  of  this  house  belongs, 

'  Who  with  his  soft  pipe,  and  smooth-dittied 
song, 

Well  knows  to  still  the  wild  winds  when 
they  roar, 

And  hush  the  waving  woods;  nor  of  less 
faith, 

And  in  this  office  of  his  mountain-watch, 
Likeliest,  and  nearest  to  the  present  aid 
Of  this  occasion.  But  I  hear  the  tread 
Of  hateful  steps ;  I  must  be  viewless  now. 

Comus  enters  with  a  charming-rod  in  one 
hand,  his  glass  in  the  other ;  with  him  a 
rout  of  monsters ,  headed  like  sundry  sorts 
of  wild  beasts ,  but  otherwise  like  men  and 
women ,  their  apparel  glistering ;  they  come 
in  making  a  riotous  and  unruly  noise,  with 
torches  in  their  hands. 

Comus.  The  star  that  bids  the  shop 
herd  fold 

Now  the  top  of  heaven  doth  hold ; 

And  the  gilded  car  of  day 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 


820 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream; 

And  the  slope  sun  his  upward  beam 
Shoots  against  the  dusky  pole, 

Pacing  toward  the  other  goal 
Of  his  chamber  in  the  east. 

Meanwhile  welcome  joy,  and  feast, 
Midnight  shout  and  revelry, 

Tipsy  dance  and  jollity. 

Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine. 
Dropping  odors,  dropping  wine. 

Rigor  now  is  gone  to  bed, 

And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head, 

Strict  Age,  and  sour  Severity, 

With  their  grave  saws  in  slumber  lie. 

We  that  are  of  purer  fire 
Imitate  the  starry  quire, 

Who  in  their  nightly  watchful  spheres 
Lead  in  swift  round  the  months  and 
years. 

The  sounds  and  seas,  with  all  their  finny 
drove, 

Now  to  the  moon  in  wavering  morrice 
move ; 

And  on  the  tawny  sands  and  shelves 
Trip  the  pert  fairies  and  the  dapper  elves. 
By  dimpled  brook,  and  fountain  brim, 

The  wood-nymphs,  deck’d  with  daisies 
trim, 

Their  merry  wakes  and  pastimes  keep  ; 
What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep? 

Night  hath  better  sweets  to  prove, 

Venus  now  wakes,  and  wakens  Love. 
Come,  let  us  our  rites  begin, 

’Tis  only  daylight  that  makes  sin, 

Which  these  dun  shades  will  ne’er  report. 
Hail,  goddess  of  nocturnal  sport, 
Dark-veil’d  Cotytto !  t’  whom  the  secret 
flame 

Of  midnight  torches  burns ;  mysterious 
dame, 

That  ne’er  art  call’d,  but  when  the  dragon 
womb 

Of  Stygian  darkness  spets  her  thickest 
gloom, 

And  makes  one  blot  of  all  the  air; 

Stay  thy  cloudy  ebon  chair, 

Wherein  thou  rid’st  with  Hecat’,  and  be¬ 
friend 

Us  thy  vow’d  priests,  till  utmost  end 
Of  ail  thy  dues  be  done,  and  none  left 
out, 

Ere  the  babbling  eastern  scout, 


The  nice  Morn  on  th’  Indian  steep, 

From  her  cabin’d  loophole  peep, 

And  to  the  tell-tale  Sun  descry 
Our  conceal’d  solemnity. 

Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground 
In  a  light  fantastic  round. 

The  Measure. 

Break  off,  break  off,  I  feel  the  different 
pace 

Of  some  chaste  footing  near  about  this 
ground. 

Run  to  your  shrouds,  within  these  brakes 
and  trees ; 

Our  number  may  affright.  Some  virgin 
sure 

(For  so  I  can  distinguish  by  mine  art) 
Benighted  in  these  woods.  Now  to  my 
charms, 

And  to  mv  wily  trains;  I  shall  ere  long 
Be  well  stock’d  with  as  fair  a  herd  as 
grazed 

About  my  mother  Circe.  Thus  I  hurl 
My  dazzling  spells  into  the  spongy  air, 

Of  power  to  cheat  the  eye  with  blear  illu¬ 
sion, 

And  give  it  false  presentments,  lest  the 
place 

And  my  quaint  habits  breed  astonish¬ 
ment, 

And  put  the  damsel  to  suspicious  flight, 
Which  must  not  be,  for  that’s  against  my 
course : 

I,  under  fair  pretence  of  friendly  ends, 
And  well-placed  words  of  glozing  courtesy, 
Baited  with  reasons  not  implausible, 

Wind  me  into  the  easy-hearted  man, 

And  hug  him  into  snares.  When  once  her 
eye 

Hath  met  the  virtue  of  this  magic  dust, 

I  shall  appear  some  harmless  villager, 
VThom  thrift  keeps  up  about  his  country 
gear. 

But  here  she  comes ;  I  fairly  step  aside, 
And  hearken,  if  I  may,  her  business  here. 

The  Lady  enters. 

This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be 
true, 

My  best  guide  now  ;  methought  it  was  the 
sound 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


821 


Of  riot  and  ill-managed  merriment, 

Such  as  the  jocund  flute  or  gamesome 
pipe 

Stirs  up  among  the  loose  unletter’d  hinds, 
When  for  their  teeming  flocks,  and  granges 
full, 

In  wanton  dance,  they  praise  the  boun¬ 
teous  Pan, 

And  thank  the  gods  amiss.  I  should  be 
loath 

To  meet  the  rudeness,  and  swill’d  insolence 
Of  such  late  wassailers ;  yet  oh  !  where 
else 

Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet 
In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled  wood  ? 
My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied 
out 

With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to 
lodge 

Under  the  spreading  favor  of  these  pines, 
Stepp’d,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket- 
side 

To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 
As  the  kind  hospitable  woods  provide. 
They  left  me  then,  when  the  gray-hooded 
Even, 

Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer’s  weed, 

Kose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoe¬ 
bus’  wain. 

But  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came 
not  back, 

Is  now  the  labor  of  my  thoughts ;  ’tis 
likeliest 

They  had  engaged  their  wand’ring  steps  too 
far ; 

And  envious  darkness,  ere  they  could  re¬ 
turn, 

Had  stole  them  from  me :  else,  0  thievish 
Night, 

Why  shouldst  thou,  but  for  some  felonious 
end, 

In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars, 
That  Nature  hung  in  heav’n,  and  fill’d 
their  lamps 

With  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 
To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveller? 

This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I  may  guess, 
Whence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 
Was  rife,  and  perfect  in  my  list’ning  ear, 
Yet  naught  but  single  darkness  do  I  find. 
What  might  this  be?  A  thousand  fantasies 
Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory, 


Of  calling  shapes,  and  beck’ning  shadows 
dire, 

And  airy  tongues,  that  syllable  men’s  names 
On  sands,  and  shores,  and  desert  wilder¬ 
nesses. 

These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not 
astound 

The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  at¬ 
tended 

By  a  strong-siding  champion,  Conscience. — 
O  welcome  pure-eyed  Faith,  white-handed 
Hope, 

Thou  hovering  Angel,  girt  with  golden 
wings, 

And  thou,  unblemish’d  form  of  Chastity ! 

I  see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 
That  he,  the  Supreme  Good,  t’  whom  all 
things  ill 

Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance, 
Would  send  a  glist’ring  guardian,  if  need 
were, 

To  keep  my  life  and  honor  unassail’d. 

Was  I  deceived,  or  did  a  sable  cloud 
Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night? 
I  did  not  err,  there  does  a  sable  cloud 
Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night, 
And  casts  a  gleam  over  this  tufted  grove : 

I  cannot  halloo  to  my  brothers,  but 
Such  noise  as  I  can  make  to  be  heard  far¬ 
thest 

I’ll  venture,  for  my  new-enliven’d  spirits 
Prompt  me ;  and  they  perhaps  are  not  far 
off*. 

SOXGr. 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv’st 
unseen 

Within  thy  airy  shell, 

By  slow  Maeander’s  margent  green, 

And  in  the  violet-embroider’d  vale, 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mournetli 
well ; 

Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are? 

Oh,  if  thou  haye 
Hid  them  in  some  flow’ry  cave, 

Tell  me  but  where, 

Sweet  Queen  of  Parley,  Daughter  of  the 
Sphere  ! 

So  mayst  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  Ileav'n’s 
harmonies. 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Enter  COMUS. 

Com.  Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth’s 
*  mould 

Breathe  such  divine  enchanting  ravish¬ 
ment  ? 

Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 
And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal 
air 

To  testify  his  hidden  residence  : 

How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence,  through  the  empty-vaulted 
night, 

At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven  down 
Of  darkness  till  it  smiled !  I  have  oft 
heard 

My  mother  Circe  with  the  Sirens  three, 
Amidst  the  flow’ry-kirtled  Naiades, 
Culling  their  potent  herbs,  and  baleful 
drugs, 

Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prison’d 
soul, 

And  lap  it  in  Elysium  ;  Scylla  wept, 

And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  atten¬ 
tion, 

And  fell  Charybdis  murmur’d  soft  ap¬ 
plause  : 

Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lull’d  the 
sense, 

And  in  sweet  madness  robb’d  it  of  itself; 
But  such  a  sacred,  and  homefelt  delight, 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 

I  never  heard  till  now.  I’ll  speak  to  her, 
And  she  shall  be  my  queen.  Hail,  foreign 
wonder ! 

Whom  certain  these  rough  shades  did 
never  breed, 

Unless  the  goddess  that  in  rural  shrine 
Dwell’st  here  with  Pan,  or  Sylvan,  by  blest 
song 

Forbidding  every  bleak  unkindly  fog 
To  touch  the  prosperous  growth  of  this 
tall  wood. 

Lad.  Nay,  gentle  shepherd,  ill  ig  lost 
that  praise 

That  is  address’d  to  unattending  ears ; 

Not  any  boast  of  skill,  but  extreme  shift 
How  to  regain  my  sever’d  company, 
Compell’d  me  to  awake  the  courteous 
Echo 

To  give  me  answer  from  her  mossy  couch. 

Com.  What  chance,  good  Lady,  hath 
bereft  you  thus? 


Lad.  Dim  darkness,  and  this  leafy  laby¬ 
rinth. 

Com.  Could  that  divide  you  from  near- 
ushering  guides  ? 

Lad.  They  left  me  weary  on  a  grassy 
turf. 

Com.  By  falsehood,  or  discourtesy,  or 
why? 

Lad.  To  seek  i’  th’  valley  some  cool 
friendly  spring. 

Com.  And  left  your  fair  side  all  un¬ 
guarded,  Lady? 

Lad.  They  were  but  twain,  and  pur¬ 
posed  quick  return. 

Com.  Perhaps  forestalling  night  pre¬ 
vented  them. 

Lad.  How  easy  my  misfortune  is  to  hit ! 

Com.  Imports  their  loss,  beside  the  pres¬ 
ent  need  ? 

Lad.  No  less  than  if  I  should  my 
brothers  lose. 

Com.  Were  they  of  manly  prime,  or 
youthful  bloom  ? 

Lad.  As  smooth  as  Hebe’s  their  unra¬ 
zor’d  lips. 

Com.  Two  such  I  saw,  what  time  the 
labor’d  ox 

In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came, 
And  the  swink’d  hedger  at  his  supper  sat ; 
I  saw  them  under  a  green  mantling  vine 
That  crawls  along  the  side  of  yon  small 
hill, 

Plucking  ripe  clusters  from  the  tender 
shoots ; 

Their  port  was  more  than  human,  as  they 
stood  : 

I  took  it  for  a  faery  vision 
Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  i’  th’  plighted  clouds.  I  was 
awestruck, 

And  as  I  pass’d,  I  worshipp’d ;  if  those 
you  seek, 

It  were  a  journey  like  the  path  to  heaven, 
To  help  you  find  them. 

Lad.  Gentle  villager, 

What  readiest  way  would  bring  me  to  that 
place  ? 

Com.  Due  west  it  rises  from  this  shrubby 
point. 

Lad.  To  find  that  out,  good  shepherd,  I 
suppose, 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


In  such  a  scant  allowance  of  star-light, 
Would  overtask  the  best  land-pilot’s  art, 
Without  the  sure  guess  of  well-practised 
feet. 

Com.  I  know  each  lane,  and  every  alley 
green, 

Dingle  or  bushy  dell  of  this  wild  wood, 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side, 
My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neighbor¬ 
hood  ; 

And  if  your  stray  attendants  be  yet  lodged 
Or  shroud  within  these  limits,  I  shall 
know 

Ere  morrow  wake,  or  the  low-roosted  lark 
From  her  thatch’d  pallat  rouse  ;  if  other¬ 
wise, 

I  can  conduct  you,  Lady,  to  a  low 
But  loyal  cottage,  where  you  may  be  safe 
Till  further  quest. 

Lad.  Shepherd,  I  take  thy  word, 

And  trust  thy  honest-offer’d  courtesy, 
Which  oft  is  sooner  found  in  lowly  sheds 
With  smoky  rafters,  than  in  tap’stry  halls 
And  courts  of  princes,  where  it  first  was 
named, 

And  yet  is  most  pretended  :  in  a  place 
Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure, 

I  cannot  be,  that  I  should  fear  to  change 
it. 

Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  square  my 
trial 

To  my  proportion’d  strength.  Shepherd, 
lead  on. 

Enter  The  Two  Brothers. 

1  Br.  Unmuflle,  ye  faint  stars,  and  thou, 
fair  moon, 

That  wont’st  to  love  the  traveller’s  benizon, 
Stoop  thy  pale  visage  through  an  amber 
cloud, 

And  disinherit  Chaos,  that  reigns  here 
In  double  night  of  darkness  and  of  shades  ; 
Or  if  your  influence  be  quite  damm’d  up 
With  black  usurping  mists,  some  gentle 
taper, 

Though  a  rush  candle,  from  the  wicker- 
hoi  e 

Of  some  clay  habitation,  visit  us 
With  thy  long-levell’d  rule  of  streaming 
light ; 

And  thou  shalt  be  our  star  of  Arcady, 

Or  Tyrian  Cynosure. 


2  Br.  Or  if  our  eyes 

Be  barr’d  that  happiness,  might  we  but 
hear 

The  folded  flocks  penn’d  in  their  wattled 
cotes, 

Or  sound  of  past’ral  reed  with  oaten 
stops, 

Or  whistle  from  the  lodge,  or  village 
cock 

Count  the  night  watches  to  his  feathery 
dames, 

’Twould  be  some  solace  yet,  some  little 
cheering 

In  this  close  dungeon  of  innumerous 
boughs. 

But  oh,  that  hapless  virgin,  our  lost 
sister ! 

Where  may  she  wander  now,  whither  be¬ 
take  her 

From  the  chill  dew,  among  rude  burs  and 
thistles  ? 

Perhaps  some  cold  bank  is  her  bolster 
now, 

Or  ’gainst  the  rugged  bark  of  some  broad 
elm 

Leans  her  unpillow’d  head,  fraught  with 
sad  fears. 

What,  if  in  wild  amazement,  and  affright, 

Or,  while  we  speak,  within  the  direful 
grasp 

Of  savage  hunger,  or  of  savage  heat? 

1  Br.  Peace,  brother,  be  not  over  ex¬ 
quisite 

To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  evils ; 

For  grant  they  be  so,  while  they  rest  un¬ 
known, 

What  need  a  man  forestall  his  date  of 
grief, 

And  run  to  meet  what  he  would  most 
avoid  ? 

Or  if  they  be  but  false  alarms  of  fear, 

How  bitter  is  such  self-delusion  ! 

I  do  not  think  my  sister  so  to  seek, 

Or  so  unprincipled  in  virtue’s  book, 

And  the  sweet  peace  that  goodness  bosoms 
ever, 

As  that  the  single  want  of  light  and  noise 

(Not  being  in  danger,  as  I  trust  she  is 
not) 

Could  stir  the  constant  mood  of  her  calm 
thoughts, 

And  put  them  into  misbecoming  plight. 


824 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  virtue  would 
By  her  own  radiant  light,  though  sun  and 
moon 

Were  in  the  flat  sea  sunk.  And  Wisdom’s 
self 

Oft  seeks  to  sweet  retired  solitude, 

Where,  with  her  best  nurse  Contempla¬ 
tion, 

She  plumes  her  feathers,  and  lets  grow 
her  wings, 

That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 
Were  all-to  rutiled,  and  sometimes  im¬ 
pair’d. 

He  that  has  light  within  his  own  clear 
breast, 

May  sit  i’  th’  centre,  and  enjoy  bright 
day: 

But  he  that  hides  a  dark  soul,  and  foul 
thoughts, 

Benighted  walks  under  the  mid-day  sun ; 
Himself  is  his  own  dungeon. 

2  Br.  ’Tis  most  true, 

That  musing  meditation  most  affects 
The  pensive  secrecy  of  desert  cell, 

Far  from  the  cheerful  haunt  of  men  and 
herds, 

And  sits  as  safe  as  in  a  senate-house ; 

For  who  would  rob  a  hermit  of  his  weeds, 
His  few  books,  or  his  beads,  or  maple 
dish, 

Or  do  his  gray  hairs  any  violence? 

But  beauty,  like  the  fair  Hesperian  tree 
Laden  with  blooming  gold,  had  need  the 
guard 

Of  dragon  watch  with  unenchanted  eye, 
To  save  her  blossoms,  and  defend  her 
fruit 

From  the  rash  hand  of  bold  incontinence. 
You  may  as  well  spread  out  the  unsunn’d 
heaps 

Of  miser’s  treasure  by  an  outlaw’s  den, 
And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  as  bid  me  hope 
Danger  will  wink  on  opportunity, 

And  let  a  single  helpless  maiden  pass 
Uninjured  in  this  wild  surrounding  waste. 
Of  night,  or  loneliness,  it  recks  me  not; 

I  fear  the  dread  events  that  dog  them 
both, 

Lest  some  ill-greeting  touch  attempt  the 
person 

Of  our  unowned  sister. 

1  Br.  I  do  not,  brother, 


Infer,  as  if  I  thought  my  sister’s  state 
Secure  without  all  doubt,  or  controversy ; 
Yet  where  an  equal  poise  of  hope  and 
fear 

Does  arbitrate  th’  event,  my  nature  is 
That  I  incline  to  hope,  rather  than  fear, 
And  gladly  banish  squint  suspicion. 

My  sister  is  not  so  defenceless  left, 

As  you  imagine ;  she  has  a  hidden 
strength 

Which  you  remember  not. 

2  Br.  What  hidden  strength, 

Unless  the  strength  of  Heaven,  if  you 
mean  that? 

1  Br.  I  mean  that  too,  but  yet  a  hidden 
strength, 

Which,  if  Heav’n  gave  it,  may  be  term’d 
her  own ; 

’Tis  chastity,  my  brother,  chastity  : 

She  that  has  that,  is  clad  in  complete 
steel, 

And  like  a  quiver’d  nymph  with  arrows 
keen 

May  trace  huge  forests,  and  unharbor’d 
heaths, 

Infamous  hills,  and  sandy  perilous  wilds, 
Where  through  the  sacred  rays  of  chas¬ 
tity, 

No  savage  fierce,  bandite,  or  mountaineer 
Will  dare  to  soil  her  virgin  purity: 

Yea  there,  where  very  desolation  dwells, 
By  grots,  and  caverns  shagg’d  with  horrid 
shades, 

She  may  pass  on  with  unblench’d  majesty, 
Be  it  not  done  in  pride,  or  in  presump¬ 
tion. 

Some  say  no  evil  thing  that  walks  by 
night, 

In  fog,  or  fire,  by  lake,  or  moorish  fen, 

Blue  meagre  hag,  or  stubborn  unlaid 
ghost, 

That  breaks  his  magic  chains  at  curfew¬ 
time, 

No  goblin,  or  swart  faery  of  the  mine, 
Hath  hurtful  power  o’er  true  virginity. 

Do  ye  believe  me  yet,  or  shall  I  call 
Antiquity  from  the  old  schools  of  Giccce 
To  testify  the  arms  of  chastity? 

Hence  had  the  huntress  Dian  her  dread 
bow, 

Fair  silver-shafted  queen,  for  ever  chaste, 
Wherewith  she  tamed  the  brinded  lioness 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


825 


And  spotted  mountain-pard,  and  set  at 
naught 

The  frivolous  bolt  of  Cupid ;  gods  and 
men 

Fear’d  her  stern  frown,  and  she  was  queen 
o’  the  woods. 

What  was  that  snaky-headed  Gorgon 
shield, 

That  wise  Minerva  wore,  unconquer’d 
virgin, 

Wherewith  she  freezed  her  foes  to  con¬ 
geal’d  stone, 

But  rigid  looks  of  chaste  austerity, 

And  noble  grace  that  dash’d  brute  vio¬ 
lence 

With  sudden  adoration  and  blank  awe? 

So  dear  to  Heav’n  is  saintly  chastity, 

That  when  a  soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 

A  thousand  liveried  angels  lackey  her, 
Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and 
guilt, 

And  in  clear  dream,  and  solemn  vision, 
Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can 
hear, 

Till  oft  converse  with  heav’nly  habitants 
Begins  to  cast  a  beam  on  th’  outward 
shape, 

The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind, 

And  turns  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul’s  es¬ 
sence, 

Till  all  be  made  immortal :  but  when 
lust, 

By  unchaste  looks,  loose  gestures,  and  foul 
talk, 

But  most  by  lewd  and  lavish  act  of  sin, 
Lets  in  defilement  to  the  inward  parts, 

The  soul  grows  clotted  by  contagion, 
Embodies,  and  imbrutes,  till  she  quite  lose 
The  divine  property  of  her  first  being. 
Such  are  those  thick  and  gloomy  shadows 
damp 

Oft  seen  in  charnel  vaults,  and  sepulchres, 
Ling’ring  and  sitting  by  a  new-made 
grave, 

As  loath  to  leave  the  body  that  it  loved, 
And  link’d  itself  by  carnal  sensuality 
To  a  degenerate  and  degraded  state. 

2  Br.  How  charming  is  divine  philos¬ 
ophy  ! 

Not  harsh,  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  sup¬ 
pose, 

But  musical  as  is  Apollo’s  lute, 


And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectar’d  swee.ts. 
Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns. 

1  Br.  List,  list,  I  hear 

Some  far-off  halloo  break  the  silent  air. 

2  Br.  Methought  so  too ;  what  should 

it  be? 

1  Br.  For  certain 

Either  some  one  like  us  night-founder’d 
here, 

Or  else  some  neighbor  woodman,  or,  at 
worst, 

Some  roving  robber  calling  to  his  fellows. 

2  Br.  Heaven  keep  my  sister !  Again, 

again,  and  near ! 

Best  draw,  and  stand  upon  our  guard. 

1  Br.  I’ll  halloo  ; 

If  he  be  friendly,  he  comes  well ;  if  not, 
Defence  is  a  good  cause,  and  Heav’n  be 
for  us. 

Enter  the  Attendant  Spirtt,  habited  like 
a  shepherd. 

That  halloo  I  should  know,  what  are  you? 
speak : 

Come  not  too  near,  you  fall  on  iron  stakes 
else. 

Spir.  What  voice  is  that?  my  young 
Lord?  speak  again. 

2  Br.  O  brother,  ’tis  my  father’s  shep¬ 

herd,  sure. 

1  Br.  Thyrsis !  Whose  artful  strains 
have  oft  delay’d 

The  huddling  brook  to  hear  his  madrigal, 
And  sweeten’d  every  musk-rose  of  the 
dale. 

How  cam’st  thou  here,  good  swain?  hath 
any  ram 

Slipt  from  the  fold,  or  young  kid  lost  his 
dam, 

Or  straggling  wether  the  pent  flock  for¬ 
sook  ? 

How  could’st  thou  find  this  dark  seques¬ 
ter’d  nook? 

Spir.  0  my  loved  master’s  heir,  and  his 
next  joy, 

I  came  not  here  on  such  a  trivial  toy 
As  a  stray’d  ewe,  or  to  pursue  the  stealth 
Of  pilfering  wolf;  not  all  the  fleecy 
wealth 

That  doth  enrich  these  downs  is  worth  a 
thought 

To  this  my  errand,  and  the  care  it  brought. 


826 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But,  oh  my  virgin  Lady,  where  is  she  ? 

How  chance  she  is  not  in  your  company? 

1  Br.  To  tell  thee  sadly,  Shepherd, 
without  blame, 

Or  our  neglect,  we  lost  her  as  we  came. 

Spir.  Aye  me  unhappy !  then  my  fears 
are  true. 

1  Br.  What  fears,  good  Thyrsis?  Pri¬ 
thee  briefly  shew. 

Spir.  I’ll  tell  ye ;  ’tis  not  vain  or  fabu¬ 
lous, 

Though  so  esteem’d  by  shallow  ignorance, 
What  the  sage  poets,  taught  by  th’  heav¬ 
enly  Muse, 

Storied  of  old  in  high  immortal  verse, 

Of  dire  chimaeras,  and  enchanted  isles, 

And  rifted  rocks  whose  entrance  leads  to 
Hell; 

For  such  there  be,  but  unbelief  is  blind. 

Within  the  navel  of  this  hideous  wood, 
Immured  in  cypress  shades  a  sorcerer 
dwells, 

Of  Bacchus  and  of  Circe  born,  great 
Com  us, 

Deep  skill’d  in  all  his  mother’s  witch¬ 
eries  ; 

And  here  to  every  thirsty  wanderer 
By  sly  enticement  gives  his  baneful  cup, 
With  many  murmurs  mix’d,  whose  pleas¬ 
ing  poison 

The  visage  quite  transforms  of  him  that 
drinks, 

And  the  inglorious  likeness  of  a  beast 
Fixes  instead,  unmoulding  reason’s  mint¬ 
age 

Character’d  in  the  face  :  this  I  have  learnt 
Tending  my  flocks  hard  by  i’  th’  hilly 
crofts, 

That  brow  this  bottom-glade,  whence, 
night  by  night, 

He  and  his  monstrous  rout  are  heard  to 
howl, 

Like  stabled  wolves,  or  tigers  at  their 
prey, 

Doing  abhorred  rites  to  Hecate 
In  their  obscured  haunts  of  inmost  bowers. 
Yet  have  they  many  baits,  and  guileful 
spells, 

T’  inveigle  and  invite  th’  unwary  sense 
Of  them  that  pass  unweeting  by  the  way. 
This  evening  late,  by  then  the  chewing 
flocks  l 


Had  ta’en  their  supper  on  the  savory  herb 
Of  knot-grass  dew-besprent,  and  were  in 
fold, 

I  sat  me  down  to  watch  upon  a  bank 
With  ivy  canopied,  and  interwove 
With  flaunting  honeysuckle,  and  began, 
Wrapt  in  a  pleasing  fit  of  melancholy, 

To  meditate  my  rural  minstrelsy, 

Till  Fancy  had  her  fill;  but  ere  a  close, 
The  wonted  roar  was  up  amidst  the  woods, 
And  fill’d  the  air  with  barbarous  disso¬ 
nance  ; 

At  which  I  ceased,  and  listen’d  them  a 
while, 

Till  an  unusual  stop  of  sudden  silence 
Gave  respite  to  the  drowsy  frighted  steeds, 
That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtain’d 
sleep  ; 

At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 
Rose  like  a  steam  of  rich-distill’d  per¬ 
fumes, 

And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even  Silence 
Was  took  ere  she  was  ware,  and  wish’d  she 
might 

Deny  her  nature,  and  be  never  more, 

Still  to  be  so  displaced.  I  was  all  ear, 
And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a 
soul 

Under  the  ribs  of  death :  but  oh  ere  long 
Too  well  I  did  perceive  it  was  the  voice 
Of  my  most  honor’d  Lady,  your  dear 
sister. 

Amazed  I  stood,  harrow’d  with  grief  and 
fear, 

And  O  poor  hapless  nightingale,  thought  I, 
How  sweet  thou  sing’st,  how  near  the 
deadly  snare  ! 

Then  down  the  lawns  I  ran  with  headlong 
haste, 

Through  paths  and  turnings  often  trod  by 
day, 

Till  guided  by  mine  ear  I  found  the  place, 
Where  that  damn’d  wizard,  hid  in  sly  dis¬ 
guise 

(For  so  by  certain  signs  I  knew),  had  met 
Already,  ere  my  best  speed  could  prevent, 
The  aidless  innocent  lady  his  wish’d  prey ; 
Who  gently  ask’d  if  he  had  seen  such  two, 
Supposing  him  some  neighbor  villager. 
Longer  I  durst  not  stay,  but  soon  I  guess’d 
Ye  were  the  two  she  meant;  with  that  I 
sprung 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


827 


Into  swift  flight,  till  I  had  found  you 
here, 

But  further  know  I  not. 

2  Br.  O  night  and  shades, 

How  are  ye  join’d  with  Hell  in  triple  knot, 
Against  th’  unarmed  weakness  of  one  vir¬ 
gin, 

Alone  and  helpless  !  Is  this  the  confidence 
You  gave  me,  brother? 

1  Br.  Yes,  and  keep  it  still, 

Lean  on  it  safely  ;  not  a  period 
Shall  be  unsaid  for  me:  against  the  threats 
Of  malice  or  of  sorcery,  or  that  power 
Which  erring  men  call  Chance,  this  I  hold 
firm, 

Virtue  may  be  assail’d,  but  never  hurt, 
Surprised  by  unjust  force,  but  not  en¬ 
thrall’d  ; 

Yea  even  that  which  Mischief  meant  most 
harm, 

Shall  in  the  happy  trial  prove  most  glory  : 
But  evil  on  itself  shall  back  recoil, 

And  mix  no  more  with  goodness,  when  at 
last 

Gather’d  like  scum,  and  settled  to  itself, 

It  shall  be  in  eternal  restless  change 
Self-fed,  and  self-consumed :  if  this  fail, 
The  pillar’d  firmament  is  rottenness, 

And  earth’s  base  built  on  stubble.  But 
come,  let’s  on. 

Against  the  opposing  will  and  arm  of 
Heaven 

May  never  this  just  sword  be  lifted  up ; 

But  for  that  damn’d  magician,  let  him  be 
girt 

With  all  the  grisly  legions  that  troop 
Under  the  sooty  flag  of  Acheron, 

Harpies  and  Hydras,  or  all  the  monstrous 
forms 

’Twixt  Africa  and  Ind,  I’ll  find  him  out, 
And  force  him  to  restore  his  purchase  back, 
Or  drag  him  by  the  curls  to  a  foul  death, 
Cursed  as  his  life. 

Spir.  Alas  !  good  vent’rous  youth, 

I  love  thy  courage  yet,  and  bold  emprise ; 
But  here  thy  sword  can  do  thee  little  stead  ; 
Far  other  arms  and  other  weapons  must 
Be  those  that  quell  the  might  of  hellish 
charms : 

He  with  his  bare  wand  can  unthread  thy 
joints, 

And  crumble  all  thy  sinews. 


1  Br.  Why  prithee,  Shepherd, 

How  durst  thou  then  thyself  approach  so 
near, 

As  to  make  this  relation  ? 

Spir.  Care  and  utmost  shifts 
How  to  secure  the  lady  from  surprisal 
Brought  to  my  mind  a  certain  shepherd 
lad, 

Of  small  regard  to  see  to,  yet  well  skill’d 
In  every  virtuous  plant  and  healing  herb, 
That  spreads  her  verdant  leaf  to  th’  morn¬ 
ing  ray: 

He  loved  me  well,  and  oft  would  beg  me 
sing, 

Which  when  I  did,  he  on  the  tender  grass 
Would  sit,  and  hearken  e’en  to  ecstasy, 
And  in  requital  ope  his  leathern  scrip, 

And  show  me  simples  of  a  thousand  names, 
Telling  their  strange  and  vigorous  faculties. 
Amongst  the  rest  a  small  unsightly  root, 
But  of  divine  effect,  he  cull’d  me  out ; 

The  leaf  was  darkish,  and  had  prickles  on 
it, 

But  in  another  country,  as  he  said, 

Bore  a  bright  golden  flow’r,  but  not  in  this 
soil : 

Unknown,  and  like  esteem’d,  and  the  dull 
swain 

Treads  on  it  daily  with  his  clouted  shoon : 
And  yet  more  med’cinal  is  it  than  that 
moly 

That  Hermes  once  to  wise  Ulysses  gave ; 
He  call’d  it  Hcemony,  and  gave  it  me, 

And  bade  me  keep  it  as  of  sovereign  use 
’Gainst  all  enchantments,  mildew,  blast,  or 
damp, 

Or  ghastly  Furies’  apparition. 

I  pursed  it  up,  but  little  reck’ning  made, 
Till  now  that  this  extremity  compell’d ; 
But  now  I  fihd  it  true,  for  by  this  means 
I  knew  the  foul  enchanter  though  dis¬ 
guised, 

Enter’d  the  very  lime-twigs  of  his  spells, 
And  yet  came  off :  if  you  have  this  about 
you 

(As  I  will  give  you  when  we  go),  you  may 
Boldly  assault  the  necromancer’s  hall ; 
Where  if  he  be,  with  dauntless  hardihood, 
And  brandish’d  blade  rush  on  him,  break 
his  glass, 

And  shed  the  luscious  liquor  on  the 
ground, 


82 8 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  seize  his  wand ;  though  he  and  his 
cursed  crew 

Fierce  sign  of  battle  make,  and  menace 
high, 

Or  like  the  sons  of  Vulcan  vomit  smoke, 
Yet  will  they  soon  retire,  if  he  but  shrink. 
1  Br.  Thyrsis,  lead  on  apace,  I’ll  fol¬ 
low  thee, 

And  some  good  angel  bear  a  shield  before 

us. 

The  scene  changes  to  a  stately  palace ,  set  out 
with  all  manner  of  deliciousness ;  soft 
music,  tables  spread  with  all  dainties. 
Comus  appears  with  his  rabble,  and  the 
Lady  set  in  an  enchanted  chair,  to  whom 
he  offers  his  glass,  which  she  puts  by,  and 
goes  about  to  rise. 

Com.  Nay,  Lady,  sit;  if  I  but  wave 
this  wand, 

Your  nerves  are  all  chain’d  up  in  alabas¬ 
ter, 

And  you  a  statue,  or  as  Daphne  was, 
Root-bound,  that  fled  Apollo. 

Lad.  Fool,  do  not  boast, 

Thou  canst  not  touch  the  freedom  of  my 
mind 

With  all  thy  charms,  although  this  cor¬ 
poral  rind 

Thou  hast  immanacled,  while  Heaven  sees 
good. 

Com.  Why  are  you  vext,  Lady?  why 
do  you  frown? 

Here  dwell  no  frowns  nor  anger;  from 
these  gates 

Sorrow  flies  far;  see,  here  be  all  the 
pleasures 

That  fancy  can  beget  on  youthful  thoughts, 
When  the  fresh  blood  grows  lively,  and  re¬ 
turns 

Brisk  as  the  April  buds  in  primrose  sea¬ 
son. 

And  first  behold  this  cordial  julep  here, 
That  flames,  and  dances  in  his  crystal 
bounds, 

With  spirits  of  balm,  and  fragrant  syrups 
mix’d. 

Not  that  Nepenthes,  which  the  wife  of 
Thone 

In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  Helena, 

Is  of  such  pow’r  to  stir  up  joy  as  this, 

To  life  so  friendly,  or  so  cool  to  thirst. 


Why  should  you  be  so  cruel  to  yourself, 
And  to  those  dainty  limbs  which  Nature 
lent 

For  gentle  usage,  and  soft  delicacy? 

But  you  invert  the  covenants  of  her  trust, 
And  harshly  deal,  like  an  ill  borrower, 
With  that  which  you  received  on  other 
terms ; 

Scorning  the  unexempt  condition 
By  which  all  mortal  frailty  must  subsist, 
Refreshment  after  toil,  ease  after  pain, 
That  have  been  tired  all  day  without  re¬ 
past, 

And  timely  rest  have  wanted ;  but,  fair 
virgin, 

This  will  restore  all  soon. 

Lad.  ’Twill  not,  false  traitor, 

’Twill  not  restore  the  truth  and  honesty 
That  thou  hast  banish’d  from  thy  tongue 
with  lies. 

Was  this  the  cottage,  and  the  safe  abode 
Thou  toldst  me  of?  What  grim  aspects  are 
these, 

These  ugly-headed  monsters  ?  Mercy  guard 
me ! 

Hence  with  thy  brew’d  enchantments,  foul 
deceiver ! 

Hast  thou  betray’d  my  credulous  innocence 
With  visor’d  falsehood  and  base  forgery? 
And  would’st  thou  seek  again  to  trap  me 
here 

With  liquorish  baits  fit  to  ensnare  a  brute  ? 
Were  it  a  draft  for  Juno  when  she  ban¬ 
quets, 

I  would  not  taste  thy  treasonous  offer  ; 
none 

But  such  as  are  good  men  can  give  good 
things, 

And  that  which  is  not  good,  is  not  de¬ 
licious 

To  a  well-govern’d  and  wise  appetite. 

Com.  O  foolishness  of  men  !  that  lend 
their  ears 

To  those  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoic  fur, 
And  fetch  their  precepts  from  the  Cynic 
tub, 

Praising  the  lean  and  sallow  Abstinence. 
Wherefore  did  Nature  pour  her  bounties 
forth, 

With  such  a  full  and  unwithdrawing  hand, 
Covering  the  earth  with  odors,  fruits,  and 
flocks, 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


829 


Thronging  the  seas  with  spawn  innumer¬ 
able, 

But  all  to  please,  and  sate  the  curious 
taste  ? 

And  set  to  work  millions  of  spinning 
worms, 

That  in  their  green  shops  weave  the 
smooth-hair’d  silk 

To  deck  her  sons ;  and  that  no  corner 
might 

Be  vacant  of  her  plenty,  in  her  own  loins 

She  hutch’d  th’  all-worshipp’d  ore,  and 
precious  gems, 

To  store  her  children  with :  if  all  the 
world 

Should  in  a  pet  of  temperance  feed  on 
pulse, 

Drink  the  clear  stream,  and  nothing  wear 
but  frieze, 

Th’  All-giver  would  be  unthank’d,  would  be 
unprais’d, 

Not  half  his  riches  known,  and  yet  de¬ 
spised  ; 

And  we  should  serve  him  as  a  grudging 
master, 

As  a  penurious  niggard  of  his  wealth  ; 

And  live  like  Nature’s  bastards,  not  her 
sons, 

Who  would  be  quite  surcharged  with  her 
own  weight, 

And  strangled  with  her  waste  fertility ; 

Th’  earth  cumber’d,  and  the  winged  air 
dark’d  with  plumes, 

The  herds  would  over-multitude  their 
lords, 

The  sea  o’erfraught  would  swell,  and  th’ 
unsought  diamonds 

Would  so  emblaze  the  forehead  of  the 
deep, 

And  so  bestud  with  stars,  that  they  below 

Would  grow  inured  to  light,  and  come  at 
last 

To  gaze  upon  the  sun  with  shameless 
brows. 

List,  Lady,  be  not  coy,  and  be  not  cozen’d 

With  that  same  vaunted  name  Virginity. 

Beauty  is  Nature’s  coin,  must  not  be 
hoarded, 

But  must  be  current,  and  the  good  thereof 

Consists  in  mutual  and  partaken  bliss, 

Unsavory  in  th’  enjoyment  of  itself ; 

If  you  let  slip  time,  like  a  neglected  rose 


It  withers  on  the  stalk  with  languish’d 
head. 

Beauty  is  Nature’s  brag,  and  must  be 
shown 

In  courts,  at  feasts,  and  high  solemnities, 
Where  most  may  wonder  at  the  workman¬ 
ship  ; 

It  is  for  homely  features  to  keep  home, 
They  had  their  name  thence  ;  coarse  com¬ 
plexions, 

And  cheeks  of  sorry  grain,  will  serve  to 

p!y 

The  sampler,  and  to  tease  the  huswife’s 
wool. 

What  need  a  vermeil-tinctured  lip  for  that, 
Love-darting  eyes,  or  tresses  like  the 
morn  ? 

There  was  another  meaning  in  these  gifts  ; 
Think  what,  and  be  advised,  you  are  but 
young  yet. 

Lad.  I  had  not  thought  to  have  un- 
lockt  my  lips 

In  this  unhallow’d  air,  but  that  this  jug¬ 
gler 

Would  think  to  charm  my  judgment,  as 
mine  eyes, 

Obtruding  false  rules  prank’d  in  reason’s 
garb. 

I  hate  Avhen  vice  can  bolt  her  arguments, 
And  virtue  has  no  tongue  to  check  her 
pride. 

Impostor,  do  not  charge  most  innocent 
Nature, 

As  if  she  would  her  children  should  be 
riotous 

With  her  abundance ;  she,  good  cateress, 
Means  her  provision  only  to  the  good, 

That  live  according  to  her  sober  laws, 

And  holy  dictate  of  spare  temperance : 

If  every  just  man,  that  now  pines  with 
want, 

Had  but  a  moderate  and  beseeming  share 
Of  that  which  lewdly-pamper’d  luxury 
Now  heaps  upon  some  few  with  vast 
excess, 

Nature’s  full  blessings  would  be  well  dis¬ 
pensed 

In  unsuperfluous  even  proportion, 

And  she  no  whit  encumber’d  with  her 
store ; 

And  then  the  Giver  would  be  better 
thank’d, 


830 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


His  praise  due  paid  ;  for  swinish  gluttony 
Ne’er  looks  to  Heav’n  amidst  liis  gorgeous 
feast, 

But  with  besotted  base  ingratitude 
Crams,  and  blasphemes  his  feeder.  Shall 
I  go  on? 

Or  have  I  said  enow?  To  him  that 
dares 

Arm  his  profane  tongue  with  contemptu¬ 
ous  words 

Against  the  sun-clad  power  of  Chastity, 
Fain  would  I  something  say,  yet  to  what 
end? 

Thou  hast  nor  ear,  nor  soul  to  apprehend 
The  sftblime  notion,  and  high  mystery, 
That  must  be  utter’d  to  unfold  the  sage 
And  serious  doctrine  of  Virginity, 

And  thou  art  worthy  that  thou  shouldst 
not  know 

More  happiness  than  this  thy  present  lot. 
Enjoy  your  dear  wit,  and  gay  rhetoric, 

That  hath  so  well  been  taught  her  dazzling 
fence  ; 

Thou  art  not  fit  to  hear  thyself  convinced; 
Yet  should  I  try,  the  uncontrolled  worth 
Of  this  pure  cause  would  kindle  my  rapt 
spirits 

To  such  a  flame  of  sacred  vehemence, 

That  dumb  things  would  be  moved  to  sym¬ 
pathize, 

And  the  brute  earth  would  lend  her  nerves, 
and  shake, 

Till  all  thy  magic  structures  rear’d  so  high, 
Were  shatter’d  into  heaps  o’er  thy  false 
head. 

Com.  She  fables  not:  I  feel  that  I  do  fear 
Her  words  set  off  by  some  superior  power  : 
And  though  not  mortal,  yet  a  cold  sliud- 
d’ring  dew 

Dips  me  all  o’er,  as  when  the  wrath  of  ' 
Jove 

Speaks  thunder,  and  the  chains  of  Erebus, 
To  some  of  Saturn’s  crew.  I  must  dissemble, 
And  try  her  yet  more  strongly.  Come,  no 
more, 

This  is  mere  moral  babble,  and  direct 
Against  the  canon  laws  of  our  founda¬ 
tion  ; 

I  must  not  suffer  this ;  yet  ’tis  but  the 
lees 

And  settlings  of  a  melancholy  blood : 

But  this  will  cure  all  straight;  one  sip  of  this 


Will  bathe  the  drooping  spirits  in  delight, 
Beyond  the  bliss  of  dreams.  Be  wise,  and 
taste. — 

The  Brothers  rush  in  with  swords  drawn 
wrest  his  glass  out  of  his  hand ,  and  break 
it  against  the  ground ;  his  rout  make  sign 
of  resistance ,  but  are  all  driven  in.  The 
Attendant  Spirit  comes  in. 

Spir.  What,  have  you  let  the  false  en¬ 
chanter  ’scape? 

Oh  ye  mistook,  ye  should  have  snatch’d 
his  wand, 

And  bound  him  fast ;  without  his  rod  re¬ 
versed, 

And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering 
power, 

We  cannot  free  the  Lady  that  sits  here 
In  stony  fetters  fix’d,  and  motionless : 

Yet  stay,  be  not  disturb’d  :  now  I  bethink 
me, 

Some  other  means  I  have  which  may  be 
used, 

Which  once  of  Melibceus  old  I  learnt, 

The  sootliest  shepherd  that  e’er  piped  on 
plains. 

There  is  a  gentle  nymph  not  far  from 
hence, 

That  with  moist  curb  sways  the  smooth 
Severn  stream, 

Sabrina  is  her  name,  a  virgin  pure ; 
Whilom  she  was  the  daughter  of  Locrine, 
That  had  the  sceptre  from  his  father 
Brute. 

She,  guiltless  damsel,  flying  the  mad  pur¬ 
suit 

Of  her  enraged  stepdame  Guendolen, 
Commended  her  fair  innocence  to  the 
flood, 

That  stay’d  her  flight  with  his  cross-flow¬ 
ing  course. 

The  water-nymphs  that  in  the  bottom 
play’d, 

Held  up  their  pearled  wrists,  and  took  her 
in, 

Bearing  her  straight  to  aged  Xereus’  hall, 
Who  piteous  of  her  woes,  rear’d  her  lank 
head, 

And  gave  her  to  his  daughters  to  imbathe 
In  nectar’d  lavers  strow’d  with  asphodil, 
And  through  the  porch  and  inlet  of  each 
sense 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


831 


Dropp’d  in  ambrosial  oils,  till  she  revived, 
And  underwent  a  quick  immortal  change, 
Made  Goddess  of  the  river  :  still  she  re¬ 
tains 

Her  maiden  gentleness,  and  oft  at  eve 
Visits  the  herds  along  the  twilight  mea¬ 
dows, 

Helping  all  urchin  blasts,  and  ill-luck 
signs 

That  the  shrewd  meddling  elf  delights  to 
make, 

Which  she  with  precious  vial’d  liquors 
heals ; 

For  which  the  shepherds  at  their  festivals 
Carol  her  goodness  loud  in  rustic  lays, 

And  throw  sweet  garland  wreaths  into 
her  stream 

Of  pansies,  pinks,  and  gaudy  daffodils. 
And,  as  the  old  swain  said,  she  can  un¬ 
lock 

The  clasping  charm,  and  thaw  the  numb¬ 
ing  spell, 

If  she  be  right  invoked  in  warbled  song; 
For  maidenhood  she  loves,  and  will  be 
swift 

To  aid  a  virgin,  such  as  was  herself, 

In  hard-besetting  need ;  this  will  I  try, 
And  add  the  pow’r  of  some  adjuring  verse. 

Song. 

Sabrina  fair, 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 
In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair ; 
Listen  for  dear  honor’s  sake, 

Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 

Listen  and  save. 

Listen  and  appear  to  us 
In  name  of  great  Ocean  us, 

By  th’  earth-shaking  Neptune’s  mace, 

And  Tethys’  grave  majestic  pace, 

By  hoary  Nereus’  wrinkled  look, 

And  the  Carpathian  wizard’s  hook, 

By  scaly  Triton’s  winding  shell, 

And  old  soothsaying  Glaucus’  spell, 

By  Leucothea’s  lovelv  hands. 

And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands, 

By  Thetis’  tinsel-slipper’d  feet, 

And  the  songs  of  sirens  sweet, 

By  dead  Parthenope’s  dear  tomb, 

And  fair  Ligea’s  golden  comb, 


Wherewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks, 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks, 

By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance, 

Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 
From  thy  coral-paven  bed, 

And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave, 

Till  thou  our  summons  answer’d  have. 

Listen  and  save. 

Sabrina  rises ,  attended  by  water-nymphs , 
and  sings. 

By  the  rushy-fringkd  bank, 

Where  grows  the  willow  and  the  osier 
dank, 

My  sliding  chariot  stays, 

Thick  set  with  agate,  and  the  azurn 
sheen 

Of  turkis  blue,  and  emerald  green, 

That  in  the  channel  strays  ; 

Whilst  from  off  the  waters  fleet, 

Thus  I  set  my  printless  feet 
O’er  the  cowslip’s  velvet  head, 

That  bends  not  as  I  tread  ; 

Gentle  Swain,  at  thy  request 
I  am  here. 

Spir.  Goddess  dear, 

We  implore  thy  pow’rful  hand 
To  undo  the  charmed  band 
Of  true  virgin  here  distrest, 

Through  the  force,  and  through  the  wile 
Of  unbless’d  enchanter  vile. 

Sabr.  Shepherd,  ’tis  my  office  best 
To  help  ensnared  chastity: 

Brightest  Lady,  look  on  me ; 

Thus  I  sprinkle  on  thy  breast 
Drops  that  from  my  fountain  pure 
I  have  kept  of  precious  cure, 

Thrice  upon  thy  finger’s  tip, 

Thrice  upon  thy  rubied  lip; 

!  Next  this  marble  venom’d  seat, 

Smear’d  with  gums  of  glutinous  heat, 

I  touch  with  chaste  palms  moist  and 
cold : 

Now  the  spell  hath  lost  his  hold ; 

And  I  must  haste  ere  morning  hour 
To  wait  in  Amphitrite’s  bow’r. 

Sabrina  descends,  and  the  Lady  rises  out 
of  her  seat. 

Spir.  Virgin,  daughter  of  Locrine, 
Sprung  of  old  Anchises’  line, 


832 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


May  thy  brimmed  waves  for  this 
Their  full  tribute  never  miss 
From  a  thousand  petty  rills, 

That  tumble  down  the  snowy  hills : 
Summer  drouth,  or  singed  air 
Never  scorch  thy  tresses  fair, 

Nor  wet  October’s  torrent  flood 
Thy  molten  crystal  fill  with  mud ; 

May  thy  billows  roll  ashore 
The  beryl,  and  the  golden  ore ; 

May  thy  lofty  head  be  crown’d 
With  many  a  tow’r  and  terrace  round, 

And  here  and  there  thy  banks  upon 
With  groves  of  myrrh  and  cinnamon. 
Come,  Lady,  while  Heav’n  lends  us 
grace, 

Let  us  fly  this  cursed  place, 

Lest  the  sorcerer  us  entice 
With  some  other  new  device. 

Not  a  waste  or  needless  sound 
Till  we  come  to  holier  ground  ; 

I  shall  be  your  faithful  guide 
Through  this  gloomy  covert  wide, 

And  not  many  furlongs  thence 
Is  your  Father’s  residence, 

Where  this  night  are  met  in  state 
Many  a  friend  to  gratulate 
His  wish’d  presence,  and  beside 
All  the  swains  that  there  abide, 

With  j  igs  and  rural  dance  resort ; 

We  shall  catch  them  at  their  sport, 

And  our  sudden  coming  there 

Will  double  all  their  mirth  and  cheer ; 

Come  let  us  haste,  the  stars  grow  high, 

But  night  sits  monarch  yet  in  the  mid 
sky. 

The  scene  changes ,  presenting  Ludlow  town 
and  the  President’s  castle ;  then  come  in 
country  dancers ,  after  them  the  Attend¬ 
ant  Spirit,  with  the  Two  Brothers 
and  the  Lady. 

Song. 

Spir.  Back,  Shepherds,  back,  enough 
your  play, 

Till  next  sunshine  holiday; 

Here  be  without  duck  or  nod 
Other  trippings  to  be  trod 
Of  lighter  toes,  and  such  court  guise 
As  Mercury  did  first  devise, 

With  the  mincing  Dryades, 

On  the  lawns,  and  on  the  leas. 


This  second  Song  presents  them  to  their  Father 
and  Mother. 

Noble  Lord,  and  Lady  bright, 

I  have  brought  ye  new  delight, 

Here  behold  so  goodly  grown 
Three  fair  branches  of  your  own  ; 

Heav’n  hath  timely  tried  their  youth. 
Their  faith,  their  patience,  and  their  truth,, 
And  sent  them  here  through  hard  assays 
With  a  crown  of  deathless  praise. 

To  triumph  in  victorious  dance 
O’er  sensual  folly,  and  intemperance. 

The  dances  ended,  the  Spirit  epiloguizes. 

Spir.  To  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 

And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 

Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky  : 

There  I  suck  the  liquid  air 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree : 

Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 
Bevels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring, 
The  Graces,  and  the  rosy-bosom’d  Hours, 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring ; 

There  eternal  Summer  dwells, 

And  west  winds,  with  musky  wing, 
About  the  cedarn  alleys  fling 
Nard  and  cassia’s  balmy  smells. 

Iris  there  with  humid  bow 
Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 
Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 
Than  her  purfled  scarf  can  shew, 

And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 
(List,  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true), 

Beds  of  hvacinth  and  roses, 

Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 

Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 
In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  th’  Assyrian  queen  ; 

But  far  above  in  spangled  sheen 
Celestial  Cupid  her  famed  son  advanced, 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  entranced, 
After  her  wand’ring  labors  long, 

Till  free  consent  the  Gods  among 
Make  her  his  eternal  bride, 

And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born, 

Youth  and  Joy ;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 

I  can  flv,  or  I  can  run 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


833 


Quickly  to  the  green  earth’s  end, 

Where  the  bow’d  welkin  slow  doth  bend, 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 

Mortals,  that  would  follow  me, 

Love  Virtue,  she  alone  is  free ; 

She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  spherv  chime: 

Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 

Heav’n  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 

John  Milton. 


Farewell  to  the  Fairies. 

Farewell  rewards  and  Fairies  ! 

Good  housewives  now  may  say  ; 

For  now  foule  sluts  in  dairies 
Doe  fare  as  well  as  they : 

And  though  they  sweepe  their  hearths  no 
less 

Than  mayds  were  wont  to  doe, 

Yet  who  of  late  for  cleaneliness 
Finds  sixe-pence  in  her  shoe? 

Lament,  lament  old  Abbies, 

The  fairies  lost  command ; 

They  did  but  change  priests  babies, 

But  some  have  changed  your  land : 

And  all  your  children  stoln  from  thence 
Are  now  growne  Puritanes, 

Who  live  as  changelings  ever  since, 

For  love  of  your  demaines. 

At  morning  and  at  evening  both 
You  merry  were  and  glad, 

So  little  care  of  sleepe  and  sloth, 

These  prettie  ladies  had. 

When  Tom  came  home  from  labour, 

Or  Ciss  to  milking  rose, 

Then  merrily  went  their  tabour, 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness  those  rings  and  roundelayes 
Of  theirs,  which  yet  remaine; 

Were  footed  in  Queene  Maries  dayes 
On  many  a  grassy  playne. 

But  since  of  late  Elizabeth 
.  And  later  James  came  in  ; 

They  never  danced  on  any  heath, 

As  when  the  time  hath  bin. 

Bv  which  wee  note  the  fairies 

W ere  of  the  old  profession  : 

53 


Their  songs  were  Ave  Maries , 

Their  dances  were  procession. 

But  now,  alas  !  they  all  are  dead, 

Or  gone  beyond  the  seas, 

Or  farther  for  religion  fled, 

Or  else  they  take  their  ease. 

A  tell-tale  in  their  company 
They  never  could  endure ; 

And  whoso  kept  not  secretly 
Their  mirth,  was  punish’d  sure: 

It  was  a  just  and  Christian  deed 
To  pinch  such  blacke  and  blue : 

Oh  how  the  common-welth  doth  need 
Such  justices  as  you  ! 

Now  they  have  left  our  quarters ; 

A  Register  they  have, 

Who  can  preserve  their  charters  ; 

A  man  both  wise  and  grave. 

An  hundred  of  their  merry  pranks, 

By  one  that  I  could  name 
Are  kept  in  store  ;  con  twenty  thanks 
To  William  for  the  same. 

To  William  Cliurne  of  Staffordshire 
Give  laud  and  praises  due, 

Who  every  meale  can  mend  your  cheare 
With  tales  both  old  and  true: 

To  William  all  give  audience, 

And  pray  yee  for  his  noddle : 

For  all  the  fairies  evidence 
Were  lost,  if  it  were  addle. 

Richard  Corbet. 

——•<>• - 

Kilmeny. 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen  ; 

But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira’s  men, 

Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

It  was  only  to  hear  the  Yorlin  sing, 

And  pu’  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring  ; 
The  scarlet  liyppe,  and  the  hindberrv, 

And  the  nut  that  hung  frae  the  hazel 
tree ; 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
But  lang  may  her  minny  look  o’er  the 
wa’, 

And  lang  may  she  seek  i’  the  greenwood 
shaw  ; 

Lang  the  laird  of  Duneira  blame, 

And  lang,  lang  greet  or  Kilmeny  come 
hame  I 


834 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


When  many  lang  day  had  come  and  fled, 

When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was 
dead, 

When  mess  for  Kilmenv’s  soul  had  been 
sung, 

When  the  bedes-man  had  prayed,  and  the 
deadbeli  rung  : 

Late,  late  in  a  gloamin  when  all  was 
still, 

When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westlin 
hill, 

The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i’  the  wane, 

The  reek  o’  the  cot  hung  o’er  the  plain, 

Like  a  little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its 
lane ; 

When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eiry  leme, 

Late,  late  in  the  gloamin  Kilmeny  came 
hame ! 

“  Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  haye  you 
been  ? 

Lang  hae  we  sought  baitli  holt  and  dean  ; 

By  linn,  by  fora,  and  greenwood  tree, 

Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 

Where  gat  you  that  joup  o’  the  lily 
sheen  ? 

That  bonny  «nood  o’  the  birk  sae  green? 

And  these  roses  the  fairest  that  ever  was 
seen? — 

Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you 
been?” 

Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a  lovely  grace, 

But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny ’s 
face ; 

As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was 
her  ee, 

As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant 
lea, 

Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless 
sea. 

For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  ken’d  not 
where, 

And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could 
not  declare ; 

Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never 
crew, 

W  here  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind 
never  blew. 

But  it  seemed  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had 
rung, 

And  the  airs  of  heaven  played  round  her 
tongue, 


When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she 
had  seen, 

And  a  land  where  sin  had  never  been  ; 

A  land  of  love,  and  a  land  of  light, 
Withouten  sun,  or  moon,  or  night; 

Where  the  river  swa’d  a  living  stream, 
And  the  light  a  pure  and  cloudless  beam  ; 
The  land  of  vision  it  would  seem, 

A  still,  an  everlasting  dream. 

In  yon  greenwood  there  is  a  waik, 

And  in  that  waik  there  is  a  wene, 

And  in  that  wene  there  is  a  maike, 

That  neither  has  flesh,  nor  blood,  nor  bane  ; 
And  down  in  yon  greenwood  he  walks  his 
lane. 

In  that  green  wene  Kilmeny  lay, 

Her  bosom  happ’d  wi’  flowerets  gay ; 

But  the  air  was  soft  and  the  silence  deep, 
And  bonny  Kilmeny  fell  sound  asleep. 

She  kenned  nae  mair,  nor  open’d  her  ee, 
Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a  far  coun- 
trye. 

She  woke  on  a  couch  of  the  silk  sae 
slim, 

All  striped  wi’  the  bars  of  the  rainbow’s 
rim  ; 

And  lovely  beings  round  were  rife, 

Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life  ; 

And  aye  they  smiled,  and  ’gan  to  speer, 

“  What  spirit  has  brought  this  mortal 
here  ?” 

“  Lang  have  I  ranged  the  world  wide,” 

A  meek  and  reverend  fere  replied ; 

“  Baith  night  and  day  I  have  watched  the 
fair 

Eident  a  thousand  years  and  mair. 

Yes,  I  have  watched  o’er  ilk  degree, 
Wherever  blooms  femenitve  ; 

And  sinless  virgin,  free  of  stain 
In  mind  and  bodv,  fand  I  nane. 

Never,  since  the  banquet  of  time, 

Found  I  a  virgin  in  her  prime, 

Till  late  this  bonnie  maiden  I  saw, 

As  spotless  as  the  morning  snaw  : 

Full  twentv  vears  she  has  lived  as  free 
As  the  spirits  that  sojourn  in  this  coun- 
trye  : 

I  have  brought  her  away  frae  the  snares  of 
men, 

That  sin  or  death  she  never  may  ken.” 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


83  5 


They  clasped  her  waist  and  her  hands  sae  I 
fair, 

They  kissed  her  cheek,  and  they  kemed 
her  hair  ; 

And  round  came  many  a  blooming  fere, 
Saying,  “  Bonny  Ivilmeny,  ye’re  welcome 
here ! 

'Women  are  freed  of  the  littand  scorn  : — 

O,  blessed  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born ! 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 

Now  shall  it  ken  what  a  woman  may  be ! 
Many  lang  year  in  sorrow  and  pain, 

Many  lang  year  through  the  world  we’ve 
gane, 

Commissioned  to  watch  fair  womankind, 
For  it’s  they  who  nurse  the  immortal 
mind. 

We  have  watched  their  steps  as  the  dawn¬ 
ing  shone, 

And  deep  in  the  greenwood  walks  alone; 

Bv  lily  bower  and  silken  bed, 

The  viewless  tears  have  o’er  them  shed ; 
Have  soothed  their  ardent  minds  to  sleep, 

Or  left  the  couch  of  love  to  weep. 

We  have  seen!  we  have  seen!  but  the  time 
maun  come, 

And  the  angels  will  weep  at  the  day  of 
doom ! 

*'*'  O,  would  the  fairest  of  mortal  kind 
Aye  keep  these  holy  truths  in  mind, 

That  kindred  spirits  their  motions  see, 

Who  watch  their  ways  with  anxious  ee, 

And  grieve  for  the  guilt  of  humanitye ! 

O,  sweet  to  Heaven  the  maiden’s  prayer, 
And  the  sigh  that  heaves  a  bosom  sae  fair! 
And  dear  to  Heaven  the  words  of  truth, 

And  the  praise  of  virtue  frae  beauty’s  ; 
mouth ! 

And  dear  to  the  viewless  forms  of  air, 

The  mind  that  kythes  as  the  body  fair! 

“  O  bonny  Kilmeny  !  free  frae  stain, 

If  ever  you  seek  the  world  again, 

That  world  of  sin,  of  sorrow,  and  fear, 

O,  tell  of  the  joys  that  are  waiting  here; 

And  tell  of  the  signs  you  shall  shortly  see; 
Of  the  times  that  are  now,  and  the  times 
that  shall  be.” 

They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away, 
And  she  walked  in  the  light  of  a  sunless  1 
day:  j 


The  sky  was  a  dome  of  crystal  bright, 

The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of 
light : 

The  emerant  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow, 
And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 

Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they 
laid, 

That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might 
fade ; 

And  they  smiled  on  heaven,  when  they 
saw  her  lie 

In  the  stream  of  life  that  wandered  bv. 
And  she  heard  a  song,  she  heard  it  sung, 
She  kend  not  where;  but  sae  sweetly  it 
rung, 

It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a  dream  of  the 
morn  : — 

“  O,  blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was 
born ! 

Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 

Now  shall  it  ken  what  a  woman  may  be ! 
The  sun  that  shines  on  the  world  sae 
bright, 

A  borrowed  gleid  frae  the  fountain  of 
light ; 

And  the  moon  that  sleeks  the  sky  sae  dun, 
Like  a  gouden  bow,  or  a  beamless  sun, 
Shall  wear  awav  and  be  seen  nae  mair. 
And  the  angels  shall  miss  them  travelling 
the  air. 

But  lang,  lang  after  baith  night  and  day, 
When  the  sun  and  the  world  have  fled 
away ; 

When  the  sinner  has  gane  to  his  waesome 
doom, 

Kilmeny  shall  smile  in  eternal  bloom !” 

They  bore  her  away,  she  wist  not  how, 
For  she  felt  not  arm  nor  rest  below ; 

But  so  swift  they  wained  her  through  the 
light, 

’Twas  like  the  motion  of  sound  or  sight; 
They  seemed  to  split  the  gales  of  air, 

And  yet  nor  gale  nor  breeze  was  there. 
Unnumbered  groves  below  them  grew; 
They  came,  they  past,  and  backward 
flew, 

Like  floods  of  blossoms  gliding  on, 

A  moment  seen,  in  a  moment  gone. 

O,  never  vales  to  mortal  view 
Appeared  like  those  o’er  which  they  flew  ! 
That  land  to  human  spirits  given, 

The  lowermost  vales  of  the  storied  heaven  ; 


836 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


From  thence  they  can  view  the  world 
below, 

And  heaven’s  blue  gates  with  sapphires 
glow, 

More  glory  yet  unmeet  to  know. 


She  saw  the  plaid  and  the  broad  claymore. 
And  the  brows  that  the  badge  of  freedom 
bore ; — 

And  she  thought  she  had  seen  the  land  be¬ 
fore. 


They  bore  her  far  to  a  mountain  green, 
To  see  what  mortal  never  had  seen  ; 

And  they  seated  her  high  on  a  purple 
sward, 

And  bade  her  heed  what  she  saw  and 
heard ; 

And  note  the  changes  the  spirits  wrought, 
For  now  she  lived  in  the  land  of 
thought. 

She  looked,  and  she  saw  nor  sun  nor  skies, 

But  a  crystal  dome  of  a  thousand  dves  : 

*  *  / 

She  looked,  and  she  saw  nae  land  aright, 
But  an  endless  whirl  of  glory  and  light : 
And  radiant  beings  went  and  came 
Far  swifter  than  wind,  or  the  linked  flame. 
She  hid  her  een  frae  the  dazzling  view ; 
She  looked  again,  and  the  scene  was  new. 

She  saw  a  sun  on  a  summer  skv, 

And  clouds  of  amber  sailing  by  ; 

A  lovely  land  beneath  her  lay, 

And  that  land  had  lakes  and  mountains 
gray ; 

And  that  land  had  valleys  and  hoary 
piles, 

And  marled  seas  and  a  thousand  isles. 

Its  fields  were  speckled,  its  forests  green, 
And  its  lakes  were  all  of  the  dazzling 
sheen, 

Like  magic  mirrors,  where  slumbering  lay 
The  sun  and  the  sky,  and  the  cloudlet 
gray ; 

Which  heaved  and  trembled,  and  gently 
swung, 

On  every  shore  they  seemed  to  be  hung  : 
For  there  they  were  seen  on  their  down¬ 
ward  plain 

A  thousand  times,  and  a  thousand  again  ; 
In  winding  lake,  and  placid  firth, 

Little  peaceful  heavens  in  the  bosom  of 
earth. 

Kilmeny  sighed  and  seemed  to  grieve, 
For  she  found  her  heart  to  that  land  did 
cleave  ; 

She  saw  the  corn  wave  on  the  vale, 

She  saw  the  deer  run  down  the  dale  ; 


She  saw  a  lady  sit  on  a  throne, 

The  fairest  that  ever  the  sun  shone  on  : 

A  lion  licked  her  hand  of  milk, 

And  she  held  him  in  a  leish  of  silk  ; 

And  a  leifu’  maiden  stood  at  her  knee, 
With  a  silver  wand  and  melting  ee  ; 

Her  sovereign  shield  till  love  stole  in, 

And  poisoned  all  the  fount  within. 

Then  a  gruff  untoward  bedes-man  came, 
And  hundit  the  lion  on  his  dame  ; 

And  the  guardian  maid  wi’  the  dauntless 
ee, 

She  dropped  a  tear,  and  left  her  knee ; 
And  she  saw  till  the  queen  frae  the  lion 
fled, 

Till  the  bonniest  flower  of  the  world  lav 
dead ; 

A  coffin  was  set  on  a  distant  plain, 

And  she  saw  the  red  blood  fall  like  rain : 
Then  bonny  Kilmeny’s  heart  grew  sair, 
And  she  turned  away,  and  could  look  nae 
mair. 

Then  the  gruff  grim  carle  girnkd  amain, 
And  they  trampled  him  down,  but  he  rose 
again ; 

And  he  baited  the  lion  to  deeds  of  weir, 
Till  he  lapped  the  blood  to  the  kingdom 
dear ; 

And  weening  his  head  was  danger-preef, 
When  crowned  with  the  rose  and  clover 
leaf, 

He  gowled  at  the  carle,  and  chased  him 
away 

To  feed  wi’  the  deer  on  the  mountain 
gray. 

He  gowled  at  the  carle,  and  he  gecked  at 
Heaven ; 

But  his  mark  was  set,  and  his  arles  given. 
Kilmenv  a  while  her  een  withdrew; 

She  looked  again,  and  the  scene  was  new. 

She  saw  below  her  fair  unfurled 
One  half  of  all  the  glowing  world, 

Where  oceans  rolled,  and  rivers  ran, 
j  To  bound  the  aims  of  sinful  man. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


837 


She  saw  a  people,  fierce  and  fell, 

Burst  frae  their  bounds  like  fiends  of  hell ; 
There  lilies  grew,  and  the  eagle  flew, 

And  she  herked  on  her  ravening  crew, 

Till  the  cities  and  towers  wTere  wrapt  in  a 
blaze, 

And  the  thunder  it  roared  o’er  the  lands 
and  the  seas. 

The  widows  they  wailed,  and  the  red  blood 
ran, 

And  she  threatened  an  end  to  the  race  of 
man  : 

She  never  lened,  nor  stood  in  awe, 

Till  caught  by  the  lion’s  deadly  paw. 

Oh  !  then  the  eagle  swinked  for  life, 

And  brainzelled  up  a  mortal  strife ; 

But  flew*  she  north,  or  flew  she  south, 

She  met  wi’  the  gowl  of  the  lion’s  mouth. 

With  a  mooted  wring  and  wraefu’  maen, 
The  eagle  sought  her  eiry  again ; 

But  lang  may  she  cowTer  in  her  bloody  nest, 
And  lang,  lang  sleek  her  wrounded  breast, 
Before  she  sey  another  flight, 

To  play  wri’  the  norland  lion’s  might. 

But  to  sing  the  sights  Kilmeny  saw, 

So  far  surpassing  nature’s  law, 

The  singer’s  voice  wad  sink  aw7ay, 

And  the  string  of  his  harp  wad  cease  to 
play. 

But  she  saw  till  the  sorrow's  of  man  were 

ky, 

And  all  wras  love  and  harmony ; — 

Till  the  stars  of  heaven  fell  calmly  aw7ay, 
Like  the  flakes  of  snaw  on  a  winter’s  day. 

Then  Kilmeny  begged  again  to  see 
The  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own 
countrye, 

To  tell  of  the  place  wrhere  she  had  been, 
And  the  glories  that  lay  in  the  land  un¬ 
seen  ; 

To  warn  the  living  maidens  fair, 

The  loved  of  Heaven,  the  spirits’  care, 
That  all  whose  minds  unmeled  remain 
Shall  bloom  in  beauty  w'hen  time  is  gane. 

With  distant  music,  soft  and  deep, 

They  lulled  Kilmeny  sound  asleep  ; 

And  when  she  awakened,  she  lay  her  lane, 
All  happed  with  flowers  in  the  greenwood 
wene. 


When  seven  lang  years  had  come  and 
fled  ; 

When  grief  was  calm,  and  hope  was  dead ; 
When  scarce  wras  remembered  Kilmeny’s 
name, 

Late,  late  in  a  gloamin  Kilmeny  came 
hame. 

And  O,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see, 

But  still  and  steadfast  wras  her  ee ! 

Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare, 

For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there  ; 
And  the  soft  desire  of  maidens’  een 
In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 

Her  sey  mar  wTas  the  lily  flower, 

And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  in  the 
shower ; 

And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melodye, 
That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 

But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen, 

And  keep  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing, 

To  suck  the  flowrers  and  drink  the  spring. 
But  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appeared, 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  hills  wTere  cheered  ; 
The  wTolf  played  blythely  round  the  field. 
The  lordly  byson  lowed  and  kneeled  ; 

The  dun  deer  wooed  with  manner  bland, 
And  cowered  aneath  her  lily  hand. 

And  when  at  eve  the  woodlands  rung, 
When  hymns  of  other  -worlds  she  sung 
In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion, 

0,  then  the  glen  was  all  in  motion  ! 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came, 

Broke  from  their  boughts  and  faulds  the 
tame, 

And  goved  around,  charmed  and  amazed  ; 
Even  the  dull  cattle  crooned  and  gazed, 
And  murmured  and  looked  with  anxious 
pain. 

For  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 

The  buzzard  came  with  the  throstle-cock  ; 
The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock  ; 

The  blackbird  alang  wi’  the  eagle  flew7 ; 
The  hind  came  tripping  o’er  the  dew  ; 

The  wrolf  and  the  kid  their  raike  began, 
And  the  tod,  and  the  lamb,  and  the  leveret 
ran  ; 

The  hawk  and  the  hern  attour  them  hung, 
And  the  merl  and  the  mavis  forhooved 
their  young  ; 

And  all  in  a  peaceful  ring  wrere  hurled  : — 
It  wras  like  an  eve  in  a  sinless  world  ! 


« 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


OQQ 


When  a  month  and  day  had  come  and 
gane, 

Kilmeny  sought  the  greenwood  wene  ; 
There  laid  her  down  on  the  leaves  sae 
green, 

And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair 
•/ 

seen. 

But  O,  the  words  that  fell  from  her 
mouth, 

Were  words  of  wonder  and  words  of 
truth  ! 

But  all  the  land  were  in  fear  and  dread, 
For  they  kendna  whether  she  was  living 
or  dead. 

It  wasna  her  hame,  and  she  couldna  re¬ 
main  ; 

She  left  this  world  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
And  returned  to  the  land  of  thought  again. 

James  Hogg. 

- •<>• - 

Song 

From  “The  Merchant  of  Venice.” 

Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred, 

Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 

How  begot,  how  nourished? 

Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engender’d  in  the  eyes, 

With  gazing  fed  ;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies : 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy’s  knell ; 

I’ll  begin  it, — Ding,  dong,  bell. 

Ding,  dong,  bell. 

William  Shakespeake. 
- •<>• - 

Alice  Brand. 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood, 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  sing- 

mo* 

When  the  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the  hounds 
are  in  cry, 

And  the  hunter’s  horn  is  ringing. 

“  O  Alice  Brand,  my  native  land 
Is  lost  for  love  of  you ; 

And  we  must  hold  by  wood  and  wold, 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 

“  O  Alice,  ’twas  all  for  thy  locks  so  bright, 
And  ’twas  all  for  thine  eyes  so  blue, 
That  on  the  night  of  our  luckless  flight, 
Thy  brother  bold  I  slew. 


“  Now  must  I  teach  to  hew  the  beech, 

The  hand  that  held  the  glaive, 

For  leaves  to  spread  our  lowly  bed, 

And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 

“  And  for  vest  of  pall,  thy  fingers  small, 
That  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 

A  cloak  must  shear  from  the  slaughter’d 
deer, 

To  keep  the  cold  away.” — 

“  O  Richard  !  if  my  brother  died, 

’Twas  but  a  fatal  chance; 

For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried, 

And  fortune  sped  the  lance. 

“  If  pall  and  vair  no  more  I  wear, 

Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen, 

As  warm,  we’ll  say,  is  the  russet  gray, 

As  gay  the  forest  green. 

“  And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard, 

And  lost  thy  native  land, 

Still  Alice  has  her  own  Richard, 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand.” 

’Tis  merry,  ’tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood, 
So  blithe  Lady  Alice  is  singing; 

On  the  beech’s  pride,  and  oak’s  brown  side, 
Lord  Richard’s  axe  is  ringing. 

Up  spoke  the  moody  Elfin  King, 

Who  wonn’d  within  the  hill, — 

Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruin’d  church, 
His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill. 

“  Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beech  and 
oak, 

Our  moonlight  circle’s  screen  ? 

Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer, 
Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen? 

Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear 
The  fairie’s  fatal  green? 

“Up,  Urgan,  up !  to  yon  mortal  hie, 

For  thou  wert  christen’d  man; 

For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly, 

For  mutter’d  word  or  ban. 

“Lay  on  him  the  curse  of  the  wither’d 
heart, 

The  curse  of  the  sleepless  eye  ; 

Till  he  wish  and  pray  that  his  life  would 
part, 

Nor  yet  find  leave  to  die.” 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


839 


'Tis  merry,  ’tis  merry,  in  good  green¬ 
wood, 

Though  the  birds  have  still’d  their 
singing ; 

The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise, 

And  Richard  is  fagots  bringing. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf, 
Before  Lord  Richard  stands, 

And,  as  he  cross’d  and  bless’d  himself, 

“  I  fear  not  sign,”  quoth  the  grisly  elf, 

“  That  is  made  with  bloody  hands.” 

But  out  then  spoke  she,  Alice  Brand, 

That  woman  void  of  fear, — 

“And  if  there’s  blood  upon  his  hand, 

’Tis  but  the  blood  of  deer. — ” 

“Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of  mood! 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand, 

The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood, 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand.” 

Then  forward  stepp’d  she,  Alice  Brand, 
And  made  the  holy  sign, — 

“And  if  there’s  blood  on  Richard’s  hand, 
A  spotless  hand  is  mine. 

“And  I  conjure  thee,  Demon  elf, 

By  Him  whom  Demons  fear, 

To  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself, 

And  what  thine  errand  here  ? — ” 

“’Tis  merry,  ’tis  merry,  in  Fairy-land, 
When  fairy  birds  are  singing, 

When  the  court  doth  ride  by  their  mon¬ 
arch’s  side, 

With  bit  and  bridle  ringing  : 

“And  gaily  shines  the  Fairy-land — 

But  all  is  glistening  show, 

Like  the  idle  gleam  that  December’s 
beam 

Can  dart  on  ice  and  snow. 

“And  fading,  like  that  varied  gleam, 

Is  our  inconstant  shape, 

Who  now  like  knight  and  lady  seem, 

And  now  like  dwarf  and  ape. 

“  It  was  between  the  night  and  day, 

When  the  Fairy  King  has  power, 

That  I  sunk  down  in  a  sinful  fray, 

And,  ’twixt  life  and  death,  was  snatch’d 
away 

To  the  joyless  Elfin  bower. 


“But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold, 

Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 

I  might  regain  my  mortal  mold, 

As  fair  a  form  as  thine.” 

She  cross’d  him  once — she  cross’d  him 
twice — 

That  lady  was  so  brave ; 

The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue, 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  cross’d  him  thrice,  that  lady  bold ; 

He  rose  beneath  her  hand 
The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mold, 

Her  brother,  Ethert  Brand  ! 

Merry  it  is  in  good  greenwood, 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing, 
But  merrier  were  they  in  Dunfermline 
grev, 

When  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

- - - 

The  Blessed  Damozel. 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 

No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

1  But  a  white  rose  of  Mary’s  gift, 

For  service  meetly  worn  ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Her  seemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 
One  of  God’s  choristers  ; 

The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 
From  that  still  look  of  hers; 

Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 
Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

...  Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 

Surely  she  leaned  o’er  me ;  her  hair 
Fell  all  about  my  face.  .  .  . 

Nothing :  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God’s  house 
That  she  was  standing  on ; 


840 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 
The  which  is  Space  begun  ; 

So  high,  that  iooking  downward  thence 
She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 
Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 

Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 
With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 
Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Heard  hardly,  some  of  her  new  friends 
Amid  their  loving  games 
Spake  evermore  among  themselves 
Their  virginal  chaste  names; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself,  and  stooped 
Out  of  the  circling  charm  ; 

Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 
The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 

And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 
Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 
Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.  Her  gaze  still 
strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path  ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 
The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now  ;  the  curled  moon 
Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf ;  and  now 
She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 
Had  when  they  sang  together. 

(Ah,  sweet !  Even  nowr,  in  that  bird’s 
song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 

Fain  to  be  hearken’d  ?  When  those  bells 
Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 

Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 
Down  all  the  echoing  stair?) 

“  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,”  she  said. 

“  Have  I  not  pray’d  in  heaven  ? — on  earth, 
Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pray’d? 

Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 
And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 


“  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings 
And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 

I’ll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 
To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 

We  will  step  down  as  to  a  stream, 

And  bathe  there  in  God’s  sight. 

“  W e  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 
Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 

Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 
With  prayer  sent  up  to  God ; 

And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 
Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

“We  two  will  lie  i’  the  shadow  of 
That  living  mystic  tree, 

Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 
Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 

While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 
Saith  His  name  audibly. 

“  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 

The  songs  I  sing  here ;  which  his  voice 
Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 

And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 
Or  some  new  thing  to  know.” 

(Alas !  We  two,  we  twro,  thou  say’st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.  But  shall  God  lift 
To  endless  unity 

The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 
Was  but  its  love  for  thee?) 

“  We  two,”  she  said,  “will  seek  the  groves 
Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 

With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 
Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 

Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

“  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 
And  foreheads  garlanded ; 

Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame, 
Weaving  the  golden  thread, 

To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 
Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

“He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb : 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abash’d  or  weak  : 

And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 
My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


841 


“Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 
Bowed  with  their  aureoles  : 

And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 
To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

“  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me  : — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
With  Love, — only  to  be, 

And  then  a  while,  for  ever  now 
Together,  I  and  he.” 

She  gazed  and  listened,  and  then  said, 

Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 

“  All  this  is  when  he  comes.”  She  ceased. 

The  light  thrill’d  toward  her,  fill’d 
With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 

Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)  But  soon  their  path 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres  ; 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 

And  wept.  (I  heard  her  tears.) 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 

- - - 

Chris  tab  el. 

Part  I. 

’Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle 
clock, 

And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing 
cock ; 

Tu-whit ! — Tu-whoo ! 

And  hark,  again  !  the  crowing  cock, 

How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff  bitch  ; 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 
She  maketh  answer  to  the  clock, 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the 
hour; 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 
Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over-loud ; 

Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady’s  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chillv  and  dark? 

The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 

The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 

It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 


The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full ; 

And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray : 

’Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  uj>  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 

What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 

A  furlong  from  the  castle-gate  ? 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 
Of  her  own  betrothed  knight ; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 
For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that’s  far  away. 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 

The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  lowr, 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak, 

But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe : 

She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree, 

And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly, 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel  ! 

It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 

But  what  it  is,  she  cannot  tell. — 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be, 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree. 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare ; 

Is  it  the  wind  that  moanetli  bleak  ? 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady’s  cheek — 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 
Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the 
skv. 

V 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 

Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 

She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 

Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 

That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone: 

The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wran, 
Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  wrere  bare ; 

Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandall’d  were, 


842 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 

I  guess,  ’twas  frightful  there  to  see 
A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she, — 

Beautiful  exceedingly ! 

“  Mary  mother,  save  me  now !” 

(Said  Christabel ;)  “  And  who  art  thou?” 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet, 

And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet: — 

“  Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 

I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness.” 

“  Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no 
fear !” 

Said  Christabel,  “  how  earnest  thou  here  ?” 

7  I 

And  the  ladv,  whose  voice  was  faint  and 
sweet, 

Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet : — 

“  My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line, 

c/  7 

And  my  name  is  Geraldine : 

Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn, 

Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn  : 

They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and 
fright, 

And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 

The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind, 

And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 

They  spurred  amain,  their  steeds  were 
white : 

And  once  we  crossed  the  shade  of  night. 

As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 

I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be  ; 

Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 
(For  I  have  lain  entranced  I  wis) 

Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five, 

Took  me  from  the  palfrey’s  back, 

A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 

Some  muttered  words  his  comrades  spoke  : 
He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak ; 

He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste ; 
Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell — - 
I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past, 
Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand”  (thus  ended  she), 

“  And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee.” 

Then  Christabel  stretched  forth  her  hand 
And  comforted  fair  Geraldine: 

“  Oh,  well,  bright  dame !  may  you  com¬ 
mand 

The  service  of  Sir  Leoline  ; 


And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 
Will  he  send  forth  and  friends  withal 
To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free 
Home  to  your  noble  father’s  hall.” 

She  rose  :  and  forth  with  steps  they  passed 
That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 

Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blest, 

And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel : 

“  All  our  household  are  at  rest, 

The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell ; 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health, 

And  may  not  well  awakened  be, 

But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth, 

And  I  beseech  your  courtesy, 

This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me.” 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 
Took  the  key  that  fitted  well ; 

A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate ; 

The  gate  that  was  ironed  within  and  without, 
Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had 
marched  out. 

The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain, 

And  Christabel  with  might  and  main 
Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight, 

Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate  : 

Then  the  lady  rose  again, 

And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court :  right  glad  they 
were. 

And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 
To  the  Lady  by  her  side, 

“  Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 

Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress  !” 

“  Alas,  alas  !”  said  Geraldine, 

“  I  cannot  speak  for  weariness.” 

So,  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  cross’d  the  court :  right  glad  thee 
were. 

Outside  her  kennel  the  mastiff  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 

The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake, 

Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make ! 

And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 

Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell 
Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet’s  scritch, 

For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


843 


They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still, 
Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will ! 

The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were  dying, 
Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying ; 

But  when  the  lady  passed,  there  came 
A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame ; 

And  Christabel  saw  the  lady’s  eye, 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby, 

Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline 
tall, 

Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the 
wall. 

“  0,  softly  tread  !”  said  Christabel, 

“  My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well.” 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare, 

And,  jealous  of  the  listening  air, 

They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair, 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom, 

And  now  they  pass  the  Baron’s  room, 

As  still  as  death  with  stifled  breath ! 

And  now  have  reach’d  her  chamber  door ; 
And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 

And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 

But  they  without  its  light  can  see 
The  chamber  carved  so  curiously, 

Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet, 

All  made  out  of  the  carver’s  brain, 

For  a  lady’s  chamber  meet : 

The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 
Is  fastened  to  an  angel’s  feet. 

The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim  ; 

But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 

She  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  made  it  bright, 
And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 

While  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight, 

Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

“  O  weary  lady,  Geraldine, 

I  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine ! 

It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers ; 

My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers.” 

“  And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 

Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn?” 
Christabel  answered — “  Woe  is  me! 

She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 

I  have  heard  the  gray-haired  friar  tell, 
How  on  her  deathbed  she  did  say, 

That  she  should  hear  the  castle-bell 
Strike  twelve  upon  my  wedding  day. 


O  mother  dear!  that  thou  wert  here!” 

“  I  would,”  said  Geraldine,  “  she  were  !” 
But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  she — 

“  Off,  wandering  mother  !  Peak  and  pine ! 
I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee.” 

Alas!  what  ails  poor  Geraldine? 

Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye  ? 

Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy  ? 

And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she, 
“Off,  woman,  off!  this  hour  is  mine — 
Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be, 

Off,  woman,  off!  ’tis  given  to  me.” 

Then  Christabel  knelt  by  the  lady’s  side, 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue — 

“  Alas !”  said  she,  “  this  ghastly  ride — 
Dear  lady  !  it  hath  wildered  you!” 

The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow, 

And  faintly  said,  “  ’tis  over  now !” 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank  : 
Her  fair  large  eyes  ’gan  glitter  bright, 
And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank, 

The  lofty  lady  stood  upright  ; 

She  was  most  beautiful  to  see, 

Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake — 

“  All  they,  who  live  in  the  upper  sky. 

Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel ! 

And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 
And  for  the  good  which  me  befell, 

Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try, 

Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  well. 

But  now  unrobe  yourself ;  for  I 
Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie.” 

Quoth  Christabel,  “  So  let  it  be  !” 

And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 

Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 

And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal  and  woe 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro, 

That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close  ; 

So  halfway  from  the  bed  she  rose, 

And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  Lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed, 

And  slowly  rolled  her  eyes  around  ; 

Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud 
Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 
The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast : 

Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest. 


844 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view, 

Behold  !  her  bosom  and  half  her  side — 

A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell ! 

0  shield  her  !  shield  sweet  Christabel ! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs  ; 

Ah  !  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers ! 

Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay, 

And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay  ; 

Then  suddenly  as  one  defied 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride, 

And  lay  down  by  the  maiden’s  side ! — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took, 

Ah  well-a-day  ! 

And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 
These  words  did  say : 

“  In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh 
a  spell, 

Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christa¬ 
bel ! 

Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know  to¬ 
morrow 

This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my 
sorrow  ; 

But  vainly  thou  warrest, 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare, 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heard’st  a  low  moaning, 

And  found’st  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly 
fair : 

And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee  in  love 
and  in  charity, 

To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the  damp 
air.” 

The  Conclusion  to  Part  I. 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  Lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 

Amid  the  jagged  shadows 
Of  mossy  leafless  boughs, 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight, 

To  make  her  gentle  vows  ; 

Her  slender  palms  together  prest, 

Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 

Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — 

Her  face,  oh  call  it  fair  not  pale, 

And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than 
clear, 

Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 


With  open  eyes  (ah,  woe  is  me!) 

Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully, 

Fearfully  dreaming,  yet  I  wis, 

Dreaming  that  alone  which  is — 

O  sorrow  and  shame  !  Can  this  be  she, 
The  lady  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak  tree  ? 
And  lo !  the  worker  of  these  harms, 

That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms, 

Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild, 

As  a  mother  with  her  child. 

A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 

O  Geraldine !  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  lovely  lady’s  prison. 

O  Geraldine  !  one  hour  was  thine — 
Thou’st  had  thy  will !  By  tarn  and  rill, 
The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 
But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 

From  cliff  and  tower,  tu-whoo!  tu-whoo! 
Tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo  !  from  wood  and  fell! 
And  see !  the  Lady  Christabel 
Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance ; 

Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft ;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o’er  her  eyes ;  and  tears  she  sheds— 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright ! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light ! 

Yea,  she  doth  smile,  and  she  doth  weep, 
Like  a  youthful  hermitess, 

Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 

Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 
And,  if  she  move  unquietlv, 

Perchance,  ’tis  but  the  blood  so  free, 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 

No  doubt,  she  hath  a  vision  sweet. 

What  if  her  guardian  spirit  ’twere  ? 
What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near? 

But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 
That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call: 

For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all ! 

Part  II. 

“  Each  matin  bell,”  the  Baron  saith, 

“  Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of  death.” 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  first  said, 

When  he  rose  and  found  his  lady  dead: 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  will  say, 

Many  a  morn  to  his  dying  day ! 

And  hence  the  custom  and  law  began, 
That  still  at  dawn  the  sacristan, 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


84o 


Who  duly  pulls  the  heavy  bell, 

Five  and  forty  beads  must  tell 
Between  each  stroke — a  warning  knell, 
Which  not  a  soul  can  choose  but  hear 
From  Bratha  Head  to  Wyndermere. 

Saith  Bracy  the  bard,  “  So  let  it  knell ! 
And  let  the  drowsy  sacristan 
Still  count  as  slowly  as  he  can . 

There  is  no  lack  of  such,  I  ween, 

As  well  fill  up  the  space  between. 

In  Langdale  Pike  and  Witch’s  Lair, 

And  Dungeon-ghyll  so  foully  rent, 

With  ropes  of  rock  and  bells  of  air 
Three  sinful  sextons’  ghosts  are  pent, 
Who  all  give  back,  one  after  t’other, 

The  death-note  to  their  living  brother  ; 
And  oft  too,  by  the  knell  offended, 

Just  as  their  one !  two!  three!  is  ended, 
The  devil  mocks  the  doleful  tale 
With  a  merry  peal  from  Borodale.” 

The  air  is  still !  through  mist  and  cloud 
That  merry  peal  comes  ringing  loud ; 

And  Geraldine  shakes  off  her  dread, 

And  rises  lightly  from  the  bed  ; 

Puts  on  her  silken  vestments'  white, 

And  tricks  her  hair  in  lovely  plight, 

And,  nothing  doubting  of  her  spell, 
Awakens  the  Lady  Christabel. 

“  Sleep  you,  sweet  Lady  Christabel  ? 

I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well.” 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  spied 
The  same  who  lay  down  by  her  side — 

O,  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 
Baised  up  beneath  the  old  oak  tree  ! 

Nay,  fairer  vet !  and  vet  more  fair  ! 

For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deep 
Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep  ! 

And  while  she  spake,  her  looks,  her  air, 
Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare, 

That  (so  it  seemed)  her  girded  vests 
Grew  tight  beneath  her  heaving  breasts. 

“  Sure  I  have  sinned  !”  said  Christabel, 
“Now  Heaven  be  praised  if  all  be  well !” 
And  in  low  faltering  tones,  yet  sweet, 

Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet 
With  such  perplexity  of  mind 
As  dreams  too  lively  leave  behind. 

So  quickly  she  rose,  and  quickly  arrayed 
Her  maiden  limbs,  and  having  prayed 


That  He,  who  on  the  cross  did  groan, 
Might  wash  away  her  sins  unknown, 
kshe  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 
To  meet  her  sire,  Sir  Leoline. 

The  lovely  maid  and  the  lady  tall 
Are  pacing  both  into  the  hall, 

And  pacing  on  through  page  and  groom, 
Enter  the  Baron’s  presence  room. 

The  Baron  rose,  and  while  he  prest 
His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast, 

With  cheerful  wonder  in  his  eyes 
The  Lady  Geraldine  espies, 

And  gave  such  welcome  to  the  same 
As  might  beseem  so  bright  a  dame  ! 

But  when  he  heard  tbe  lady’s  tale, 

And  when  she  told  her  father’s  name, 
Why  waxed  Sir  Leoline  so  pale, 
Murmuring  o’er  the  name  again, 

Lord  Roland  de  Yaux  of  Tryermaine  9 

Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  : 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above ; 

And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain : 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 

With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 

Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart’s  best  brother  : 
They  parted — ne’er  to  meet  again  ! 

But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining— 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder  ; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between  ; — 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

Sir  Leoline,  a  moment’s  space, 

Stood  gazing  on  the  damsel’s  face  : 

And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Trvermaine 

t  K 

Came  back  upon  his  heart  again. 

O  then  the  Baron  forgot  his  age, 

His  noble  heart  swelled  high  with  rage; 
He  swore  by  the  wounds  in  Jesu’s  side, 
He  would  proclaim  it  far  and  wide 
With  trump  and  solemn  heraldry, 

That  they  who  thus  had  wronged  the  dame. 


846 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Were  base  as  spotted  infamy ! 

“  And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same, 

My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week, 

And  let  the  recreant  traitors  seek 
My  tourney  court — that  there  and  then 
I  may  dislodge  their  reptile  souls 
From  the  bodies  and  forms  of  men !” 

He  spake  :  his  eye  in  lightning  rolls ! 

For  the  lady  was  ruthlessly  seized ;  and  he 
kenned 

In  the  beautiful  lady  the  child  of  his 
friend ! 

And  now  the  tears  were  on  his  face, 

And  fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 
Fair  Geraldine,  who  met  the  embrace, 
Prolonging  it  with  joyous  look. 

Which  when  she  viewed,  a  vision  fell 
Upon  the  soul  of  Christabel, 

The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain ! 
She  shrunk  and  shuddered,  and  saw  again — 
(Ah,  woe  is  me!  Was  it  for  thee, 

Tlfou  gentle  maid !  such  sights  to  see?) 
Again  she  saw  that  bosom  old, 

Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 

And  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  hissing 
sound  : 

Whereat  the  Knight  turned  wildly  round, 
And  nothing  saw,  but  his  own  sweet  maid 
With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  that  prayed. 

The  touch,  the  sight,  had  passed  away, 
And  in  its  stead  that  vision  blest, 

Which  comforted  her  after-rest 
While  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay, 

Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast, 

And  on  her  lips  and  o’er  her  eyes 
Spread  smiles  like  light ! 

With  new  surprise, 
“  What  ails  then  my  beloved  child  ?” 

The  Baron  said. — His  daughter  mild 
Made  answer,  “  All  will  vet  be  well !” 

I  ween,  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else  :  so  mighty  was  the  spell. 

Yet  he,  who  saw  this  Geraldine, 

Had  deemed  her  sure  a  thing  divine. 

Such  sorrow  with  such  grace  she  blended, 
As  if  she  feared  she  had  offended 
Sweet  Christabel,  that  gentle  maid  ! 

And  with  such  lowly  tones  she  prayed, 

She  might  be  sent  without  delay 
Home  to  her  father’s  mansion. 


Nay,  by  my  soul !”  said  Leoline. 

“  Ho  !  Bracy,  the  bard,  the  charge  be  thine  ? 
Go  thou,  with  music  sweet  and  loud, 

And  take  two  steeds  with  trappings  proud, 
And  take  the  youth  whom  thou  lov’st 
best 

To  bear  thy  harp,  and  learn  thy  song, 

And  clothe  you  both  in  solemn  vest, 

And  over  the  mountains  haste  along, 

Lest  wandering  folk,  that  are  abroad, 
Detain  you  on  the  valley  road. 

And  when  he  has  crossed  the  Irthing  flood, 
My  merry  bard  !  he  hastes,  he  hastes 
Up  Ivnorren  Moor,  through  Halegarth 
Wood, 

And  reaches  soon  that  castle  good 
Which  stands  and  threatens  Scotland’s 
wastes. 

“  Bard  Bracy  !  Bard  Bracy  !  your  horses 
are  fleet, 

Ye  must  ride  up  the  hall,  your  music  so 
sweet, 

More  loud  than  your  horses’  echoing  feet ! 
And  loud  and  loud  to  Lord  Roland  call, 
Thy  daughter  is  safe  in  Langdale  hall ! 
Thy  beautiful  daughter  is  safe  and  free, — 
Sir  Leoline  greets  thee  thus  through  me. 
He  bids  thee  come  without  delay 
With  all  thy  numerous  array  ; 

And  take  thy  lovely  daughter  home  : 

And  he  will  meet  thee  on  the  way 
With  all  his  numerous  array 
White  with  their  panting  palfreys’  foam  : 
And  by  mine  honor  !  I  will  say, 

That  I  repent  me  of  the  day 

When  I  spake  words  of  fierce  disdain 

To  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  ! — 

For  since  that  evil  hour  hath  flown, 

Many  a  summer’s  sun  hath  shone  ; 

Yet  ne’er  found  I  a  friend  again 
Like  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine.’* 

The  lady  fell,  and  clasp’d  his  knees, 

Her  face  upraised,  her  eyes  o’erflowing ; 
And  Bracy  replied,  with  faltering  voice, 
His  gracious  hail  on  all  bestowing  ! — 

“  Thy  words,  thou  sire  of  Christabel, 

Are  sweeter  than  my  harp  can  tell ; 

Yet  might  I  gain  a  boon  of  thee, 

This  day  my  journey  should  not  be, 

So  strange  a  dream  hath  come  to  me  ; 

That  I  had  vowed  with  music  loud 


“  Nay  ! 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


847 


To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing  unblest, 
Warned  by  a  vision  in  my  rest ! 

For  in  my  sleep  I  saw  that  dove, 

That  gentle  bird,  whom  thou  dost  love, 
And  call’st  by  thy  own  daughter’s  name — 
►Sir  Leoline  !  I  saw  the  same 
Fluttering,  and  uttering  fearful  moan. 
Among  the  green  herbs  in  the  forest  alone. 
Which  when  I  saw  and  when  I  heard, 

I  wonder’d  what  might  ail  the  bird  ; 

For  nothing  near  it  could  I  see, 

Save  the  grass  and  green  herbs  underneath 
the  old  tree. 

“  And  in  my  dream  methought  I  went 
To  search  out  what  might  there  be  found  ; 
And  what  the  sweet  bird’s  trouble  meant, 
That  thus  lay  fluttering  on  the  ground. 

I  went  and  peered  and  could  descry 
No  cause  for  her  distressful  cry  ; 

But  yet  for  her  dear  lady’s  sake 
I  stooped,  methought,  the  dove  to  take, 
When  lo  !  I  saw  a  bright  green  snake 
Coil’d  around  its  wings  and  neck, 

Green  as  the  herbs  on  which  it  couched. 
Close  by  the  dove’s  its  head  it  crouched  ; 
And  with  the  dove  it  heaves  and  stirs, 
Swelling  its  neck  as  she  swell’d  hers  ! 

I  woke  ;  it  was  the  midnight  hour, 

The  clock  was  echoing  in  the  tower ; 

But  though  my  slumber  was  gone  by, 

This  dream  it  would  not  pass  away — 

It  seems  to  live  upon  my  eye  ! 

And  thence  I  vowed  this  selfsame  day, 
With  music  strong  and  saintly  song 
To  wander  through  the  forest  bare, 

Lest  aught  unholy  loiter  there.” 

Thus  Bracy  said  :  the  Baron,  the  while, 
Half  listening  heard  him  with  a  smile  ; 
Then  turned  to  Lady  Geraldine, 

His  eyes  made  up  of  wonder  and  love, 
And  said  in  courtly  accents  fine, 

“Sweet  maid,  Lord  Roland’s  beauteous 
dove, 

With  arms  more  strong  than  harp  or  song, 
Thy  sire  and  I  will  crush  the  snake !” 

He  kissed  her  forehead  as  he  spake, 

And  Geraldine,  in  maiden  wise, 

Casting  down  her  large  bright  eyes, 

With  blushing  cheek  and  courtesy  fine 
She  turned  her  from  Sir  Leoline ; 


Softly  gathering  up  her  train, 

That  o’er  her  right  arm  fell  again  ; 

And  folded  her  arms  across  her  chest, 

And  couched  her  head  upon  her  breast, 
And  looked  askance  at  Christabel — 

Jesu  Maria,  shield  her  well! 

A  snake’s  small  eye  blinks  dull  and 
shy, 

And  the  lady’s  eyes  they  shrunk  in  her 
head, 

Each  shrunk  up  to  a  serpent’s  eye, 

And  with  somewhat  of  malice,  and  more 
of  dread, 

At  Christabel  she  look’d  askance  ! — • 

One  moment — and  the  sight  was  fled  ! 

But  Christabel,  in  dizzy  trance 
Stumbling  on  the  unsteady  ground, 
Shuddered  aloud,  with  a  hissing  sound; 
And  Geraldine  again  turned  round, 

And  like  a  thing,  that  sought  relief, 

Full  of  wonder  and  full  of  grief, 

She  rolled  her  large  bright  eyes  divine 
Wildly  on  Sir  Leoline. 

The  maid,  alas !  her  thoughts  are  gone, 
She  nothing  sees — no  sight  but  one ! 

The  maid,  devoid  of  guile  and  sin, 

I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise 
So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 
That  look,  those  shrunken  serpent  eyes, 
That  all  her  features  were  resigned 
To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind  ; 

And  passively  did  imitate 

That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate ! 

And  thus  she  stood,  in  dizzy  trance, 

Still  picturing  that  look  askance 
With  forced  unconscious  sympathy 
Full  before  her  father’s  view — 

As  far  as  such  a  look  could  be, 

In  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue  ! 

And  when  the  trance  was  o’er,  the  maid 
Paused  a  while,  and  inly  pray’d  : 

Then  falling  at  the  Baron’s  feet, 

“  By  my  mother’s  soul  do  I  entreat 
That  thou  this  woman  send  away  !” 

She  said  :  and  more  she  could  not  say: 

For  what  she  knew  she  could  not  tell, 
O’er-mastered  by  the  mighty  spell. 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  wan  and  wild, 

Sir  Leoline?  Thy  only  child 
Lies  at  thy  feet,  thy  joy,  thy  pride, 

So  fair,  so  innocent,  so  mild ; 


848 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  same  for  whom  thy  lady  died  ! 

O  by  the  pangs  of  her  dear  mother 
Think  thou  no  evil  of  thy  child ! 

For  her,  and  thee,  and  for  no  other, 

She  prayed  the  moment  ere  she  died, 
Prayed  that  the  babe  for  whom  she  died, 
Might  prove  her  dear  lord’s  joy  and  pride  ! 
That  prayer  her  deadly  pangs  beguiled, 
Sir  Leoline ! 

And  wouldst  thou  wrong  thy  only  child, 
Her  child  and  thine  ? 

Within  the  Baron’s  heart  and  brain, 

If  thoughts  like  these  had  any  share, 

They  only  swell’ d  his  rage  and  pain, 

And  did  but  work  confusion  there. 

PI  is  heart  was  cleft  with  pain  and  rage, 
His  cheeks  they  quivered,  his  eyes  were 
wild. 

Dishonored  thus  in  his  old  age; 
Dishonored  by  his  only  child, 

And  all  his  hospitality 

To  the  wrong’d  daughter  of  his  friend, 

By  more  than  woman’s  jealousy 
Brought  thus  to  a  disgraceful  end. — 

He  roll’d  his  eyes  with  stern  regard 
Upon  the  gentle  minstrel  bard, 

And  said  in  tones  abrupt,  austere — 

“  Why,  Bracy  !  dost  thou  loiter  here? 

I  bade  thee  hence  !”  The  bard  obeyed  ; 
And  turning  from  his  own  sweet  maid, 
The  aged  knight,  Sir  Leoline, 

Led  forth  the  Lady  Geraldine  ! 

The  Conclusion  to  Part  II. 

A  little  child,  a  limber  elf, 

Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 

A  fairy  thing  with  red  round  cheeks, 

That  always  finds,  and  never  seeks, 

Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 
As  fills  a  father’s  eyes  with  light ; 

And  pleasures  flow  in  so  thick  and  fast 
LTpon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 
Must  needs  express  his  love’s  excess 
With  words  of  unmeant  bitterness. 
Perhaps  'tis  pretty  to  force  together 
Thoughts  so  all  unlike  each  other ; 

To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm, 

To  dally  with  wrong  that  does  no  harm. 
Perhaps  ’tis  tender  too  and  pretty 
At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 
A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 

And  what  if  in  a  world  of  sin 


(O  sorrow  and  shame  should  this  be 
true!) 

Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 
Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain, 

So  talks  as  it’s  most  used  to  do. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

- »<>♦ - 

Kubla  Kiian. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree  : 

Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinu¬ 
ous  rills 

Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing 
tree ; 

And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh  !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which 
slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn 
cover ! 

A  savage  place !  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e’er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was 
haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover ! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  tur¬ 
moil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were 
breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced : 
Amid  whose  swift,  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding 
hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher’s  flail : 
And  ’mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and 
ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  mo¬ 
tion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river 
ran, 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to 
man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean  : 
And  ’mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from 
far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war  ! 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


849 


The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 

It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  ! 
A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw  ; 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 
Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  ’twould  win  me 
That,  with  music  loud  and  long, 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 

That  sunny  dome !  those  caves  of  ice ! 

And  all  who  heard  should  see  them 
there, 

And  all  should  cry,  Beware !  beware 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair ! 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

- »o« - 

The  Raven. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I 
pondered,  weak  and  weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume 
of  forgotten  lore, 

While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly 
there  came  a  tapping, 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping 
at  my  chamber-door. 

“  ’Tis  some  visitor,”  I  muttered,  “  tap¬ 
ping  at  my  chamber-door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more.” 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the 
bleak  December, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought 
its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ; — vainly  I 
had  tried  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — 
sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom 
the  angels  name  Lenore, 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

54 


And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of 
each  purple  curtain 

Thrilled  me, — filled  me  with  fantastic 
terrors  never  felt  before  ; 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my 
heart,  I  stood  repeating, 

“  ’Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance 
at  my  chamber-door, 

Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at 
my  chamber-door ; 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more.” 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesi¬ 
tating  then  no  longer, 

“  Sir,”  said  I,  “  or  Madam,  truly  your 
forgiveness  I  implore ; 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so 
gently  you  came  rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tap¬ 
ping  at  my  chamber-door, 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you.”  — 
Here  I  opened  wide  the  door ; — 
Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I 
stood  there  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal 
ever  dared  to  dream  before ; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the 
stillness  gave  no  token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was 
the  whispered  word  “  Lenore !” 

This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured 
back  the  word  “  Lenore  !” — 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my 
soul  within  me  burning, 

Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  somewhat 
louder  than  before. 

“  Surely,”  said  I,  “  surely  that  is  something 
at  my  window-lattice ; 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and 
this  mystery  explore, 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and 
this  mystery  explore ; 

’Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more !” 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with 
many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 

In  there  stepp’d  a  stately  Haven  of  the 
saintly  days  of  yore. 


850 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he  ;  not  an 
instant  stopped  or  stayed  he  ; 

But  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched 
above  mv  chamber-door, — 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just 
above  my  chamber-door, — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad 
fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the 
countenance  it  wore, 

“  Though  thv  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
thou,”  I  said,  “  art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Raven,  wan¬ 
dering  from  the  Nightly  shore, — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the 
Night’s  Plutonian  shore.” 

Quoth  the  Raven,  “  Nevermore.” 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainlv  fowl  to 
hear  discourse  so  plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little 
relevancy  bore  ; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living 
human  being 

Ever  yet  was  blest  with  seeing  bird  above 
his  chamber-door — 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust 
above  his  chamber-door, 

With  such  name  as  “  Nevermore.” 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid 
bust,  spoke  only 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one 
word  he  did  outpour. 

Nothing  further  then  he  uttered  ;  not  a 
feather  then  he  fluttered — 

Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered, 

“  Other  friends  have  flown  before — 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my 
Hopes  have  flown  before.” 

Then  the  bird  said,  “Nevermore.” 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  ! 
aptly  spoken, 

“  Doubtless,”  said  I,  “  what  it  utters  is 
its  only  stock  and  store, 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom 
unmerciful  Disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his 
song  one  burden  bore — 


Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melan¬ 
choly  burden  bore — 

Of  ‘  Never  ’ — ‘  Nevermore.’  ” 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad 
soul  into  smiling, 

Straight  I  wheel’d  a  cushion’d  seat  in 
front  of  bird,  and  bust,  and  door  ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook 
myself  to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this 
ominous  bird  of  yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly, 
gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  “Nevermore.” 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no 
syllable  expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned 
into  my  bosom’s  core  ; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my 
head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion’s  velvet  lining  that  the 
lamplight  gloated  o’er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the 
lamplight  gloating  o’er — 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  ! 

Then,  methought  the  air  grew  denser,  per¬ 
fumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  Seraphim  whose  footfalls 
tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 

“Wretch,”  I  cried,  “thy  God  hath  lent 
thee — by  these  angels  he  hath  sent 
thee 

Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy 
memories  of  Lenore  ! 

Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and 
forget  this  lost  Lenore  !” 

Quoth  the  Raven,  “Nevermore.” 

“  Prophet !”  said  I,  “  thing  of  evil !  proph¬ 
et  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! — 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tem¬ 
pest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert 
land  enchanted — 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell 
me  truly,  I  implore — 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — tell 
me,  tell  me,  I  implore  !” 

Quoth  the  Raven,  “Nevermore.” 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


851 


“  Prophet !”  said  I, u  thing  of  evil, — proph¬ 
et  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — 
by  that  God  we  both  adore — 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within 
the  distant  Aidenn, 

It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom 
the  angels  name  Lenore — 

Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom 
the  angels  name  Lenore.” 

Quoth  the  Raven,  “Nevermore.” 

“  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or 
fiend  !”  I  shrieked,  upstarting — 

“  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the 
Night’s  Plutonian  shore ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that 
lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken  ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  quit  the 
bust  above  my  door  ! 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and 
take  thy  form  from  off  my  door  !” 

Quoth  the  Raven,  “Nevermore.” 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sit¬ 
ting,  still  is  sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above 
my  chamber-door ; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a 
demon’s  that  is  dreaming, 

And  the  lamplight  o’er  him  streaming 
throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor  ; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that 
lies  floating  on  the  floor, 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

- »o« 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Ham  el  in. 

Id amelin  Town’s  in  Brunswick, 

By  famous  Hanover  city  ; 

The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 

W ashes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side ; 

A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied  ; 

But,  when  begins  my  ditty, 

Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 

To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 

From  vermin  was  a  pity. 

Rats ! 

They  fought  the  dogs,  and  kill’d  the 
cats, 


And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles, 

And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  lick’d  the  soup  from  the  cook’s  own 
ladles, 

Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 

Made  nests  inside  men’s  Sunday  hats, 

And  even  spoil’d  the  women’s  chats, 

By  drowning  their  speaking 
With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 
To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking: 

“ ’Tis  clear,”  cried,  they  “our  Mayor’s  a 
noddy ; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation — shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  er¬ 
mine 

For  dolts  that  can’t  or  won’t  determine 
What’s  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin  ! 

You  hope,  because  you’re  old  and  obese, 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease? 

Rouse  up,  sirs  !  Give  your  brains  a  rack- 
mg 

|  To  find  the  remedy  we’re  lacking, 

Or,  sure  as  fate,  we’ll  send  you  packing !” 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

An  hour  they  sate  in  counsel, 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence : 

“  For  a  guilder  I’d  my  ermine  gown  sell ; 

I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence ! 

It’s  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one’s  brain — 

I’m  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again, 

I’ve  scratch’d  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 

Oh  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap !” 

Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber-door  but  a  gentle  tap? 

“  Bless  us !”  cried  the  Mayor,  “  what’s 
that?” 

(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat, 

Looking  little  though  wondrous  fat ; 

Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 
Than  a  too  long-open’d  oyster, 

Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew 
mutinous 

For  a  plate  of  turtle,  green  and  glutin¬ 
ous) 

“  Only  a  scraping  of  shoes  on  the  mat? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat !” 


852 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Come  in !” — the  Mayor  cried,  looking 
bigger  : 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure ! 

His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 
Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red; 

And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin, 

With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin, 

And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin, 

No  tuft  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin, 

But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in — 
There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin ! 
And  nobody  could  enough  admire 
The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire: 

Quoth  one  :  “  It’s  as  my  great-grandsire, 
Starting  up  at  the  Trump  of  Doom’s 
tone, 

Had  walk’d  this  way  from  his  painted 
tombstone !” 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table : 

And,  “  Please  your  honors,”  said  he,  “  I’m 
able, 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 
All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly,  or  run, 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw  ! 

And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 
On  creatures  that  do  people  harm, 

The  mole,  and  toad,  and  newt,  and  viper ; 
And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper.” 

(And  here  they  noticed  round  his  neck 
A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 

To  match  with  his  coat  of  the  selfsame 
check ; 

And  at  the  scarf’s  end  hung  a  pipe ; 

And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were  ever 
straying 

As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 
Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 
Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 

“  Yet,”  said  he,  “  poor  piper  as  I  am, 

In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham, 

Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarm  of  gnats; 
I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 
Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampyre  bats ; 
And,  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders — 

If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats, 

Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders?” 
‘‘One?  fifty  thousand !”  was  the  exclama¬ 
tion 

Of  the  astonish'd  Mayor  and  Corpora¬ 
tion. 


Into  the  street  the  piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 

As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 
In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while ; 

Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 

To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 

And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twink¬ 
led, 

Like  a  candle-flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled ; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  utter’d, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  mutter’d ; 

And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling  ; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rum¬ 
bling  ; 

And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tum¬ 
bling. 

Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny 
rats, 

Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny 
rats, 

Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 
Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers, 
Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 

Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives — 
Follow’d  the  piper  for  their  lives. 

From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  follow’d  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perish’d, 

Save  one  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  the  manuscript  he  cherish’d) 

To  Kat-land  home  his  commentary, 

Which  was,  “At  the  first  shrill  notes  of 
the  pipe, 

I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 

And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 

Into  a  cider  press’s  gripe : 

And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub  boards, 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cup¬ 
boards, 

And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil 
flasks, 

And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks ; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)  call’d  out,  O  rats,  rejoice! 

The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery! 
So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nun- 
cheon, 

Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon  ! 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


853 


And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon, 

All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 
Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 

Just  as  meth ought  it  said,  Come,  bore  me! 
I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o’er  me.” 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  peo¬ 
ple 

Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rock’d  the  stee- 
ple ; 

“  Go,”  cried  the  Mayor,  “  and  get  long 
poles ! 

Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 

And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats!” — when  suddenly  up  the  face 
Of  the  piper  perk’d  in  the  market-place, 
With  a,  “  First,  if  you  please,  my  thou¬ 
sand  guilders  !” 

A  thousand  guilders  !  The  Mayor  look’d 
blue ; 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 

For  council  dinners  made  rare  havoc 
With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave,  Hock ; 
And  half  the  money  would  replenish 
Their  cellar’s  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 
To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 
With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow ! 

“  Beside,”  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a  know¬ 
ing  wink, 

“  Our  business  was  done  at  the  river’s 
brink ; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 
And  what’s  dead  can’t  come  to  life,  I 
think. 

So,  friend,  we’re  not  the  folks  to  shrink 
From  the  duty'  of  giving  you  something 
for  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your 
poke  ; 

But,  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 
Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in 
joke. 

Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty  ; 

A  thousand  guilders !  Come,  take  fifty  !” 

The  piper’s  face  fell  and  he  cried, 

“No  trifling  !  I  can’t  wait !  beside, 

I’ve  promised  to  visit  by  dinner-time 
Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 
Of  the  Head  Cook’s  pottage,  all  he’s  rich  in, 
For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph’s  kitchen, 


Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor — 

With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver. 
With  you,  don’t  think  I’ll  bate  a  stiver! 
And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 
May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fashion.” 

“How?”  cried  the  Mayor,  “d’ye  think 
I’ll  brook 

Being  worse  treated  than  a  Cook  ? 

Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 

With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald  ? 

You  threaten  us,  fellow?  Do  vour  worst. 
Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst!” 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street ; 

And  to  his  lips  again 

Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight 
cane ; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician’s  cunning 
Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 

There  was  a  rustling,  that  seem’d  like  a 
bustling 

Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and 
hustling, 

Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes 
clattering, 

Little  hands  clapping,  and  little  tongues 
chattering, 

And,  like  fowls  in  a  farm-yard  when 
barley  is  scattering, 

Out  came  the  children  running. 

All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 

And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and 
laughter. 

The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council 
stood 

As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of 
wood, 

Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 

To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by — 

And  could  only  follow  with  the  eye 
That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper’s  back. 

But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 

And  the  wretched  Council’s  bosoms  beat, 
As  the  Piper  turn’d  from  the  High  Street 
To  where  the  Weser  roll’d  its  waters 
Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daugh¬ 
ters  ! 


854 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


However,  he  turned  from  south  to  west, 
And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  ad¬ 
dress’d, 

And  after  him  the  children  press’d ; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

“  He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top  ! 
He’s  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 

And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop !” 
When,  lo,  as  they  reach’d  the  mountain’s 
side, 

A  wondrous  portal  open’d  wide, 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollow’d ; 
And  the  Piper  advanced  and  the  children 
follow’d, 

And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last, 

The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut  fast. 
Did  I  say  all?  No  !  one  was  lame, 

And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the 
way, 

And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 
His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, 

“  It’s  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates 
left ! 

I  can’t  forget  that  I’m  bereft 
Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 

Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me, 

For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 
Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 

Where  waters  gush’d  and  fruit  trees 
grew, 

And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 

And  everything  was  strange  and  new; 

The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks 
here, 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer. 
And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 

And  horses  were  born  with  eagles’ 
wings ; 

And  just  as  I  became  assured 
My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 

The  music  stopp’d,  and  I  stood  still, 

And  found  myself  outside  the  Hill, 

Left  alone  against  my  will, 

To  go  now  limping  as  before, 

And  never  hear  of  that  country  more !” 

Alas,  alas  for  Hamelin  ! 

There  came  into  many  a  burgher’s 
pate 

A  text  which  says  that  Heaven’s  Gate 
Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle’s  eye  takes  a  camel  in ! 


The  Mayor  sent  east,  west,  north,  and 
south 

To  offer  the  Piper  by  word  of  mouth, 
Wherever  it  was  men’s  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart’s  content, 

If  he’d  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 

But  when  they  saw  ’twas  a  lost  endeavor, 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  for 
ever, 

They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers  never 
Should  think  their  records  dated  duly 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  year, 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear : 

“  And  so  long  after  what  happen’d  here 
On  the  twenty-second  of  July, 

Thirteen  hundred  and  Seventy-six 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  children’s  last  retreat, 
They  call’d  it  the  Pied  Piper’s  Street, 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabor 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labor. 
Nor  suffer’d  they  hostelry  or  tavern 
To  shock  with  mirth  a  street  so  solemn, 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 
They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column, 

And  on  the  great  church-window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away, 

And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 

And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there’s  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people  that  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their  neighbors  lay  such  stress, 
To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having 
risen 

Out  of  some  subterranean  prison, 

Into  which  they  were  trepann’d 

Long  time  ago  in  a  mighty  band 

Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land, 

But  how  or  why,  they  don’t  understand. 

So,  Willy,  let  you  and  me  be  wipers 
Of  scores  out  with  all  men — especially 
pipers ; 

And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free,  from  rats 
or  from  mice, 

If  we’ve  promised  them  aught,  let  us  keep 
our  promise. 

Robert  Browning. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


855 


The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mar¬ 
iner. 

Part  I. 

cienT"  IT  is  an  ancient  mariner, 

meeteth  be  stoppeth  one  of  three, 

three  gal-  “  By  tliy  long  gray  beard  and  glit- 

lants  bid-  "  , 

den  to  a  tering  eye, 

feast, Uand^ow  wherefore  stopp’st  thou  me? 

detaineth 

one. 

“  The  Bridegroom’s  doors  are  open¬ 
ed  wide, 

And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 

The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is 
set: 

May’st  hear  the  merry  din.” 


He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
“  There  was  a  ship,”  quoth  he. 
“Hold  off!  unhand  me,  gray-beard 
loon !” 

Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 


The  wed- 
dingguest 
is  spell¬ 
bound  by 
the  eye  of 
the  old 
sea-faring 
man,  and 
constrain¬ 
ed  to  hear 
his  tale. 


He  holds  him  with  his  glittering 

eye— 

The  wedding  guest  stood  still, 

And  listens  like  a  three  years  child : 
The  mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding  guest  sat  on  a  stone : 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient 
man, 

The  bright-eyed  mariner. 


The  ship  was  cheer’d,  the  harbor 
clear’d, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 


The  bride  hath  paced  into  the 
Bed  as  a  rose  is  she ; 

Nodding  their  heads  before 
goes 

The  merry  minstrelsy. 


hall,  The  wed- 
'  dingguest 
heareth 
,  the  bridal 
her  music ; 
but  the 
mariner 
continu- 
eth  his 
tale. 


The  wedding  guest  he  beat  his 
breast, 

Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  mariner. 


And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  The  ship 

1  drawn  by 

he  a  storm 

Was  tyrannous  and  strong:  the  south 

He  struck  with  his  o’ertaking  wings, pole* 

And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping 
prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe 
And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roar’d  the 
blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 


And  now  there  came  both  mist  and 
snow, 

And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  : 

And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating 

by, 

As  green  as  emerald. 


Did  send  a  dismal  sheen 


And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  The  land 
i .  n,  of  ice,  and 

CllltS  of  fearful 

sounds, 
where  no 

Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we,iving 

thing  was 

ken —  to  be  seen. 

The  ice  was  all  between. 


iner  Tells  The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 

how  the  Out  of  the  sea  came  he ! 
ship  sail- 

ed  south- And  lie  shone  bright,  and  on  the 

a  good  right 

wind  and  "Went  down  into  the  sea. 
fair  wea¬ 
ther,  till 
it  reached 

the  line.  Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — 

The  wedding  guest  here  beat  his 
breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around : 

It  crack’d  and  growl’d,  and  roar’d 
and  howl’d, 

Like  noises  in  a  s wound  ! 


At  length  did  cross  an  albatross,  Till  a 

rpi  i  4.1  v  *i.  great  sea- 

ihorough  the  tog  it  came;  bird  cail- 

As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul,  hatrllss ^ 


We  hail’d  it  in  God’s  name.  ?.ame  , 

through 
the  snow- 

fog,  and  was  received  with  great  joy  and  hospitality. 


856 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  lo ! 
the  alba¬ 
tross 

proveth  a 
bird  of 
good 
omen, 
and  fol¬ 
lowed 
the  ship 
as  it  re¬ 
turned 
north¬ 
ward 
through 
fog  and 
floating 
ice. 


The  an¬ 
cient 
mariner 
inhospi¬ 
tably  kill¬ 
ed  the 
pious  bii'd 
of  good 
omen. 


His  ship¬ 
mates  cry 
out 

against 
the  an¬ 
cient 
mariner, 
for  killing 
the  bird 
of  good 
luck. 


But  when 
the  fog 
cleared 
off.  they 
justify 
the  same, 
and  thus 
make 
them¬ 
selves  ac¬ 
complices 
in  the 
crime. 


It  ate  the  food  it  ne’er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 

The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steer’d  us  through  ! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up 
behind ; 

The  albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariners’  hollo  ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 
It  perch’d  for  vespers  nine  ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog- 
smoke  white, 

Glimmer’d  the  white  moonshine. 

“God  save  thee,  ancient  mariner! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee 
thus ! — 

Why  look’st  thou  so?” — With  my 
cross-bow 

I  shot  the  albatross. 

Part  II. 

The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right : 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 

Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew 
behind, 

But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 

Nor  any  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariners’  hollo ! 

And  I  had  done  an  hellish  thing, 
And  it  would  work  ’em  woe : 

For  all  averr’d,  I  had  kill’d  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch  !  said  they,  the  bird  to 
slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 


The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  The  fair 


flew, 


breeze 

contin- 


The  furrow  follow’d  free  ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 

northward,  even  till  it  reaches  the  line. 


ues ;  the 
ship  en¬ 
ters  the 
Pacific 
Ocean, 
and  sails 


Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  The  ship 

I  ,  i  hath  been 

dropt  down,  suddenly 

’Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be ;  becaim- 


A  nd  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 


ed; 


All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 

The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 

Right  up  above  the  mast  did 
stand, 

No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 


Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 

We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  mo 
tion ; 

As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  everywhere, 

And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ; 
Water,  water,  everywhere, 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


And  the 
albatross 
begins 
to  be 
avenged. 


The  very  deep  did  rot :  O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be ! 

Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with 
legs 

Upon  the  slimy  sea. 


About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout, 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night, 
The  water,  like  a  witch’s  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 


Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God’s  own 
head 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist : 

Then  all  averr’d,  I  had  kill’d  the 
bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

’Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds 
to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 


And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  follow’d 
us 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 


A  spirit 
had  fol¬ 
lowed 
them  ; 
one  of 
the  invis¬ 
ible  in¬ 
habitants 
of  this 


planet,  neither  departed  souls  nor  angels ;  concerning 
whom  the  learned  Jew  Josephus,  and  the  Platonic 
Constantinopolitan,  Michael  Psellus,  may  be  con¬ 
sulted.  They  are  very  numerous,  and  there  is  no 
climate  or  element  without  one  or  more. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


857 


And  every  tongue,  through  utter 
drought, 

Was  wither’d  at  the  root; 

We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than 
if 

We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 


The  ship-  Ah  !  well-a-day !  what  evil  looks 

theirSsore  Had  I  from  old  and  young ! 
distress,  instead  of  the  cross,  the  albatross 

fain  About  my  neck  was  hung, 
throw  the  J 

whole  guilt  on  the  ancient  mariner;  in  sign  whereof 
they  hang  the  dead  sea-bird  round  his  neck. 


Part  III. 

There  pass’d  a  weary  time.  Each 
throat 

Was  parch’d,  and  glazed  each 
eye. 

A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time ! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye, 

The  an-  When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
cient  .  .  y 

mariner  A  something  in  the  sky. 
beholdeth 
a  sign  in 

At  first  it  seem’d  a  little  speck, 

And  then  it  seem’d  a  mist  ; 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at 
last 

A  certain  shape  I  wist. 


the  ele¬ 
ment 
afar  off. 


V  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ; 
And  still  it  near’d  and  near’d ; 

As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 

It  plunged  and  tack’d  and  veer’d. 


At  its 
nearer  ap¬ 
proach,  it 
seemeth 
him  to  be 


With  throats  unslaked,  with  black 
lips  baked, 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 


a  ship;  Through  utter  drought  all  dumb 

3nd  jit-  sl 

dear  ran-  W6  stood  ! 

neethhis  I  bit  my  arm,  I  suck’d  the  blood, 

from  tii e  And  criec4  A  sail !  a  sail ! 
bonds  of 


thirst. 


With  throats  unslaked,  with  black 
lips  baked, 

Agape  they  heard  me  call ; 

A  flash  of  Gramercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew 
in, 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 


See!  see!  (I  cried),  she  tacks  noAn(*  h,01" 

v  n  ror  lol- 

more !  lows.  For 

Hither  to  work  us  weal ;  a  ship  that 

Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide,  ^°™dS  °n’ 

She  steadies  with  upright  keel !  without. 

1  °  wind  or 

tide  ? 


The  western  wave  was  all  aflame, 
The  day  was  well-nigh  done  ! 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun  ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove 
suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 


And  straight  the  Sun  was  fleck'd  it  seem- 
with  bars  but  the 

(Heaven’s  Mother  send  us  grace !),  of^hip. 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he 
peer’d 

With  broad  and  burning  face. 


Alas !  (thought  I,  and  my  heart 
beat  loud), 

How  fast  she  nears  and  nears ! 

Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in 
the  Sun, 

Like  restless  gossameres  ? 


And  its 
ribs  are 
seen  as 
bars  on 
the  face 
of  the  set¬ 
ting  sun. 
The  spec¬ 
tre  wo¬ 
man  and 
her  death- 
mate,  and 
no  other, 
on  board 
the  skele¬ 
ton-ship. 
Like  ves¬ 
sel,  like 
crew. 


Are  those  her  ribs  through  which 
the  Sun 

Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 

And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew? 

Is  that  a  Death?  and  are  there 
two  ? 

Is  Death  that  woman’s  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were 
free, 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold  ; 

Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 

The  night-mare  Life-in-Death  was 
she, 

Who  thicks  man’s  blood  with 
cold. 


The  naked  hulk  alongside  came,  Death  and 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice  ;  Death 
“The  game  is  done  !  I’ve  won,  I’ve for 
won  !”  the  ship’s 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice.  she^the  ^ 

latter) 

winneth  the  ancient  mariner. 


858 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


No  twi-  The  Sun’s  rim  dips ;  the  stars  rush 

light  A 

within  out  j 

of  the  At  one  stride  comes  the  dark  ; 
sun.  With  far-heard  whisper,  o’er  the 
sea, 

Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

Attheris-We  listen’d  and  look’d  sideways 
mg  of  the  J 

moon,  up ! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup; 

My  life-blood  seem’d  to  sip  ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the 
night, 

The  steersman’s  face  by  his  lamp 
gleam’d  white ; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 
Till  clombe  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright 
star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 


One  after  One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogg’d 
another,  ’  J 

Moon, 

Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 

Each  turn’d  his  face  with  a  ghastly 
pang, 

And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 


His  ship-  Four  times  fifty  living  men 
drop  (And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan), 
dead1;  With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropp’d  down  one  by  one. 


But  Life-xhe  souls  did  from  their  bodies 

in-Death 

begins  her  fly, — 

Oman-1  They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe ! 

mariner.  And  eyerT  soul>  it:  Pass’T  me  by, 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow ! 


Part  IV. 


The  wed-  “  I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner ! 

guest  I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 

that  a'  And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and 


spirit  is 
talking  to 
him  ; 


brown, 

As  is  the  ribb’d  sea-sand. 


“  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 

And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown.” — 

But  the  Pear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding- 
ancient  7  7  ° 

mariner  guest ! 

him  cTf  his  This  body  dropt'not  down. 

bodily 

life,  and  proceedeth  to  relate  his  horrible  penance. 


Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  ! 

And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  si 
things 

Lived  on  ;  and  so  did  I. 

I  look’d  upon  the  rotting  sea, 

And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 

I  look’d  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  look’d  to  heaven,  and  tried  to 
pray; 

But,  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 

A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them 
close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the 
sea  and  the  sky, 

Lav  like  a  load  on  my  wearv  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 


Hedespis- 
eth  the 
creatures 

calm.6 


And  envi- 
eth  that 
they 
should 
live,  and 
so  many 
lie  dead. 


The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  But  the 


limbs, 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they : 
The  look  with  which  they 


curse  liv- 
eth  for 
him  in 
the  eye  of 

look’d  the  dead 

men. 


on  me 


Had  never  pass’d  away. 


An  orphan’s  curse  would  drag  to 
hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  oh  !  more  horrible  than  that 


Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man’s  eye ! 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that 
curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 


The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky,  J}?  g 

And  nowhere  did  abide :  and  fixed- 

•  ness  he 

Softly  she  was  going  up,  yearneth 

And  a  star  or  two  beside —  the  jour¬ 

neying 

inoon,  and  the  stars  that  still  sojourn,  yet  still  move 
onward ;  and  everywhere  the  blue  sky  belongs  to  them, 
and  is  their  appointed  rest,  and  their  native  country, 
and  their  own  natural  homes,  which  they  enter  unan¬ 
nounced,  as  lords  that  are  certainly  expected,  and  yet 
there  is  a  silent  joy  at  their  arrival. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


859 


Her  beams  bemock’d  the  sultry 
main, 

Like  April  lioar-frost  spread ; 

But  where  the  ship’s  huge  shadow 
lay, 

The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 


By  the 
light  of 
the  moon 
he  be- 
holdeth 
God's 
creatures 
of  the 
great 
calm. 


Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watch’d  the  water-snakes  : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining 
white, 

And  when  they  rear’d,  the  elfish 
light 


Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 


Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I  watch’d  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 
They  coil’d  and  swam;  and  every 
track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 


My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was 
cold, 

My  garments  all  were  dank  ; 

Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 


I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my 
limbs : 

I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 


And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind : 
It  did  not  come  anear  ; 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the 
sails, 

That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ! 


He  hear- 
eth 

sounds, 
and  seeth 
strange 
sights  and 
commo¬ 
tions  in 
the  sky 
and  the 
element. 


And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 


To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about! 


And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 


Their  0  happy  living  things !  no  tongue 
audU  their  Their  beauty  might  declare : 
nessP1"  A  spring  of  love  gush’d  from  my 
heart, 


He  bless-  And  j  bless’d  them  unaware : 
eth  them  ....  . 

in  his  Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on 

heart. 

me, 

And  I  bless’d  them  unaware. 


The  spell  The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray  ; 
begins  to  ,  - 

break.  And  irom  my  neck  so  tree 

The  albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 

Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


Part  V. 


And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more 
loud, 

And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 
And  the  rain  pour’d  down  from 
one  black  cloud ; 

The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft, 
and  still 

The  Moon  was  at  its  side : 

Like  waters  shot  from  some  high 
crag, 

The  lightning  fell  with  never  a 

jag, 

A  river  steep  and  wide. 


Oh  sleep  !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  giv¬ 
en  ! 

She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from 
Heaven, 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 


The  loud  wind  never  reach’d  the  The  bod- 


ship, 


ies  of  the 
ship’s 


Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and 
Moon 


crew  are 
inspired, 

the  :\nd  the 

ship 

moves  on, 


The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 


By  grace 
of  the 
holy  mo¬ 
ther,  the 
ancient 
mariner 


The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remain’d, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  fill’d 


is  re-  with  dew ; 

freshed 

with  rain.  And  when  I  awoke,  it  rain’d. 


They  groan’d,  they  stirr’d,  they  all 
uprose, 

Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a 
dream, 

To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 


860 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  not 
by  the 
souls  of 
the  men, 
nor  by 
daemons 
of  earth 
or  middle 
air,  but 
by  a 
blessed 
troop  of 
angelic 
spirits, 
sent 

down  by 
the  invo¬ 
cation  of 
the  guar¬ 
dian 
saint. 


The  helmsman  steer’d,  the  ship 
moved  on ; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew ; 

The  mariners  all  ’gan  work  the 
ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do  ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless 
tools — 

W  e  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother’s  son 

Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee  : 

The  body  and  I  pull’d  at  one  rope, 

But  he  said  naught  to  me. 

“  I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner !” 

Be  calm,  thou  wedding  guest ! 

’Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in 
pain, 

Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 

But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

For  when  it  dawn’d — they  dropp’d 
their  arms, 

And  cluster’d  round  the  mast ; 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through 
their  mouths, 

And  from  their  bodies  pass’d. 


Till  noon  we  quietly  sail’d  on, 

Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the 
ship, 

Moved  onward  from  beneath. 


Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  spirit  slid :  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 

The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their 
tune, 

And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fix’d  her  to  the  ocean  : 

But  in  a  minute  she  ’gan  stir, 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her 
length 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound  : 

It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 


The  loue- 
some  spir¬ 
it  from 
the  south 
pole  car¬ 
ries  on 
the  ship 
as  far  as 
the  line, 
in  obedi¬ 
ence  to 
the  angel¬ 
ic  troop, 
but  still 
requireth 
ven¬ 
geance. 


Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet 
sound, 

Then  darted  to  the  Sun  ; 

Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mix’d,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the 
sky, 

I  heard  the  skylark  sing ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seem’d  to  fill  the  sea 
and  air 

With  their  sweet  jargoning! 

And  now  ’twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute ; 

And  now  it  is  an  angel’s  song 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased ;  yet  still  the  sails  made 
on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 
In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 


How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare  ; 

But  ere  my  living  life  return’d, 


The  Polar 
Spirit’s 
fellow-d  de¬ 
mons,  the 
invisible 


I  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discern’d 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 


inhabit¬ 
ants  of 
the  ele¬ 
ment, 
take  part 

“  Is  it  he  ?”  quoth  one,  “  Is  this  the  wrong ; 

0  and  two 

man  .  0f  them 

By  Him  who  died  on  cross,  oneVo 

With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  the  other, 
.  that  pen- 

low  ance  long 

The  harmless  albatross.  v^forThe 

ancient 


mariner 


“  The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 


In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved 
man 

Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.” 


to  the  Po¬ 
lar  Spirit, 
the  who  re¬ 
turn  eth 
south¬ 
ward. 


The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honev-dew : 

Quoth  he,  “The  man  hath  penance 
done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.” 


WEIRI)  AND  FANTASTIC. 


861 


Part  VI.  * 

First  Voice. 

But  tell  me,  tell  me !  speak  again 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 

What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so 
fast  ? 

What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? 


Second  Voice. 

Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 

The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 

His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 


And  now  this  spell  was  snapt :  once  The  curse 

is  finally 

mt)re  expiated; 

I  view’d  the  ocean  green, 

And  look’d  far  forth,  yet  little 
saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turn’d  round 
walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 

Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 


If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see!  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him. 


But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on 
me, 

Nor  sound  nor  motion  made: 

Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 

In  ripple  or  in  shade. 


The  mar¬ 
iner  hath 
been  cast 
into  a 
trance : 
for  the 
angelic 
power 
causeth 
the  vessel 
to  drive 
north¬ 
ward,  fast¬ 
er  than 
human 
life  could 
endure. 


First  Voice. 

But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind? 

Second  Voice. 

The  air  is  cut  away  before, 

And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly !  more  high,  more 
high ! 

Or  we  shall  be  belated : 

For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  mariner’s  trance  is  abated. 


The  su¬ 
pernatur¬ 
al  motion 
is  retard¬ 
ed  ;  the 
mariner 
awakes, 
and  his 

Eenance 
egins 
anew 


I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 
As  in  a  gentle  weather : 

’Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon 
was  high ; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 

For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter: 

All  fix’d  on  me  their  stony  eyes 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 


The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which 
they  died, 

Had  never  pass’d  away  : 

I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from 
theirs, 

Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 


It  raised  my  hair,  it  fann’d  my 
cheek 

Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 

It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 

Yet  she  sail’d  softly  too : 

Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze— 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh  !  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 
The  lighthouse  top  I  see  ? 

Is  this  the  hill  ?  is  this  the  kirk  ? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree? 

We  drifted  o’er  the  harbor-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 

Oh  let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 

Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass. 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 

And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight 
lay, 

And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no 

less, 

That  stands  above  the  rock  : 

The  moonlight  steep’d  in  silent¬ 
ness 

The  steady  weathercock. 


And  the 

ancient 

mariner 

beholdeth 

his  native 

country. 


862 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent 
light, 

Till  rising  from  the  same, 
rhe  an-  Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows 

gelic  spir¬ 
its  leave  were, 

bodies ad  crimson  colors  came. 

And  ap-  A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

pear  in  .  1 

their  own  Those  crimson  shadows  were: 

!ighu  oi  I  turn’d  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 

O  Christ !  what  saw  I  there ! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And  by  the  holy  rood ! 

A  man  all  light,  a  seraph  man, 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his 
hand : 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 

They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light ; 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his 
hand, 

No  voice  did  they  impart — 

No  voice;  but  oh!  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 
I  heard  the  pilot’s  cheer ; 

My  head  was  turn’d  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  pilot  and  the  pilot’s  boy, 

I  heard  them  coming  fast : 

Dear  Lord  in  Heaven!  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice  : 

It  is  the  hermit  good ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 
That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He’ll  shrieve  my  soul,  he’ll  wash 
away 

The  albatross’s  blood. 


Part  VII. 

The  her-  This  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
mitofthe 

wood.  YY  Inch  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he 
rears ! 

He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 


He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and 
eve — 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump : 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak -stump. 

The  skiff-boat  near’d :  I  heard 

them  talk, 

I 

“  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow ! 

Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and 
fair, 

I 

That  signal  made  but  now?” 

“  Strange,  by  mv  faith !”  the  her-  Ap- 

. .  “  proach- 

rnit  said —  eth  the 

“And  they  answer’d  not  our  cheer! ^uder.tl1 

The  planks  look’d  warp’d  !  and  see 
those  sails 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere ! 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 

Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest-brook  along ; 

When  the  ivv-tod  is  heavy  with 
snow, 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf 
below, 

That  eats  the  she-wolf’s  young.” 

“  Dear  Lord !  it  hath  a  fiendish 
look 

(The  pilot  made  reply) — 

I  am  a-fear’d.” — “  Push  on,  push 
on  !” 

Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 


The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirr’d  ; 

The  boat  came  close  beneath  the 
ship, 

And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 


Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on,  The  ship 
Still  louder  and  more  dread  :  sinketU 

It  reach’d  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay; 

The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 


Stunn’d  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  The  an¬ 
cient  mar 

SOUnd,  iner  is 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote,  the'pilot’a 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  boat- 
drown’d 


My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 
Within  the  pilot’s  boat. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


860 


Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the 
ship, 

The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  pilot  shriek’d 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 

The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  pray’d  where  he  did  sit. 

1  took  the  oars :  the  pilot’s  boy, 
Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laugh’d  loud  and  long,  and  all  the 
while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

“  Ha  !  ha  !”  quoth  he,  “  full  plain 
I  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.” 


What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that 
door ! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there : 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are : 

And  hark  the  little  vesper-bell, 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer ! 

0  wedding-guest !  this  soul  hath 
been 

Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea : 

So  lonely  ’twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

Oh  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
’Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company  ! — 


And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 
I  stood  on  the  firm  land ! 

The  hermit  stepp’d  forth  from  the 
boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 


The  an-  Oh  shneve  me,  shneve  me,  holy 

cient  ,,, 

mariner  man  ! 

entreat-^  The  hermit  Cross’d  his  brow* 

herrniTto  “  quick,”  quotli  he,  “  I  bid  thee 
shrieve  say — 

the1  pen-d  What  manner  of  man  art  thou?” 
ance  of 
life  falls 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was 
wrench’d 

With  a  woeful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ; 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 


And  ever  gince  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
and  anon 

through-  That  agony  returns  : 

tu  re*  life1"  And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 


constrain  -  This  heart  within  me  burns. 


eth  him 
to  travel 
from  land 
to  land. 


I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 


That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 


I  know  the  man  that  must  hear 


me; 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 


To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father 
bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving 
friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay ! 


Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest ! 

He  praveth  well,  who  lovetli  well 
Both  man,  and  bird,  and  beast. 


He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small  ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 


And  to 
teach,  by 
his  own 
example, 
love  and 
reverence 
to  all 
things 
that  God 
made  and 
loveth. 


The  mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whosr  heard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone;  and  now  the  wedding- 
guest 

Turn’d  from  the  bridegroom’s  door. 


He  went  like  one  that  hath  been 
stunn’d, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn : 

A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 

He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


864 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Skeleton  in  Armor. 

“  Speak  !  speak !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 

Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 

But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretch’d,  as  if  asking  alms  ; 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me?” 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seem’d  to  rise, 

As  when  the  Northern  skies 
Gleam  in  December; 

And,  like  the  water’s  flow 
Under  December’s  snow, 

Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 
From  the  heart’s  chamber. 

di  I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee ! 

Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 

Else  dread  a  dead  man’s  curse ; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

“  Far  in  the  Northern  land, 

By  the  wild  Baltic’s  strand, 

I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  ger-falcon  ; 

And,  with  my  skates  fast  bound, 
Skimm’d  the  half-frozen  sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

“  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Track’d  I  the  grisly  bear, 

While  from  my  path  the  hare 
Fled  like  a  shadow; 

Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Follow’d  the  were-wolfs  bark, 

Until  the  soaring  lark 
Sang  from  the  meadow. 

44  But  when  I  older  grew, 

Joining  a  corsair’s  crew, 

O’er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 
VTith  the  marauders. 

Wild  was  the  life  we  led; 

Many  the  souls  that  sped, 

Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 


“  Many  a  wassail  bout 
Wore  the  long  winter  out; 

Often  our  midnight  shout 
Set  the  cocks  crowing, 

As  we  the  Berserk’s  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 

Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Fill’d  to  o’erflowing. 

0 

“  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 

Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning,  yet  tender  ; 

And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 

On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

“  I  woo’d  the  blue-eved  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 

And  in  the  forest’s  shade 
Our  vows  were  plighted. 

Under  its  loosen’d  vest 
Flutter’d  her  little  breast, 

Like  birds  within  their  nest 
By  the  hawk  frighted. 

“  Bright  in  her  father’s  hall 
Shields  gleam’d  upon  the  wall, 

Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 
Chanting  his  glory; 

VThen  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  ask’d  his  daughter’s  hand, 

Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

“  Vrhile  the  brown  ale  he  quaff’d, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laugh’d, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 
The  sea-foam  brightly, 

So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 

Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 

From  the  deep  drinking-horn 
Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

“She  was  a  prince’s  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blush’d  and  smiled, 
I  was  discarded ! 

Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew’s  flight? 

Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded  ? 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


865 


“  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 

Bearing  the  maid  with  me,— 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 
Among  the  Norsemen  ! — 

When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 

Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

“Then  launch’d  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 

Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  fail’d  us  ; 

And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 

So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  he  hail’d  us. 

“  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Bound  veer’d  the  flapping  sail. 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman’s  hail, 
Death  without  quarter ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 
Through  the  black  water ! 

“  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 

Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 

So  toward  the  open  main, 

Beating  to  sea  again, 

Through  the  wild  hurricane 
Bore  I  the  maiden. 

“  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o’er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 
Stretching  to  leeward  ; 

There  for  my  lady’s  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 

Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

‘  There  lived  we  many  years  ; 

Time  dried  the  maiden’s  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 

Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 

Ne’er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 

55 


“  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 

Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 

Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful. 

In  the  vast  forest  here, 

Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 

Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

Oh,  death  was  grateful ! 

“Thus, seam’d  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison-bars, 

Up  to  its  native  stars 
My  soul  ascended. 

There,  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior’s  soul, 
Skoal !  to  the  Northland !  skoal !” 

— Thus  the  tale  ended. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 
- - 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci. 

Oh  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms  ! 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 

The  sedge  has  wither’d  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 

Oh  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms  ! 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone? 

The  squirrel’s  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest’s  done. 

I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew  ; 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  mead — 

Full  beautiful,  a  fairy’s  child ; 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light,  . 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone  : 
She  look’d  at  me  as  she  did  love, 

And  made  sweet  moan. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long ; 
For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  fairy  song. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 

And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew  ; 
And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said — 
“  I  love  thee  true.” 


866 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh’d  full  sore ; 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes 
With  kisses  four. 

And  there  she  lull’d  me  asleep  ; 

And  there  I  dream’d — Ah  !  woe  betide  ! 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream’d 
On  the  cold  hill’s  side. 

I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too — 

Pale  warriors,  deatli-pale  were  they  all ; 
They  cried — “  La  belle  dame  sans  merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall !” 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 

With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide  ; 

And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here, 

On  the  cold  hill’s  side. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 

Though  the  sedge  is  wither’d  from  the 
lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

John  Keats. 

»o« - 

The  Haunted  House. 

A  Romance. 

“  ‘  A  jolly  place,’  said  he,  ‘  in  days  of  old, 

But  something  ails  it  now ;  the  spot  is  curst.’” 
Hart-Leap  Well,  by  Wordsworth. 

Part  I. 

Some  dreams  we  have  are  nothing  else  but 
dreams, 

Unnatural  and  full  of  contradictions, 
Yet  others  of  our  most  romantic  schemes 
Are  something  more  than  fictions. 

It  might  be  only  on  enchanted  ground, 

It  might  be  merely  by  a  thought’s  ex¬ 
pansion, 

But  in  the  spirit,  or  the  flesh,  I  found 
An  old  deserted  mansion. 

A  residence  for  woman,  child,  and  man, 

A  dwelling-place, — and  yet  no  habita¬ 
tion  ; 

A  house — but  under  some  prodigious  ban 
Of  excommunication. 

Unhinged  the  iron  gates  half  open  hung, 
Jarr’d  by  the  gusty  gales  of  many  win¬ 
ters, 


That  from  its  crumbled  pedestal  had  flung 
One  marble  globe  in  splinters. 

No  dog  was  at  the  threshold,  great  or 
small, 

No  pigeon  on  the  roof,  no  household 
creature, 

No  cat  demurely  dozing  on  the  wall-  - 
Not  one  domestic  feature. 

No  human  figure  stirr’d,  to  go  or  come, 

No  face  look’d  forth  from  shut  or  open 
casement, 

No  chimney  smoked — there  was  no  sign 
of  home 

From  parapet  to  basement. 

With  shatter’d  panes  the  grassy  court  was 
starr’d ; 

The  time-worn  coping-stone  had  tum¬ 
bled  after, 

And  through  the  ragged  roof  the  sky 
shone,  barr’d 

With  naked  beam  and  rafter. 

O’er  all  there  hung  a  shadow  and  a  fear, 

A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 

And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

The  flow’rgrew  wild  and  rankly  as  the  weed, 
Roses  with  thistles  struggled  for  espial, 

And  vagrant  plants  of  parasitic  breed 
Had  overgrown  the  dial. 

But  gay  or  gloomy,  steadfast  or  infirm, 

No  heart  was  there  to  heed  the  hour's 
duration  ; 

All  times  and  tides  were  lost  in  one  long 
term 

Of  stagnant  desolation. 

The  wren  had  built  within  the  porch ;  she 
found 

Its  quiet  loneliness  so  sure  and  thor 
ough ; 

And  on  the  lawn,  within  its  turfy  mound, 
The  rabbit  made  his  burrow. 

The  rabbit  wild  and  gray,  that  flitted 
through 

The  shrubby  clumps,  and  frisk’d,  and 
sat,  and  vanish’d, 

But  leisurely  and  bold,  as  if  he  knew 
His  enemy  was  banish’d. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


867 


The  wary  crow,  the  pheasant  from  the 
woods, 

Lull’d  by  the  still  and  everlasting  same¬ 
ness, 

Close  to  the  mansion,  like  domestic  broods, 
Fed  with  a  “shocking  tameness.” 


The  pear  and  quince  lay  squander’d  on 
the  grass ; 

The  mould  was  purple  with  unheeded 
showers 

Of  bloomy  plums — a  wilderness  it  was 
Of  fruits,  and  weeds,  and  flowers ! 


The  coot  was  swimming  in  the  reedy  pond, 
Beside  the  water-hen,  so  soon  affrighted, 
And  in  the  weedy  moat  the  heron,  fond 
Of  solitude,  alighted, — 

The  moping  heron,  motionless  and  stiff, 
That  on  a  stone,  as  silently  and  stilly, 
Stood,  an  apparent  sentinel,  as  if 
To  guard  the  water-lily. 

No  sound  was  heard  except,  from  far  away, 
The  ringing  of  the  witwall’s  shrilly 
laughter, 

Or,  now  and  then,  the  chatter  of  the  jay, 
That  Echo  murmur’d  after. 

But  Echo  never  mock’d  the  human  tongue  ; 
Some  weighty  crime,  that  Heaven  could 
not  pardon, 

A  secret  curse  on  that  old  building  hung, 
And  its  deserted  garden. 

The  beds  were  all  untouch’d  by  hand  or 
tool : 

No  footstep  mark’d  the  damp  and  mossy 
gravel, 

Each  walk  as  green  as  is  the  mantled  pool, 
For  want  of  human  travel. 

The  vine  unpruned,  and  the  neglected 
peach, 

Droop’d  from  the  wall  with  which  they 
used  to  grapple ; 

And  on  the  canker’d  tree,  in  easy  reach, 
Rotted  the  golden  apple. 

But  awfully  the  truant  shunn’d  the  ground, 
The  vagrant  kept  aloof,  and  daring 
poacher ; 

In  spite  of  gaps  that  through  the  fences 
round 

Invited  the  encroacher. 

• 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear, 

A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  !  j 


The  marigold  amidst  the  nettles  blew, 

The  gourd  embraced  the  rose-bush  in 
its  ramble, 

The  thistle  and  the  stock  together  grew, 
The  hollyhock  and  bramble. 

The  bearbine  with  the  lilac  interlaced, 

The  sturdy  burdock  choked  its  slender 
neighbor, 

The  spicy  pink.  All  tokens  were  effaced 
Of  human  care  and  labor. 

The  very  yew  formality  had  train’d 
To  such  a  rigid  pyramidal  stature, 

For  want  of  trimming  had  almost  regain’d 
The  raggedness  of  nature. 

The  fountain  was  a-dry— neglect  and 
time 

Had  marr’d  the  work  of  artisan  and 
mason, 

And  efts  and  croaking  frogs,  begot  of 
slime, 

Sprawl’d  in  the  ruin’d  basin. 

The  statue,  fallen  from  its  marble  base, 
Amidst  the  refuse  leaves,  and  herbage 
rotten, 

Lay  like  the  idol  of  some  bygone  race, 

Its  name  and  rites  forgotten. 

On  ev’ry  side  the  aspect  was  the  same, 

All  ruin’d,  desolate,  forlorn,  and  savage: 
No  hand  or  foot  within  the  precinct  came 
To  rectify  or  ravage. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear, 

A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted. 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted ! 

Part  II. 

Oh,  very  gloomy  is  the  house  of  Woe 
Where  tears  are  falling  while  the  bell  is 
knelling, 

With  all  the  dark  solemnities  which  show 
That  Death  is  in  the  dwelling ! 


868 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Oil  very,  very  dreary  is  the  room 

Where  Love,  domestic  Love,  no  longer 
nestles, 

But,  smitten  by  the  common  stroke  of 
doom, 

The  corpse  lies  on  the  trestles! 

But  House  of  Woe,  and  hearse,  and  sable 
pall, 

The  narrow  home  of  the  departed 
mortal, 

Ne’er  looked  so  gloomy  as  that  ghostly  hall, 
With  its  deserted  portal ! 

The  centipede  along  the  threshold  crept, 
The  cobweb  hung  across  in  mazy  tangle, 

And  in  its  winding-sheet  the  maggot  slept 
At  every  nook  and  angle. 

The  keyhole  lodged  the  earwig  and  her 
brood, 

The  emmets  of  the  steps  had  old  posses¬ 
sion, 

And  march’d  in  search  of  their  diurnal 
food 

In  undisturb’d  procession, — 

As  undisturb’d  as  the  prehensile  cell 
Of  moth  or  maggot,  or  the  spider’s  tissue, 

For  never  foot  upon  that  threshold  fell, 

To  enter  or  to  issue. 

O’er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear, 

A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 

And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

Howbeit,  the  door  I  push’d — or  so  I 
dream’d — 

Which  slowly,  slowly  gaped — the  hinges 
creaking 

With  such  a  rusty  eloquence,  it  seem’d 
That  Time  himself  was  speaking. 

But  Time  was  dumb  within  that  mansion 
old, 

Or  left  his  tale  to  the  heraldic  banners 

That  hung  from  the  corroded  walls,  and 
told 

Of  former  men  and  manners, — 

Those  tatter’d  flags,  that  with  the  open’d 
door 

Seem’d  the  old  wave  of  battle  to  re¬ 
member, 


While  fallen  fragments  danced  upon  the 
floor 

Like  dead  leaves  in  December. 

The  startled  bats  flew  out — bird  after 
bird — 

The  screech-owl  overhead  began  to  flut¬ 
ter, 

And  seem’d  to  mock  the  cry  that  she  had 
heard 

Some  dying  victim  utter  ! 

A  shriek  that  echo’d  from  the  joisted  roof, 
And  up  the  stair,  and  further  still  and 
further, 

Till  in  some  ringing  chamber  far  aloof 
It  ceased  its  tale  of  murther ! 

Meanwhile  the  rustv  armor  rattled  round. 

V  / 

The  banner  shudder’d,  and  the  ragged 
streamer ; 

All  things  the  horrid  tenor  of  the  sound 
Acknowledged  with  a  tremor. 

The  antlers,  where  the  helmet  hung  and 
belt, 

Stirr’d  as  the  tempest  stirs  the  forest 
branches, 

Or  as  the  stag  had  trembled  when  he  felt 
The  bloodjiound  at  his  haunches. 

The  window  jingled  in  its  crumbled  frame, 
And  through  its  many  gaps  of  desti¬ 
tution 

Dolorous  moans  and  hollow  sighings  came, 
Like  those  of  dissolution. 

The  woodlouse  dropp’d,  and  roll’d  into  a 
ball, 

Touch’d  by  some  impulse  occult  or  me¬ 
chanic, 

And  nameless  beetles  ran  along  the  wall 
In  universal  panic. 

The  subtle  spider,  that  from  overhead 
Hung  like  a  spy  on  human  guilt  and 
error, 

Suddenly  turn’d,  and  up  its  slender  thread 
Ban  with  a  nimble  terror. 

• 

The  very  stains  and  fractures  on  the  wall, 
Assuming  features  solemn  and  terrific, 

Hinted  some  tragedy  of  that  old  hall, 
Lock’d  up  in  hieroglyphic, — 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


869 


Some  tale  that  might,  perchance,  have  | 
solved  the  doubt 

Wherefore,  amongst  those  flags  so  dull 
and  livid, 

The  banner  of  the  Bloody  Hand  shone  out 
So  ominously  vivid ; 

Some  key  to  that  inscrutable  appeal, 

Which  made  the  very  frame  of  Nature 
quiver  ; 

And  every  thrilling  nerve  and  fibre  feel 
So  ague-like  a  shiver. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear, 

A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 

And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

If  but  a  rat  had  linger’d  in  the  house, 

To  lure  the  thought  into  a  social  chan¬ 
nel  ! 

But  not  a  rat  remain’d,  or  tiny  mouse, 

To  squeak  behind  the  panel. 

Huge  drops  roll’d  down  the  walls,  as  if 
they  wept ; 

And  where  the  cricket  used  to  chirp  so 
shrilly, 

The  toad  was  squatting,  and  the  lizard 
crept 

On  that  damp  hearth  and  chilly. 

For  years  no  cheerful  blaze  had  sparkled 
there, 

Or  glanced  on  coat  of  buff  or  knightly 
metal ; 

The  slug  was  crawling  on  the  vacant  chair, 
The  snail  upon  the  settle. 

The  floor  was  redolent  of  mould  and  must, 
The  fungus  in  the  rotten  seams  had  quick¬ 
en’d  ; 

While  on  the  oaken  table  coats  of  dust 
Perennially  had  thicken’d. 

No  mark  of  leathern  jack  or  metal  can, 

No  cup — no  horn — no  hospitable  token, — 

All  social  ties  between  that  board  and  man 
Had  long  ago  been  broken. 

There  was  so  foul  a  rumor  in  the  air, 

The  shadow  of  a  presence  so  atrocious ; 

.  No  human  creature  could  have  feasted 
there, 

Even  the  most  ferocious  ! 


|  For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear, 

A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

Part  III. 

’Tis  hard  for  human  actions  to  account, 
Whether  from  reason  or  from  impulse 
only— 

But  some  internal  prompting  bade  me 
mount 

The  gloomy  stairs  and  lonely, — 

Those  gloomy  stairs,  so  dark,  and  damp, 
and  cold, 

With  odors  as  from  bones  and  relics 
carnal, 

Deprived  of  rite,  and  consecrated  mould, 
The  chapel  vault,  or  charnel; 

Those  dreary  stairs,  where  with  the  sound¬ 
ing  stress 

Of  ev’ry  step  so  many  echoes  blended, 
The  mind,  with  dark  misgivings,  fear’d  to 
guess 

How  many  feet  ascended. 

The  tempest  with  its  spoils  had  drifted  in, 
Till  each  unwholesome  stone  was  darkly 
spotted, 

As  thickly  as  the  leopard’s  dappled  skin, 
With  leaves  that  rankly  rotted. 

The  air  was  thick — and  in  the  upper  gloom 
The  bat — or  something  in  its  shape — was 
winging  ; 

And  on  the  wall,  as  chilly  as  a  tomb, 

The  Death’s-head  moth  was  clinging, — 

That  mystic  moth,  which,  with  a  sense  pro¬ 
found 

Of  aiil  unholy  presence,  augurs  truly ; 
And  with  a  grim  significance  flits  round 
The  taper  burning  bluely. 

Such  omens  in  the  place  there  seem’d  to  be, 
At  every  crooked  turn,  or  on  the  landing. 
The  straining  eyeball  was  prepared  to  see 
Some  apparition  standing. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear, 

A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 


870 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Yet  no  portentous  shape  the  sight  amazed  ; 

Each  object  plain,  and  tangible,  and  valid ; 
But  from  their  tarnish’d  frames  dark  figures 
gazed, 

And  faces  spectre-pallid. 

Not  merely  with  the  mimic  life  that  lies 
Within  the  compass  of  Art’s  simulation  : 
Their  souls  were  looking  through  their 
painted  eyes 
With  awful  speculation. 

On  every  lip  a  speechless  horror  dwelt ; 

On  every  brow  the  burden  of  affliction ; 
The  old  ancestral  spirits  knew  and  felt 
The  house’s  malediction. 

Such  earnest  woe  their  features  overcast, 
They  might  have  stirr’d,  or  sigh’d,  or 
wept,  or  spoken; 

But,  save  the  hollow  moaning  of  the  blast, 
The  stillness  was  unbroken. 

No  other  sound  or  stir  of  life  wras  there, 
Except  my  steps  in  solitary  clamber 
From  flight  to  flight,  from  humid  stair  to 
stair, 

From  chamber  into  chamber. 

Deserted  rooms  of  luxury  and  state, 

That  old  magnificence  had  richly  fur¬ 
nish’d 

With  pictures,  cabinets  of  ancient  date, 
And  carvings  gilt  and  burnish’d. 

Rich  hangings,  storied  by  the  needle’s  art 
With  Scripture  history,  or  classic  fable; 
But  all  had  faded,  save  one  ragged  part, 
Where  Cain  was  slaying  Abel. 

The  silent  waste  of  mildew  and  th^moth 
Had  marr’d  the  tissue  with  a  partial 
ravage  ; 

But  undecaying  frown’d  upon  the  cloth 
Each  feature  stern  and  savage. 

The  sky  was  pale ;  the  cloud  a  thing  of 
doubt ; 

Some  hues  were  fresh,  and  some  decay’d 
and  duller ; 

But  still  the  Bloody  Hand  shone  strangely 
out 

With  vehemence  of  color! — 


The  Bloody  Hand  that  with  a  lurid  stain 
Shone  on  the  dusty  floor,  a  dismal  token, 
Projected  from  the  casement’s  painted 
pane, 

Where  all  beside  was  broken  ; 

The  Bloody  Hand  significant  of  crime, 
That,  glaring  on  the  old  heraldic  banner, 
Had  kept  its  crimson  unimpair’d  by  time, 
In  such  a  wondrous  manner ! 

O’er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear, 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

The  death-watch  tick’d  behind  the  pan- 
ell’d  oak, 

Inexplicable  tremors  shook  the  arras, 
And  echoes  strange  and  mystical  awoke, 
The  fancy  to  embarrass. 

Prophetic  hints  that  fill’d  the  soul  with 
dread, 

But  through  one  gloomy  entrance  point¬ 
ing  mostly, 

The  while  some  secret  inspiration  said, 
That  chamber  is  the  ghostly  ! 

Across  the  door  no  gossamer  festoon 
Swung  pendulous — no  web — no  dusty 
fringes, 

No  silky  chrysalis  or  white  cocoon, 

About  its  nooks  and  hinges. 

The  spider  shunn’d  the  interdicted  room, 
The  moth,  the  beetle,  and  the  fly  were 
banish’d, 

And  where  the  sunbeam  fell  athwart  the 
gloom 

The  very  midge  had  vanish’d. 

One  lonely  ray  that  glanced  upon  a  bed, 
As  if  with  awful  aim  direct  and  certain. 
To  show  the  Bloody  Hand  in  burning 
red 

Embroider’d  on  the  curtain. 

And  yet  no  gory  stain  was  on  the  quilt — 
The  pillow  in  its  place  had  slowly 
rotted  : 

The  floor  alone  retain’d  the  trace  of  guilt, 
Those  boards  obscurely  spotted, — 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


871 


Obscurely  spotted  to  the  door,  and  thence 
With  mazy  doubles  to  the  grated  case¬ 
ment — 

Oh  what  a  tale  they  told  of  fear  intense, 
Of  horror  and  amazement ! 

What  human  creature  in  the  dead  of 
night 

Had  coursed  like  hunted  hare  that  cruel 
distance  ? 

Had  sought  the  door,  the  window,  in  his 
flight, 

Striving  for  dear  existence  ? 

What  shrieking  spirit  in  that  bloody  room 
Its  mortal  frame  had  violently  quitted? — 
Across  the  sunbeam,  with  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  ghostly  shadow  flitted, — 

Across  the  sunbeam,  and  along  the  wall, 
But  painted  on  the  air  so  very  dimly, 

It  hardly  veil’d  the  tapestry  at  all, 

Or  portrait  frowning  grimly. 

O’er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear, 

A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
<^nd  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 

-■  --+o+ - 

The  Haunted  Palace. 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys, 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 

Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace 
(Radiant  palace)  rear’d  its  head. 

In  the  monarch  Thought’s  dominion 
It  stood  there  ! 

Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 
Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners,  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This,  all  this,  was  in  the  olden 
Time,  long  ago) ; 

And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied 
In  that  sweet  day, 

Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 
A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 
Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically 
To  a  lute’s  well-tunkd  law  ; 


Round  about  a  throne,  where,  sitting 
(Porphyrogene  !) 

In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 
Was  the  fair  palace-door, 

Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing, 
flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 

A  troop  of  echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 
Was  but  to  sing, 

In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 
Assail’d  the  monarch’s  high  estate 
(Ah  !  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 
Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate)  ; 

And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 
That  blush’d  and  bloom’d 
Is  but  a  dim-remember’d  story 
Of  the  old  time  entomb’d. 

And  travellers  now,  within  that  valley, 
Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 
To  a  discordant  melody  ; 

While,  like  a  ghastly,  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  for  ever, 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


ALONZO  THE  BRAVE  AND  THE 

Fair  Imogine. 

A  warrior  so  bold,  and  a  virgin  so  bright, 

Conversed  as  they  sat  on  the  green  ; 

They  gazed  on  each  other  with  tender  de¬ 
light  ; 

Alonzo  the  Brave  was  the  name  of  the 
knight, 

The  maiden’s,  the  Fair  Imogine. 

“  And  oh  !”  said  the  youth,  “  since  to-mor¬ 
row  I  go 

To  fight  in  a  far-distant  land, 

Your  tears  for  my  absence  soon  ceasing  to 
flow, 

Some  other  will  court  you,  and  you  will 
bestow 

On  a  wealthier  suitor  your  hand.” 


872 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Oh,  hush  these  suspicions,”  Fair  Imo- 
gine  said, 

“  Offensive  to  love  and  to  me ; 

For  if  you  be  living,  or  if  you  be  dead, 

I  swear  by  the  Virgin  that  none  in  your 
stead 

Shall  husband  of  Imogine  be. 

“  If  e’er  I,  by  lust  or  by  wealth  led  aside, 

Forget  my  Alonzo  the  Brave, 

God  grant  that,  to  punish  my  falsehood 
and  pride, 

Your  ghost  at  the  marriage  may  sit  by  my 
side, 

May  tax  me  with  perjury,  claim  me  as 
bride, 

And  bear  me  away  to  the  grave !” 

To  Palestine  hasten’d  the  hero  so  bold  ; 

His  love  she  lamented  him  sore, 

But  scarce  had  a  twelvemonth  elapsed, 
when,  behold ! 

A  baron,  all  cover’d  with  jewels  and 
gold, 

Arrived  at  Fair  Imogine’s  door. 

His  treasures,  his  presents,  his  spacious 
domain, 

Soon  made  her  untrue  to  her  vows  ; 

lie  dazzled  her  eyes,  he  bewilder’d  her 
brain, 

He  caught  her  affections,  so  light  and  so 
vain, 

And  carried  her  home  as  his  spouse. 

And  now  had  the  marriage  been  bless’d 
by  the  priest, 

The  revelry  now  was  begun, 

The  tables  they  groan’d  with  the  weight 
of  the  feast, 

Nor  yet  had  the  laughter  and  merriment 
ceased, 

When  the  bell  at  the  castle  toll’d  one. 

Then  first  with  amazement  fair  Imogine 
found 

A  stranger  was  placed  by  her  side  ; 

His  air  was  terrific,  he  utter’d  no  sound, 

He  spake  not,  he  moved  not,  he  look’d 
not  around, 

But  earnestly  gazed  on  the  bride. 

His  visor  was  closed,  and  gigantic  his 
height, 

His  armor  was  sable  to  view ; 


All  pleasure  and  laughter  were  hush’d  at 
his  sight ; 

The  dogs,  as  they  eyed  him,  drew  back  in 
affright ; 

The  lights  in  the  chamber  burn’d  blue ! 

His  presence  all  bosoms  appear’d  to  dismay ; 

The  guests  sat  in  silence  and  fear ; 

At  length  spake  the  bride — while  she 
trembled — “  I  pray, 

Sir  Knight,  that  your  helmet  aside  you 
would  lay, 

And  deign  to  partake  of  our  cheer.” 

The  lady  is  silent ;  the  stranger  complies, 

His  visor  he  slowly  unclosed ; 

O  God !  what  a  sight  met  fair  Imogine’s  eyes ! 

What  words  can  express  her  dismay  and 
surprise 

When  a  skeleton’s  head  was  exposed  ! 

All  present  then  utter’d  a  terrified  shout, 

All  turn’d  with  disgust  from  the  scene ; 

The  worms  they  crept  in,  and  the  worms 
they  crept  out, 

And  sported  his  eyes  and  his  temples 
about, 

While  the  spectre  address’d  Imogine. 

“  Behold  me,  thou  false  one,  behold  me !” 
he  cried, 

“  Remember  Alonzo  the  Brave  ! 

God  grants  that,  to  punish  thy  falsehood 
and  pride, 

My  ghost  at  thy  marriage  should  sit  by  thy 
side, 

Should  tax  thee  with  perjury,  claim  thee 
as  bride, 

And  bear  thee  away  to  the  grave !” 

Thus  saying,  his  arms  round  the  lady  he 
wound, 

While  loudly  she  shriek’d  in  dismay  ; 

Then  sunk  with  his  prey  through  the  wide- 
yawning  ground, 

Nor  ever  again  was  Fair  Imogine  found, 

Or  the  spectre  that  bore  her  away. 

Not  long  lived  the  baron,  and  none,  since 
that  time, 

To  inhabit  the  castle  presume, 

For  chronicles  tell  that,  by  order  sublime, 

There  Imogine  suffers  the  pain  of  her 
crime. 

And  mourns  her  deplorable  doom. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


873 


At  midnight,  four  times  in  each  year,  does 
her  sprite, 

When  mortals  in  slumber  are  bound, 
Array’d  in  her  bridal  apparel  of  white, 
Appear  in  the  hall  with  the  skeleton 
knight, 

And  shriek  as  he  whirls  her  around. 

While  they  drink  out  of  skulls  newly  torn 
from  the  grave, 

Dancing  round  them  the  spectres  are 
seen ; 

Their  liquor  is  blood,  and  this  horrible 
stave 

They  howl :  “  To  the  health  of  Alonzo  the 
Brave, 

And  his  consort,  the  Fair  Imogine !” 

Matthew  Gregory  Lewis. 

- •<>+ - 

Tam  O' Shan  ter. 

A  Tale. 

“Of  brownys  and  of  bogilis  full  is  this  buke.” — 

Gawin  Douglas. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet, 

As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 

An’  folks  begin  to  tak’  the  gate  ; 

While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 

An’  gettin’  fou  and  unco  happy, 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 

The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  styles, 

That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 

Where  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  O’Shanter, 

As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne’er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonny  lasses). 

O  Tam  !  liadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 

As  ta’en  thy  ain  wife  Kate’s  advice  ! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 

A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum  ; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 

Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober; 

That  ilka  melder,  wi’  the  miller, 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 

That  ev’rv  naig  was  ca’d  a  shoe  on, 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on  ; 
That  at  the  Lord’s  house,  ev’n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi’  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 


She  prophesy’d,  that  late  or  soon, 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown’d  in 
Doon  ; 

Or  catch’d  wi’  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 

By  Alloway’s  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  !  it  gars  me  greet, 

To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 

How  mony  lengthen’d  sage  advices, 

The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  1 

But  to  our  tale  : — Ae  market  night, 

Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 

Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 

Wi’  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely ; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnny, 

His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony  ; 

Tam  lo’ed  him  like  a  vera  brither  ; 

They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  tliegither  ! 
The  night  drave  on  wi’  sangs  an’  clatter  ; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better : 

The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious  ; 

Wi’  favors  secret,  sweet,  and  precious  ; 

The  Souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories  ; 

The  landlord’s  laugh  was  ready  chorus  . 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle — 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 
Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 

E’en  drown’d  himself  amang  the  nappy  ! 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi’  lades  o’  treasure, 
The  minutes  wing’d  their  way  wi’  pleasure: 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O’er  a’  the  ills  of  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 

You  seize  the  flow’r,  its  bloom  is  shed  ; 

Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 

A  moment  white — then  melts  for  ever  ; 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow’s  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide ; 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride  ; 
That  hour,  o’  night’s  black  arch  the  key- 
stane, 

That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in  ; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in 
As  ne’er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  ’twad  blawn  its  last ; 

The  rattling  show’rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow’d ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow’d  ; 


874 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 

The  De’il  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg, 

A  better  never  lifted  leg, 

Tam  skelpit  on  thro’  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire  ; 

Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet; 
Whiles  crooning  o’er  some  auld  Scots  son¬ 
net  ; 

Whiles  glow’ring  round  wi’  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares  ; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 

Where  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. — 
By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  foord 
Where  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor’d ; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Where  drunken  Charlie  brak’s  neck-bane; 
And  thro’  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Where  hunters  fand  the  murder’d  bairn ; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

Where  Mungo’s  mither  liang’d  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 

The  doubling  storm  roars  thro’  the  woods  ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 
When,  glimmering  thro’  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem’d  in  a  bleeze ; 

Thro’  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing  ; 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn  ! 
Wi’  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil  ; 

Wi’  usquabae  we’ll  face  the  devil ! 

The  swats  sae  ream’d  in  Tammie’s  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  cared  nae  deils  a  boddle. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish’d, 
’Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish’d, 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light ; 

And,  wow  !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ! 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance  ; 

Nae  cotillon  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels  : 

A  winnock -bunker  in  the  east, 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o’  beast; 

A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge ; 

He  screw’d  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a’  did  dirl. — 

Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses  ; 
That  shaw’d  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 


And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light — 

By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A  murderer’s  banes  in  gibbet  aims ; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee  unchristen’d  bairns  ; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape, 

Wi’  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape ; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi’  bluid  red-rusted ; 
Five  scimitars,  wi’  murder  crusted  ; 

A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled  ; 

A  knife,  a  father’s  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  o’  life  bereft, 

The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft : 

Wi’  mair  o’  horrible  and  awfu’, 

Which  ev’n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu’. 

As  Tammie  glowr’d,  amazed,  and  curious. 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew  ; 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew  ; 

They  reel’d,  they  set,  they  cross’d,  they 
cleekit, 

’Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 

And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 

And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ! 

Now  Tam,  O  Tam  !  had  thae  been  queans 
A’  plump  and  strapping,  in  their  teens  ; 
Their  sarks,  instead  o’  creeshie  flannen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen-hunder  linen, 
Thir  breeks  o’  mine,  my  only  pair, 

That  ance  were  plush,  o’  guid  blue  hair, 

I  wad  hae  gi’en  them  off  my  hurdies, 

For  ae  blink  o’  the  bonnie  burdies  ! 

But  wither’d  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Pigwoodie  hags,  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Lowping  an’  flinging  on  a  cummock, 

I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn’d  what  was  what  fu’  braw- 
lie, 

There  was  a  winsome  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core 
(Lang  after  kenn’d  on  Carrick  shore  ; 

For  monv  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 

And  perish’d  mony  a  bonnie  boat, 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear). 

Her  cutty  sark,  o’  Paisley  harn, 

That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 

In  longitude  tho’  sorely  scanty, 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.— 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


875 


Ah  !  little  kenn’d  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 

Wi’  twa  pund  Scots  (’twas  a’  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  of  witches  ! 

But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cour ; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow’r  ; 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  strang), 

And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitch’d, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich’d  ; 

Even  Satan  glowr’d,  and  fidged  fu’  fain, 
And  hotch’d  and  blew  wi’  might  and 
main  : 

’Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 

Tam  tint  his  reason  a’  thegither, 

And  roars  out,  “  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  !” 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark : 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 

When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi’  angry  fyke, 

When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke  ; 
As  open  pussie’s  mortal  foes, 

When,  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose  ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 

When  “Catch  the  thief!”  resounds  aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi’  mony  an  eldritch  screech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam !  ah,  Tam !  thou’ll  get  thy 
fairin’  ! 

In  hell  they’ll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin’ ! 

In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  cornin’ ! 

Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu’  woman  ! 

Now  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 

And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig ; 

There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 

A  running  stream  they  darena  cross  ! 

But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 

The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake  ! 

For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 

Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 

And  flew  at  Tam  wi’  furious  ettle  ; 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie’s  mettle — 

Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 

But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 

The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 

And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o’  truth  shall  read, 

Ilk  man  and  mother’s  son,  take  heed : 


Whene’er  to  drink  you  are  inclined, 

Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 

Think  !  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o’er  dear — 
Remember  Tam  o’  Shanter’s  mare. 

Robert  Burns 

- K>« - 

The  Hag. 

The  hag  is  astride, 

This  night  for  to  ride — 

The  devil  and  she  together ; 

Through  thick  and  through  thin, 

Now  out  and  then  in, 

Though  ne’er  so  foul  be  the  weather. 

A  thorn  or  a  bur 
She  takes  for  a  spur  ; 

With  a  lash  of  the  bramble  she  rides  now: 
Through  brakes  and  through  briers, 

O’er  ditches  and  mires, 

She  follows  the  spirit  that  guides  now. 

No  beast,  for  his  food, 

Dares  now  range  the  wood, 

But  husht  in  his  lair  he  lies  lurking  ; 
While  mischiefs,  by  these, 

On  land  and  on  seas, 

At  noon  of  night  are  a-working. 

The  storm  will  arise, 

And  trouble  the  skies, 

This  night ;  and,  more  the  wonder, 

The  ghost  from  the  tomb 
Affrighted  shall  come, 

Call’d  out  by  the  clap  of  the  thunder. 

Robert  Herrick. 

-  »o»  — 

Sister  Helen. 

“Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man, 

Sister  Helen  ? 

To-day  is  the  third  since  you  began.” 

“  The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three  days  to-day,  between  hell  and 
heaven !) 

“  But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright. 

Sister  Helen, 

You’ll  let  me  play,  for  you  said  I  might.’’ 

“  Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-niglit, 

Little  brother.” 


876 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Third  night,  to-night,  between  hell  and 
heaven !) 

“You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell, 

Sister  Helen, 

If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well.’, 

“  Even  so, — nay,  peace  !  you  cannot  tell, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Oh  what  is  this  between  hell  and  heaven?) 

“  Oh  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day, 

Sister  Helen ; 

How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropp’d  away!” 
“  Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you  say, 

Little  brother  ?” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  of  the  dead,  between  hell  and 
heaven?) 

“  See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood, 

Sister  Helen, 

Shines  through  the  thinn’d  wax  red  as 
blood !” 

“  Nay,  now,  when  look’d  you  yet  on  blood, 

Little  brother?” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
LIow  pale  she  is  between  hell  and  heaven  !) 

“  Now  close  your  eyes,  for  they’re  sick  and 
sore, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  I’ll  play  without  the  gallery  door.” 

“  Ay,  let  me  rest, — I’ll  lie  on  the  floor, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  rest  to-night  between  hell  and 
heaven  ?) 

“  Here  high  up  in  the  balcony, 

Sister  Helen, 

The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me.” 

“  Ay,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  sight  to-night,  between  hell  and 
heaven?) 

“  Outside  it’s  merry  in  the  wind’s  wake, 

Sister  Helen ; 

In  the  shaken  trees  the  chill  stars  shake.” 
“Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread  as  you 
spake, 


Little  brother  ?” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  sound  to-night,  between  hell  and 
heaven?) 

“  I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see, 

Sister  Helen, 

Three  horsemen,  that  ride  terribly.” 

“  Little  brother,  whence  come  the  three, 

Little  brother  ?” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Whence  should  they  come,  between  hell 
and  heaven  ? ) 

“  They  come  by  the  hill-verge  from  Boyne 
Bar, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar.” 

“  Look,  look,  do  you  know  them  who  they 
are, 

Little  brother?” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Who  should  they  be  between  hell  and 
heaven?) 

“  Oh,  it’s  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast.” 
“  The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last, 

Little  brother.” 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  hour  at  last  between  hell  and  heaven  !) 

“  He  has  made  a  sign  and  call’d,  Halloo, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  he  says  that  he  would  speak  with  you.” 
“  Oh  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew, 

Little  brother.” 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Why  laughs  she  thus  between  hell  and 
heaven?) 

“  The  wind  is  loud,  but  I  hear  him  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 

That  Keith  of  Ewern’s  like  to  die.” 

“  And  he  and  thou,  and  thou  and  I, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
And  they  and  we  between  hell  and  heaven.) 

“  For  three  days  now  he  has  lain  abed, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead.” 

“  The  thing  may  chance  if  he  have  pray’d. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


877 


Little  brother.” 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

I  f  he  have  pray’d  between  hell  and  heaven ! ) 

“  But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day, 

Sister  Helen, 

That  you  should  take  your  curse  away.” 

“  My  prayer  was  heard — he  need  but  pray, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Shall  God  not  hear  between  hell  and 
heaven?) 

“  But  he  says,  till  you  take  bank  your  ban, 

Sister  Helen, 

His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can.” 

“  Nay,  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man, 

Little  brother  ?” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

A  living  soul  between  hell  and  heaven !) 

“  But  he  calls  for  ever  on  your  name, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame.” 

“  My  heart  for  his  pleasure  fared  the  same, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Fire  at  the  heart  between  hell  and  heaven !) 

“  Here’s  Keith  of  Westholm  riding  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  plume  on  the  blast.” 
“  The  hour,  the  sweet  hour,  I  forecast, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Is  the  hour  sweet  between  hell  and  heaven?) 

“  He  stops  to  speak,  and  he  stills  his  horse, 

Sister  Helen ; 

But  his  words  are  drown’d  in  the  wind’s 
course.” 

“  Nay,  hear!  nay,  hear!  you  must  hear  per¬ 
force, 

Little  brother !” 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

A  word  ill  heard  between  hell  and  heaven  !) 

“  Oh,  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern’s  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 

Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die.” 

‘  He  sees  me  in  earth,  in  moon,  and  sky, 

Little  brother.” 


(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Earth,  moon,  and  sky  between  hell  and 
heaven !) 

“  He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Boyne.” 
“  What  else  he  broke  will  he  ever  join, 

Little  brother?” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Oh  never  more  between  hell  and  heaven  !) 

“  He  yields  you  these  and  craves  full  fain, 

Sister  Helen, 

You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain.” 

“  What  else  he  took  will  he  give  again, 

Little  brother?” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

No  more,  no  more,  between  hell  and 
heaven !) 

“  He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony, 

Sister  Helen, 

That  even  dead  Love  must  weep  to  see.” 

“  Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he, 

Little  brother !” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Love  turn’d  to  hate  between  hell  and 
heaven  !) 

“  Oh,  it’s  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides 
fast, 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast.” 

“  The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Will  soon  be  past,  between  hell  and 
heaven ! ) 

“  He  looks  at  me,  and  he  tries  to  speak, 

Sister  Helen, 

But  oh,  his  voice  is  sad  and  weak !” 

“  What  here  should  the  mighty  Baron 
seek, 

Little  brother?” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Is  this  the  end,  between  hell  and  heaven?) 

“  Oh,  his  son  still  cries  if  you  forgive, 

Sister  Helen, 

The  body  dies,  but  the  soul  shall  live.” 

“  Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive, 

Little  brother.” 


87  8 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

As  she  forgives  between  hell  and  heaven !) 

“  Oh,  he  prays  you  as  his  heart  would 
rive, 

Sister  Helen, 

To  save  his  dear  son’s  soul  alive.” 

“  Nay,  flame  cannot  slay  it;  it  shall  thrive, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Alas,  alas,  between  hell  and  heaven!) 

“  He  cries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road, 

Sister  Helen, 

To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God !” 

“  The  way  is  long,  to  his  son’s  abode, 

Little  brother.” 

0 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  way  is  long  between  hell  and  heaven!) 

“  O  Sister  Helen,  you  heard  the  bell, 

Sister  Helen ; 

More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell.” 
“No  vesper-chime,  but  a  dying  knell, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

His  dying  knell,  between  hell  and  heaven!) 

“  Alas,  but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound, 

Sister  Helen ; 

Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground?” 

“Say,  have  they  turn’d  their  horses  round, 

Little  brother?” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  would  she  more,  between  hell  and 
heaven  ? ) 

They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his 
knee, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily.” 

“  More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  naked  soul,  between  hell  and  heaven!) 

“  Oh,  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  weary  sad  they  look  by  the  hill.” 

“  But  Keith  of  Ewern’s  sadder  still, 

Little  brother.” 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Most  sad  of  all,  between  hell  and  heaven!) 


“  See,  see,  the  wax  has  dropp’d  from  its 
place, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  the  flames  are  winning  up  apace.” 

“  Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space, 

Little  brother.” 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Here  for  a  space,  between  hell  ana 
heaven  !) 

“  Ah  !  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has 
cross’d, 

Sister  Helen? 

Ah  !  what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost?” 

“  A  soul  that’s  lost  as  mine  is  lost, 

Little  brother.” 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Lost,  lost,  all  lost,  between  hell  and 
heaven !) 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 

—  ■  •O* - 

The  Abbot  Ml  Kin  non. 

M'Kixxox’s  tall  mast  salutes  the  day, 

And  beckons  the  breeze  in  Iona  bay  ; 

Plays  lightly  up  in  the  morning  sky, 

And  nods  to  the  green  wave  rolling  by ; 
The  anchor  upheaves,  the  sails  unfurl, 

The  pennons  of  silk  in  the  breezes  curl ; 
But  not  one  monk  on  holy  ground 
Knows  whither  the  Abbot  M'Kinnon  is 
bound. 

Well  could  that  bark  o’er  the  ocean  glide, 
Though  monks  and  friars  alone  must 
guide ; 

For  never  man  of  other  degree 
On  board  that  sacred  ship  might  be. 

On  deck  M'Kinnon  walk’d  soft  and  slow  ; 
The  haulers  sung  from  the  gilded  prow  ; 
The  helmsman  turn’d  his  brow  to  the  skv. 
Upraised  his  cowl  and  upraised  his  eye, 
And  away  shot  the  bark  on  the  wing  of 
the  wind, 

Over  billow  and  bay  like  an  image  of 
mind. 

Aloft  on  the  turret  the  monks  appear, 

To  see  where  the  bark  of  their  abbot 
would  bear  ; 

They  saw  her  sweep  from  Iona  bay, 

And  turn  her  prow  to  the  north  away. 

Still  lessen  to  view  in  the  hazv  screen, 

And  vanish  amid  the  islands  green. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


879 


Then  they  turn’d  their  eyes  to  the  female 
.  dome, 

And  thought  of  the  nuns  till  the  abbot 
came  home. 

Three  times  the  night  with  aspect  dull 
Came  stealing  o’er  the  moors  of  Mull ; 
Three  times  the  sea-gull  left  the  deep, 

To  doze  on  the  knob  of  the  dizzy  steep, 

By  the  sound  of  the  ocean  lull’d  to  sleep  ; 
And  still  the  watch-lights  sailors  see 
On  the  top  of  the  spire,  and  the  top  of 
Dun-ye ; 

And  the  laugh  rings  through  the  sacred 
dome, 

For  still  the  abbot  is  not  come  home. 

But  the  wolf  that  nightly  swam  the  sound, 
From  Rosa’s  rude  impervious  bound,  ‘ 

On  the  ravenous  burrowing  race  to  feed, 
That  loved  to  haunt  the  home  of  the  dead, 
To  him  Saint  Columb  had  left  in  trust 
To  guard  the  bones  of  the  royal  and  just, 
Of  saints  and  of  kings  the  sacred  dust ; 
The  savage  was  scared  from  his  charnel  of 
death, 

And  swam  to  his  home  in  hunger  and 
wrath, 

For  he  momently  saw,  through  the  night 
so  dun, 

The  cowering  monk,  and  the  veiled  nun, 
Whispering,  sighing,  and  stealing  away 
By  cross  dark  alley  and  portal  gray. 

Oh,  wise  was  the  founder,  and  well  said  he, 
“  Where  there  are  women,  mischief  must 
be.” 

No  more  the  watch-fires  gleam  to  the 
blast, 

M'Kinnon  and  friends  arrive  at  last. 

A  stranger  youth  to  the  isle  they  brought, 
Modest  of  mien  and  deep  of  thought, 

In  costly  sacred  robes  bediglit, 

And  he  lodged  with  the  abbot  by  day  and 
by  night. 

His  breast  was  graceful,  and  round  withal, 
His  leg  was  taper,  his  foot  was  small, 

And  his  tread  so  light  that  it  flung  no 
sound 

On  listening  ear  or  vault  around. 

His  eye  was  the  morning’s  brightest  ray, 
And  his  neck  like  the  swan’s  in  Iona  bay ; 


His  teeth  the  ivory  polish’d  new, 

And  his  lip  like  the  morel  when  gloss’d 
with  dew, 

While  under  his  cowl’s  embroider’d  fold 
Were  seen  the  curls  of  waving  gold. 

This  comely  youth,  of  beauty  so  bright, 
Abode  with  the  abbot  by  day  and  by 
night. 

When  arm  in  arm  they  walk’d  the  isle, 
Young  friars  would  beckon,  and  monks 
would  smile ; 

But  sires,  in  dread  of  sins  unshriven, 
Would  shake  their  heads  and  look  up  to 
heaven, 

Afraid  the  frown  of  the  saint  to  see, 

Who  rear’d  their  temple  amid  the  sea, 

And  pledged  his  soul  to  guard  the  dome, 
Till  Virtue  should  fly  her  western  home. 
But  now  a  stranger  of  hidden  degree, 

Too  fair,  too  gentle  a  man  to  be — 

This  stranger  of  beauty  and  step  so  light 
Abode  with  the  abbot  by  day  and  by 
night. 

The  months  and  the  days  flew  lightly  by, 
The  monks  were  kind  and  the  nuns  were 
shv ; 

But  the  grav-hair’d  sires,  in  trembling 
mood, 

Kneel’d  at  the  altar  and  kiss’d  the  rood. 

M‘Kinnon  he  dream’d  that  the  saint  of 
the  isle 

Stood  by  his  side,  and  with  courteous 
smile, 

Bade  him  arise  from  his  guilty  sleep, 

And  pay  his  respects  to  the  God  of  the 
deep, 

In  temple  that  north  in  the  main  appear’d, 
Which  fire  from  bowels  of  ocean  had 
sear’d, 

Which  the  giant  builders  of  heaven  had 
rear’d, 

To  rival  in  grandeur  the  stately  pile 
Himself  had  uprear’d  in  Iona’s  isle ; 

For  round  them  rose  the  mountains  of 
sand, 

The  fishes  had  left  the  coasts  of  the  land, 
And  so  high  ran  the  waves  of  the  angry 
sea, 

They  had  drizzled  the  cross  on  the  top  of 
Dun-ye. 


880 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  cycle  was  closed  and  the  period  run ; 
He  had  vow’d  to  the  sea,  he  had  vow’d  to 
the  sun, 

If  in  that  time  rose  trouble  or  pain, 

Their  homage  to  pay  to  the  God  of  the 
main. 

Then  he  bade  him  haste  and  the  rites  pre¬ 
pare, 

Named  all  the  monks  should  with  him 
fare, 

And  promised  again  to  see  him  there. 

jVLKinnon  awoke  from  his  vision’d  sleep, 
He  open’d  his  casement  and  look’d  on  the 
deep  ; 

He  look’d  to  the  mountains,  he  look’d  to 
the  shore, 

The  vision  amazed  him  and  troubled  him 
sore, 

He  never  had  heard  of  the  rite  before ; 

But  all  was  so  plain,  he  thought  meet  to 
obev. 

He  durst  not  decline,  and  he  would  not 
delay. 

Uprose  the  abbot,  uprose  the  morn, 

Uprose  the  sun  from  the  Bens  of  Lorn  ; 
And  the  bark  her  course  to  the  northward 
framed, 

With  all  on  board  whom  the  saint  had 
named. 

The  clouds  were  journeying  east  the  sky, 
The  wind  was  low  and  the  swell  was  high, 
And  the  glossy  sea  was  heaving  bright 
Like  ridges  and  hills  of  liquid  light ; 
While  far  on  her  lubrick  bosom  were  seen 
The  magic  dyes  of  purple  and  green. 

How  joy’d  the  bark  her  sides  to  lave  ! 

She  lean’d  to  the  lee  and  she  girdled  the 
wave ; 

Aloft  on  the  stavless  verge  she  hung, 

Light  on  the  steep  wave  veer’d  and  swung, 
And  the  crests  of  the  billows  before  her 
flung. 

Loud  murmur’d  the  ocean  with  downward 
growl, 

The  seal  swam  aloof  and  the  dark  sea- 
fowl  ; 

The  pie-duck  sought  the  depth  of  the 
main, 

And  rose  in  the  wheel  of  her  wake  again  ; 


And  behind  her  far  to  the  southward 
shone 

A  pathway  of  snow  on  the  waste  alone. 

But  now  the  dreadful  strand  they  gain, 
Where  rose  the  sacred  dome  of  the  main  ; 
Oft  had  they  seen  the  place  before, 

And  kept  aloof  from  the  dismal  shore, 

But  now  it  rose  before  their  prow, 

And  what  they  beheld  they  did  not  know. 
The  tall  gray  forms  in  close-set  file, 
Upholding  the  roof  of  that  holy  pile  ; 

The  sheets  of  foam  and  the  clouds  of 
spray, 

And  the  groans  that  rush’d  from  the  por¬ 
tals  gray, 

Appall’d  their  hearts  and  drove  them 
away. 

'  They  wheel’d  their  bark  to  the  east  around, 
And  moor’d  in  basin,  by  rocks  imbound  ; 
Then,  awed  to  silence,  they  trode  the 
strand 

Where  furnaced  pillars  in  order  stand, 

All  framed  of  the  liquid  burning  levin, 
And  bent  like  the  bow  that  spans  the 
heaven, 

Or  upright  ranged  in  horrid  array, 

With  purfle  of  green  o’er  the  darksome 
gray. 

Their  path  was  on  wondrous  pavement  of 
old, 

Its  blocks  all  cast  in  some  giant  mould, 
Fair  hewn  and  grooved  by  no  mortal  hand, 
With  countermure  guarded  by  sea  and  by 
land. 

The  watcher  Bushella  frown’d  over  their 
way, 

Enrobed  in  the  sea-baize,  and  hooded  with 

gray ; 

The  warder  that  stands  by  that  dome  of 
the  deep, 

With  spray-shower  and  rainbow,  the  en¬ 
trance  to  keep. 

But  when  they  drew  nigh  to  the  chancel 
of  Ocean, 

And  saw  her  waves  rush  to  their  raving 
devotion, 

Astounded  and  awed  to  the  antes  they 
clung, 

And  listen’d  the  hymns  in  her  temple  she 
sung. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


881 


The  song  of  the  cliffs,  when  the  winter 
winds  blow, 

The  thunder  of  heaven,  the  earthquake 
below, 

Conjoin’d,  like  the  voice  of  a  maiden 
would  be, 

Compared  with  the  anthem  there  sung  by 
the  sea. 

The  solemn  rows  in  that  darksome  den 
Were  dimly  seen  like  the  forms  of  men, 
Like  giant  monks  in  ages  agone, 

Whom  the  God  of  the  ocean  had  sear’d  to 
stone, 

And  bound  in  his  temple  for  ever  to  lean, 
In  sackcloth  of  gray  and  visors  of  green, 
An  everlasting  worship  to  keep, 

And  the  big  salt  tears  eternally  weep. 

So  rapid  the  motion,  the  whirl  and  the 
boil, 

So  loud  was  the  tumult,  so  fierce  the  tur¬ 
moil, 

Appall’d  from  those  portals  of  terror  they 
turn, 

On  pillar  of  marble  their  incense  to  burn. 
Around  the  holy  flame  they  pray, 

Then  turning  their  faces  all  west  away, 

On  angel  pavement  each  bent  his  knee, 
And  sung  this  hymn  to  the  God  of  the 
sea. 

The  Monks’  Hymn. 

Thou,  who  makest  the  ocean  to  flow, 

Thou,  who  walkest  the  channels  below ; 

To  thee,  to  thee,  this  incense  we  heap, 
Thou,  who  knowest  not  slumber  nor  sleep, 
Great  Spirit  that  mov’st  on  the  face  of  the 
deep  ! 

To  thee,  to  thee,  we  sing  to  thee, 

God  of  the  western  wind,  God  of  the  sea ! 

To  thee,  who  bringest  with  thy  right  hand 
The  little  fishes  around  our  land  ; 

To  thee,  who  breath’st  in  the  bosom’d  sail, 
Rulest  the  shark  and  the  rolling  whale, 
Flingest  the  sinner  to  downward  grave, 
Lightest  the  gleam  on  the  mane  of  the 
wave, 

Bid’st  the  billows  thy  reign  deform, 
Laugh’st  in  the  whirlwind,  sing’st  in  the 
storm  ; 

56 


Or  risest  like  mountain  amid  the  sea, 
Where  mountain  was  never,  and  never 
will  be, 

And  rearest  thy  proud  and  thy  pale  chap- 
eroon 

’Mid  walks  of  the  angels  and  ways  of  the 
moon  ; 

To  thee,  to  thee,  this  wine  we  pour, 

God  of  the  western  wind,  God  of  the 
shower ! 

To  thee,  who  bid’st  those  mountains  of 
brine 

Softly  sink  in  the  fair  moonshine, 

And  spread’st  thy  couch  of  silver  light, 

To  lure  to  thy  bosom  the  queen  of  tli* 
night ; 

Who  weavest  the  cloud  of  the  ocean  dew, 
And  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  her  breast  sc 
blue; 

When  the  murmurs  die  at  the  base  of  the  hill. 
And  the  shadows  lie  rock’d  and  slumber¬ 
ing  still, 

And  the  solan’s  young,  and  the  lines  of 
foam, 

Are  scarcely  heaved  on  thy  peaceful  home. 
We  pour  this  oil  and  this  wine  to  thee, 
God  of  the  western  wind,  God  of  the  sea  !-- 
“  Greater  yet  must  the  offering  be.” 


The  monks  gazed  round,  the  abbot  grew 
wan, 

For  the  closing  notes  were  not  sung  by  man. 

They  came  from  the  rock,  or  they  came 
from  the  air, 

From  voice  they  knew  not,  and  knew  not 
where ; 

But  it  sung  with  a  mournful  melody, 

“  Greater  yet  must  the  offering  be.” 

In  holy  dread  they  pass’d  away, 

And  they  walk’d  the  ridge  of  that  isle  so 
gray, 

And  saw  the  white  waves  toil  and  fret, 

An  hundred  fathoms  below  their  feet; 

They  look’d  to  the  countless  isles  that  lie 

From  Barra  to  Mull,  and  from  Jura  to 
Skye  ; 

They  look’d  to  heaven,  they  look’d  to  the 
main, 

They  look’d  at  all  with  a  silent  pain, 

As  on  places  they  were  not  to  see  again. 


882 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


A  little  bay  lies  hid  from  sight, 

O’erhung  by  cliffs  of  dreadful  height ; 
When  they  drew  nigh  that  airy  steep, 

They  heard  a  voice  rise  from  the  deep, 
And  that  voice  was  sweet  as  voice  could  be, 
And  they  fear’d  it  came  from  the  Maid  of 
the  Sea. 

M’Kinnon  lay  stretch’d  on  the  verge  of 
the  hill, 

And  peep’d  from  the  height  on  the  bay  so 
still ; 

And  he  saw  her  sit  on  a  weedy  stone, 
Laving  her  fair  breast,  and  singing  alone  ; 
And  ave  she  sank  the  wave  within, 

Till  it  gurgled  around  her  lovely  chin, 
Then  comb’d  her  locks  of  the  pale  sea- 
green, 

And  aye  this  song  was  heard  between. 

The  Mermaid’s  Song. 

Matilda  of  Skye 
Alone  may  lie, 

And  list  to  the  wind  that  whistles  by: 

Sad  may  she  be, 

For  deep  in  the  sea, 

Deep,  deep,  deep  in  the  sea, 

This  night  her  lover  shall  sleep  with  me. 

She  may  turn  and  hide 

From  the  spirits  that  glide, 

And  the  ghost  that  stands  at  her  bedside : 

But  never  a  kiss  the  vow  shall  seal, 

/ 

Nor  warm  embrace  her  bosom  feel ; 

Ij'or  far,  far  down  in  the  floors  belowr, 

Moist  as  this  rock-weed,  cold  as  the  snow, 
With  the  eel,  and  the  clam,  and  the  pearl 
of  the  deep, 

On  soft  sea-flowers  her  lover  shall  sleep ; 
And  long  and  sound  shall  his  slumber  be, 
In  the  coral  bowers  of  the  deep  with  me. 

The  trembling  sun,  far,  far  away, 

Shall  pour  on  his  couch  a  soften’d  ray, 
And  his  mantle  shall  wave  in  the  flowing 
tide, 

And  the  little  fishes  shall  turn  aside  ; 

But  the  waves  and  the  tides  of  the  sea 
shall  cease, 

Ere  wakes  her  love  from  his  bed  of  peace. 
No  home! — no  kiss! — No,  never!  never! 
His  couch  is  spread  for  ever  and  ever. 


The  abbot  arose  in  dumb  dismay, 

They  turn’d  and  fled  from  the  height 
away, 

For  dark  and  portentous  was  the  day. 

When  they  came  in  view  of  their  rocking 
sail, 

They  saw  an  old  man  who  sat  on  the  wale  ; 

His  beard  was  long  and  silver-gray, 

Like  the  rime  that  falls  at  the  break  of 
day  ; 

His  locks  like  wool  and  his  color  wan, 

And  he  scarcely  look’d  like  an  earthly 
man. 

They  ask’d  his  errand,  they  ask’d  his 
name, 

Whereunto  bound,  and  whence  he  came  ; 

But  a  sullen,  thoughtful  silence  he  kept. 

And  turn’d  his  face  to  the  sea  and  wept. 

Some  gave  him  welcome,  and  some  gave 
him  scorn, 

But  the  abbot  stood  pale,  with  terror  o’er- 
borne ; 

He  tried  to  be  jocund,  but  trembled  the 
more, 

For  he  thought  he  had  seen  the  face  be¬ 
fore. 

Away  wrent  the  ship  with  her  canvas  all 
spread, 

So  glad  to  escape  from  that  island  of 
dread ; 

And  skimm’d  the  blue  wave  like  a  streamer 
of  light, 

Till  fell  the  dim  veil  ’twixt  the  day  and 
the  night. 

Then  the  old  man  arose  and  stood  up  on 
the  prowT, 

And  fix’d  his  dim  eyes  on  the  ocean  be¬ 
low  ; 

And  they  heard  him  saying,  “Oh,  woe  is 
me  ! 

But  great  as  the  sin  must  the  sacrifice 
be.” 

Oh,  mild  was  his  eye,  and  his  manner 
sublime, 

When  he  look’d  unto  heaven,  and  said, 
“  Now  is  the  time.” 

He  look’d  to  the  weather,  he  look’d  to  the 
lee, 

He  look’d  as  for  something  he  dreaded  to 
see. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


883 


Then  stretch’d  his  pale  hand,  and  pointed 
his  eye 

To  a  gleam  on  the  verge  of  the  eastern 
sky. 

The  monks  soon  beheld,  on  the  lofty  Ben- 
More, 

A  sight  which  they  never  had  seen  before, 

A  belt  of  blue  lightning  around  it  was 
driven, 

And  its  crown  was  encircled  by  morion  of 
heaven  ; 

And  thev  heard  a  herald  that  loud  did  crv, 

“  Prepare  the  way  for  the  abbot  of  I !” 

Then  a  sound  arose,  they  knew  not  where, 

It  came  from  the  sea  or  it  came  from  the 
air, 

’Twas  louder  than  tempest  that  ever  blew. 

And  the  sea-fowls  scream’d,  and  in  terror 
flew ; 

Some  ran  to  the  cords,  some  kneel’d  at  the 
shrine, 

But  all  the  wild  elements  seem’d  to  com¬ 
bine  ; 

’Twas  just  but  one  moment  of  stir  and 
commotion, 

And  down  went  the  ship  like  a  bird  of  the 
ocean ! 

This  moment  she  sail’d  all  stately  and 
fair, 

The  next,  nor  ship  nor  shadow  was  there, 

But  a  boil  that  arose  from  the  deep  below  ; 

A  mountain-gurgling  column  of  snow : 

It  sunk  away  with  a  murmuring  moan — 

The  sea  is  calm,  and  the  sinners  are  gone. 

James  Hogg. 

■ - Kx - 

The  Neck  an. 

In  summer,  on  the  headlands, 

The  Baltic  Sea  along, 

Sits  Neckan  with  his  harp  of  gold, 

And  sings  his  plaintive  song. 

Green  rolls,  beneath  the  headlands, 

Green  rolls  the  Baltic  Sea ; 

And  there,  below  the  Neckan’s  feet, 

His  wife  and  children  be. 

He  sings  not  of  the  ocean, 

Its  shells  and  roses  pale; 

Of  earth,  of  earth  the  Neckan  sings — 
He  hath  no  other  tale. 


He  sits  upon  the  headlands, 

And  sings  a  mournful  stave 
Of  all  he  saw  and  felt  on  earth, 

Far  from  the  kind  sea- wave. 

Sings  how,  a  knight,  he  wander’d 
By  castle,  field,  and  town — 

But  earthly  knights  have  harder  hearts 
Than  the  sea-children  own. 

Sings  of  his  earthly  bridal — 

Priest,  knights,  and  ladies  gay. 

“ — And  who  art  thou,”  the  priest  began, 
“Sir  Knight,  who  wedd’st  to-day?” — 

“ — I  am  no  knight,”  he  answer’d; 

“From  the  sea-waves  I  come.” — 

The  knights  drew  sword,  the  ladies  scream'd, 
The  surpliced  priest  stood  dumb. 

He  sings  how  from  the  chapel 
He  vanish’d  with  his  bride, 

And  bore  her  down  to  the  sea-halls, 
Beneath  the  salt  sea-tide. 

He  sings  how  she  sits  weeping 
’Mid  shells  that  round  her  lie. 

“ — False  Neckan  shares  my  bed,”  she 
weeps ; 

“  No  Christian  mate  have  I.” — 

He  sings  how  through  the  billows 
He  rose  to  earth  again, 

And  sought  a  priest  to  sign  the  cross, 

That  Neckan  heaven  might  gain. 

He  sings  how,  on  an  evening, 

Beneath  the  birch  trees  cool, 

He  sate  and  play’d  his  harp  of  gold, 

Beside  the  river-pool. 

Beside  the  pool  sate  Neckan — 

Tears  fill’d  his  mild  blue  eye. 

On  his  white  mule,  across  the  bridge, 

A  cassock’d  priest  rode  by. 

“  — Why  sitt’st  thou  there,  O  Neckan, 

And  play’st  thv  harp  of  gold? 

Sooner  shall  this,  my  staff,  bear  leaves, 
Than  thou  shalt  heaven  behold.” 

But  lo,  the  staff,  it  budded ! 

It  green’d,  it  branch’d,  it  waved. 

“ — O  ruth  of  God,”  the  priest  cried  out. 
“This  lost  sea-creature  saved  !” 


884 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  cassock’d  priest  rode  onward, 

And  vanish’d  with  his  mule ; 

But  Neckan  in  the  twilight  gray 
Wept  by  the  river-pool. 

He  wept :  “  The  earth  hath  kindness, 
The  sea,  the  starry  poles  ; 

Earth,  sea,  and  sky,  and  God  above — 
But,  ah,  not  human  souls !” 

In  summer,  on  the  headlands, 

The  Baltic  Sea  along, 

Sits  Neckan  with  his  harp  of  gold, 

And  sings  this  plaintive  song. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

■■  ■■■  »o« - 

Hallo,  my  Fancy. 

In  melancholic  fancy, 

Out  of  myself, 

In  the  vulcan  dancy, 

All  the  world  surveying, 

Nowhere  staying, 

Just  like  a  fairy  elf; 

Out  o’er  the  tops  of  highest  mountains 
skipping, 

Out  o’er  the  hills,  the  trees  and  valleys 
tripping, 

Out  o’er  the  ocean  seas,  without  an  oar  or 
shipping. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Amidst  the  misty  vapors, 

Fain  would  I  know 
What  doth  cause  the  tapers; 

Why  the  clouds  benight  us, 

And  affright  us 

While  we  travel  here  below. 

Fain  would  I  know  what  makes  the  roaring 
thunder, 

And  what  these  lightnings  be  that  rend 
the  clouds  asunder, 

And  what  these  comets  are  on  which  we 
gaze  and  wonder. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Fain  would  I  know  the  reason 
Why  the  little  ant, 

All  the  summer  season, 

Layeth  up  provision, 

On  condition 

To  know  no  winter’s  want: 


And  how  housewives,  that  are  so  good  and 
painful, 

Do  unto  their  husbands  prove  so  good  and 
gainful, 

And  why  the  lazy  drones  to  them  do  prove 
disdainful. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Ships,  ships,  I  will  descry  you 
Amidst  the  main ; 

I  will  come  and  try  you 
What  you  are  protecting, 

And  projecting, 

What’s  your  end  and  aim. 

One  goes  abroad  for  merchandise  and 
trading, 

Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from 
invading, 

A  third  is  coming  home  with  rich  and 
wealth  of  lading. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go? 

When  I  look  before  me, 

There  I  do  behold 
There’s  none  that  sees  or  knows  me ; 
All  the  world’s  a-gadding, 

Running  madding, 

None  doth  his  station  hold. 

He  that  is  below  envieth  him  that  risetli, 
And  he  that  is  above,  him  that’s  below 
despiseth, 

So  every  man  his  plot  and  counterplot 
deviseth. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Look,  look,  what  bustling 
Here  I  do  espy ; 

Each  another  jostling, 

Every  one  turmoiling, 

Th’  other  spoiling, 

As  I  did  pass  them  by. 

One  sitteth  musing  in  a  dumpish  passion, 
Another  hangs  his  head,  because  he’s  out 
of  fashion, 

A  third  is  fully  bent  on  sport  and  recrea¬ 
tion. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Amidst  the  foamy  ocean, 

Fain  would  I  know 
What  doth  cause  the  motion, 

And  returning 
In  its  journeying, 

And  doth  so  seldom  swerve ! 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


885 


And  how  these  little  fishes,  that  swim 
beneath  salt  water, 

Do  never  blind  their  eye  ;  methinks  it  is  a 
matter 

An  inch  above  the  reach  of  old  Erra 
Pater ! 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go? 

Fain  would  I  be  resolved 
How  things  are  done  ; 

And  where  the  bull  was  calved 
Of  bloody  Phalaris, 

And  where  the  tailor  is 

That  works  to  the  man  i’  the 
moon ! 

Fain  would  I  know  how  Cupid  aims  so 
rightly ; 

And  how  these  little  fairies  do  dance  and 
leap  so  lightly  ; 

And  where  fair  Cynthia  makes  her  ambles 
nightly. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

In  conceit  like  Phaeton, 

I’ll  mount  Phoebus’  chair, 

Having  ne’er  a  hat  on, 

All  my  hair  a-burning 
In  my  journeying, 

Hurrying  through  the  air'. 

Fair  would  I  hear  his  fiery  horses  neigh¬ 
ing, 

And  see  how  they  on  foamy  bits  are  play¬ 
ing; 

All  the  stars  and  planets  I  will  be  survey¬ 
ing ! 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Oh,  from  what  ground  of  nature 
Doth  the  pelican, 

That  self-devouring  creature, 

Prove  so  froward 
And  untoward, 

Her  vitals  for  to  strain  ? 

And  whv  the  subtle  fox,  while  in  death’s 
wounds  is  lying, 

Doth  not  lament  his  pangs  by  howling  and 
by  crying  ; 

And  why  the  milk-white  swan  doth  sing 
when  she’s  a-dying. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go?  , 


Fain  would  I  conclude  this, 

At  least  make  essav, 

What  similitude  is; 

Whv  fowls  of  a  feather 
Flock  and  fly  together, 

And  lambs  know  beasts  of  prey  : 
How  Nature’s  alchymists,  these  small 
laborious  creatures, 

Acknowledge  still  a  prince  in  ordering 
their  matters, 

And  suffer  none  to  live,  who  slothing  lose 
their  features. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

I’m  rapt  with  admiration, 

When  I  do  ruminate, 

Men  of  an  occupation, 

How  each  one  calls  him  brother, 

Yet  each  envieth  other, 

And  yet  still  intimate  ! 

Yea,  I  admire  to  see  some  natures  farther 
sund’red, 

Than  antipodes  to  us.  Is  it  not  to  be 
wond’red, 

In  myriads  ye’ll  find,  of  one  mind  scarce 
a  hundred? 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go? 

What  multitude  of  notions 
Doth  perturb  my  pate, 
Considering  the  motions, 

How  the  heavens  are  preserved, 
And  this  world  served 

In  moisture,  light,  and  heat ! 

If  one  spirit  sits  the  outmost  circle  turning, 
Or  one  turns  another,  continuing  in  jour¬ 
neying, 

If  rapid  circles’  motion  be  that  which 
they  call  burning ! 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go? 

Fain  also  would  I  prove  this, 

By  considering 

What  that,  which  you  call  love,  is : 
Whether  it  be  a  folly 
Or  a  melancholy, 

%J  7 

Or  some  heroic  thing ! 

Fain  I’d  have  it  proved,  by  one  whom  love 
hath  wounded, 

And  fully  upon  one  his  desire  hath  founded. 
Whom  nothing  else  could  please  though 
the  world  were  rounded. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go? 


886 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


To  know  this  world’s  centre, 

Height,  depth,  breadth,  and 
length, 

Fain  would  I  adventure 
To  search  the  hid  attractions 
Of  magnetic  actions, 

And  adamantine  strength. 

Fain  would  I  know,  if  in  some  lofty  moun¬ 
tain, 

Where  the  moon  sojourns,  if  there  be 
trees  or  fountain  ; 

If  there  be  beasts  of  prey,  or  yet  be  fields 
to  hunt  in. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go? 

Fain  would  I  have  it  tried 
By  experiment, 

By  none  can  be  denied ! 

If  in  this  bulk  of  nature, 

There  be  voids  less  or  greater, 

Or  all  remains  complete. 

Fain  would  I  know  if  beasts  have  any 
reason  ; 

If  falcons  killing  eagles  do  commit  a 
treason  ; 

If  fear  of  winter’s  want  make  swallows  fly 
the  season. 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Hallo,  my  fancy,  hallo ! 

Stay,  stay  at  home  with  me, 

I  can  thee  no  longer  follow, 

For  thou  hast  betray’d  me, 

And  bewray’d  me ; 

It  is  too  much  for  thee. 

Stay,  stay  at  home  with  me ;  leave  off  thy 
lofty  soaring ; 

Stay  thou  at  home  with  me,  and  on  thy 
books  be  poring ; 

For  he  that  goes  abroad  lays  little  up  in 
storing : 

Thou’rt  welcome  home,  my  fancy,  wel¬ 
come  home  to  me. 

William  Cleland. 
- *0+ - 

Pan  in  Wall  Street. 

A.  D.  1867. 

Just  where  the  Treasury’s  marble  front 
Looks  over  W all  Street’s  mingled  nations ; 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 
To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations  ; 
Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 
Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people, 


The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 
From  Trinity’s  undaunted  steeple, — 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 
Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor, 

Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction’s  hann 
mer ; 

And  swift,  on  Music’s  misty  ways, 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  millions, 

To  ancient,  sweet  do-nothing  days 
Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 

I  saw  the  minstrel,  where  he  stood 
At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar : 

One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan’s  pipe  (fashioned 

Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 
The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impas¬ 
sioned. 

’Twas  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here 
A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city, 

And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 
The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty ! 

The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas, — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and 
satyr, 

And  Syracusan  times, — to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head ; 

But — hidden  thus — there  was  no  doubt 
ing 

That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o’erspread, 

His  gnarled  horns  were  somewhere 
sprouting ; 

His  club  feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 

Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you  see 
them, 

And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues, 
Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath 
them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound. 
And  o’er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted, 

And  with  his  goat’s-eyes  looked  around 
Where’er  the  passing  current  drifted  ; 

And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear 
him, 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


887 


Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 
With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near 
him. 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 
From  Jauncey  Court  and  New  Street 
Alley, 

As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley  ; 

The  random  passers  stayed  to  list, — 

A  boxer  iEgon,  rough  and  merry, 

A  Broadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 
With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 

A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 
In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 

And  Galatea  joined  the  throng, — 

A  blowsy,  apple- vending  slattern  ; 

While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 
From  some  new-fangled  lunch  -  house 
handy, 

And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy ! 

A  news-boy  and  a  peanut-girl 
Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper : 

His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper  ; 

And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 

While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 
His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

0  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught 
her, — 

Even  here,  as  on  the  vineclad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water  ! 

New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 
Arise  within  these  ocean-portals, 

But  Music  waves  eternal  wands, — 
Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals ! 

So  thought  I, — but  among  us  trod 
A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 

And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 

Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

“Great  Pan  is  dead!” — and  all  the 
people 

Went  on  their  ways: — and  clear  and  high 
The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


Hymn  to  Neptune. 

God  of  the  mighty  deep !  wherever  now 
The  waves  beneath  thy  brazen  axles  bow — 
Whether  thy  strong,  proud  steeds,  wind- 
wing’d  and  wild, 

Trample  the  storm-vex’d  waters  round 
them  piled, 

Swift  as  the  lightning-flashes,  that  reveal 
The  quick  gyrations  of  each  brazen  wheel ; 
While  round  and  under  thee,  with  hideous 
roar, 

The  broad  Atlantic,  with  thy  scourging 
sore, 

Thundering,  like  antique  Chaos  in  his 
spasms, 

In  heaving  mountains  and  deep-yawning 
chasms 

Fluctuates  endlessly ;  while,  through  the 
gloom, 

Their  glossy  sides  and  thick  manes  fleck’d 
with  foam, 

Career  thy  steeds,  neighing  with  frantic 
glee 

In  fierce  response  to  the  tumultuous  sea, — 
Whether  thy  coursers  now  career  below, 
Where,  amid  storm-wrecks,  hoary  sea- 
plants  grow, 

Broad-leaved,  and  fanning  with  a  ceaseless 
motion 

The  pale,  cold  tenants  of  the  abysmal 
ocean — 

Oh,  come!  our  altars  waiting  for  thee 
stand 

Smoking  with  incense  on  the  level  strand ! 

Perhaps  thou  lettest  now  thy  horses  roam 
Upon  some  quiet  plain;  no  wind-toss’d 
foam 

Is  now  upon  their  limbs,  but  leisurely 
They  tread  with  silver  feet  the  sleeping 
sea, 

Fanning  the  waves  with  slowly-floating 
manes, 

Like  mist  in  sunlight;  haply,  silver  strains 
From  clamorous  trumpets  round  thy  cha¬ 
riot  ring, 

And  green-robed  sea-gods  unto  thee,  their 
king, 

Chant,  loud  in  praise :  Apollo  now  doth 
gaze 

With  loving  looks  upon  thee,  and  his 
rays 


m 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Light  up  thy  steeds’  wild  eyes:  a  pleasant 
warmth 

Is  felt  upon  the  sea,  where  fierce,  cold 
storm 

Has  just  been  rushing,  and  the  noisy 
winds, 

That  iEolus  now  within  their  prison  binds, 
Flying  with  misty  wings  :  perhaps,  below 
Thou  liest  in  green  caves,  where  bright 
things  glow 

With  myriad  colors — many  a  monster  cum¬ 
bers 

The  sand  a-near  thee,  while  old  Triton 
slumbers 

As  idly  as  his  wont,  and  bright  eyes  peep 
Upon  thee  every  way,  as  thou  dost  sleep. 

Perhaps  thou  liest  on  some  Indian  isle, 
Under  a  waving  tree,  where  many  a  mile 
Stretches  a  sunny  shore,  with  golden  sands 
Heap’d  up  in  many  shapes  by  Naiads’ 
hands, 

And,  blushing  as  the  waves  come  rippling 
on, 

Shaking  the  sunlight  from  them  as  they 
run 

And  curl  upon  the  beach — like  molten 
gold 

Thick-set  with  jewelry  most  rare  and 
old  ; 

And  sea-nvmphs  sit,  and,  with  small,  del¬ 
icate  shells, 

Make  thee  sweet  melody :  as  in  deep  dells 
We  hear,  of  summer  nights,  by  fairies 
made, 

The  while  they  dance  within  some  quiet 
shade, 

Sounding  their  silver  flutes  most  low  and 
sweet, 

In  strange  hut  beautiful  tunes,  that  their 
light  feet 

May  dance  upon  the  bright  and  misty 
dew 

In  better  time:  all  wanton  airs  that  blew 
But  lately  over  spice  trees,  now  are  here, 
Waving  their  wings,  all  odor-laden,  near 
The  bright  and  laughing  sea.  Oh,  wilt 
thou  rise, 

And  come  with  them  to  our  new  sacrifice ! 

Albert  Pike. 

■  +o+—  - 


The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  I. 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 

That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  through  the  field  the  road  runs  by 
To  many-tower’d  Camelot; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below — 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten  ;  aspens  quiver ; 

Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Through  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river, 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers  ; 

And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil’d, 

Slide  the  heavy  barges,  trail’d 
By  slow  horses ;  and,  unhail’d, 

The  shallop  flitteth,  silken-sail’d — 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 

Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 

Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river,  winding  clearly 

Down  to  tower’d  Camelot: 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers,  “  ’T  is  the  fairy 
Lady  of  Shalott.” 

PART  II. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 

She  has  heard  a  whisper  say 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 

She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be: 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 

And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


WEIRD  AND  FANTASTIC. 


889 


And,  moving  through  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 

There  she  sees  the  highway  near, 

Winding  down  to  Camelot : 
There  the  river-eddy  whirls ; 

And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 

And  the  red  cloaks  of  market-girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 

An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad — 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 

Or  long-hair’d  page,  in  crimson  clad, 
Goes  by  to  tower’d  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  through  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding,  two  and  two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror’s  magic  sights ; 

For  often,  through  the  silent  nights, 

A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or,  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 

Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 
t:  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,”  said 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III. 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves 
He  rode  between  the  barley  sheaves ; 
The  sun  came  dazzling  through  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 
Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 

A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneel’d 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 

That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter’d  free, 

Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  galaxy. 

The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot: 
And,  from  his  blazon’d  baldric  slung, 

A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung ; 

And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 


All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell’d  shone  the  saddle-leather  ; 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn’d  like  one  burning  flame  together, 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often,  through  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 

Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 
Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow’d ; 
On  burnish’d  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow’d 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash’d  into  the  crystal  mirror : 

“  Tirra  lirra,”  by  the  river, 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom  ; 

She  made  three  paces  through  the  room ; 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom ; 

She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume  ; 

She  look’d  down  to  Camelot  : 
Out  flew  the  web,  and  floated  wide ; 

The  mirror  crack’d  from  side  to  side ; 

“  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,”  cried 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  IV. 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 

The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 

The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complain¬ 
ing, 

Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower’d  Camelot ; 

Down  she  came,  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat ; 

And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river’s  dim  expanse — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 

Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 

With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 

And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 

She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 

The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


890 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Lying  robed  in  snowy  white, 

That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 

The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Tlirongh  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot. 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along, 

The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 

They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 

Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 

Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 

And  her  eyes  were  darken’d  wholly, 

Turn’d  to  tower’d  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reach’d,  upon  the  tide, 

The  first  house  bv  the  water-side, 
Singing,  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-’wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 
Silent,  into  Camelot. 

Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 

Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame  ; 

And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
in  the  lighted  palace  near 


Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ; 

And  they  cross’d  themselves  for  fear, 
All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 

But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space : 

He  said,  “  She  has  a  lovely  face ; 

God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.” 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

•Cx - 

“  Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  Wood. 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 
Walking  so  early; 

Sweet  robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

“  Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird, 

When  shall  I  marry  me?” 

“  When  six  braw7  gentlemen 
Kirkw7ard  shall  carry  ye.” 

“  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly  ?” 

“  The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

“  The  glowr-worm  o’er  grave  and  stone 
Shall  light  thee  steady ; 

The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 
Welcome,  proud  lady!” 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


tfc'c&o  4^/ 

z£^/  ^Cc^c/__^  ~~z%^L^c 


/ 


& 


(hd^ 


ry 


Humorous  and  Satirical. 


The  Courtin’. 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an’  still 
Fur’z  you  can  look  or  listen, 

Moonshine  an’  snow  on  field  an’  hill, 

All  silence  an’  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep’  up  quite  unbeknown, 

An’  peek’d  in  thru  the  winder, 

An’  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

’Ith  no  one  nigh  to  bender. 

A  fireplace  fill’d  the  room’s  one  side, 

With  half  a  cord  o’  wood  in — 

There  warn’t  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin’. 

The  wa’nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her ! 

An’  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An’  in  amongst  ’em  rusted 
The  ole  queen’s-arm  thet  gran’ther  Young 
Fetch’d  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 

Seem’d  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin’, 

An’  she  look’d  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin’. 

’Twas  kin’  o’  kingdom-come  to  look 
On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 

A  dogrose  blushin’  to  a  brook 
Ain’t  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o’  man,  A,  1, 

Clean  grit  an’  human  natur’ ; 

None  couldn’t  quicker  pitch  a  ton, 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

He’d  spark’d  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 

Hed  squired  ’em,  danced  ’em,  druv  ’em, 
Fust  this  one,  an’  then  thet,  by  spells — 
All  is,  he  couldn’t  love  ’em. 


But  long  o’  her  his  veins  ’ould  run 
All  crinkly  like  curl’d  maple, 

The  side  she  bresli’d  felt  full  o’  sun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap’il. 

She  thought  no  v’ice  hed  sech  a  swing 
Ez  hisn  in  the  choir  ;  ' 

My  !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  hiow’d  the  Lord  was  niglier. 

An’  she’d  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayerv 
When  her  new  meetin’-bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru  its  crown  a  pair 
O’  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  look’d  some  I 
She  seemed  to’ve  gut  a  new  soul, 

For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he’d  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  lieered  a  foot,  an’  know’d  it  tu, 
A-raspin’  on  the  scraper, — 

All  ways  to  once  her  feelin’s  flew 
Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper, 

He  kin’  o’  l’iter’d  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o’  the  sekle, 

His  heart  kep’  goin’  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An’  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk, 

Ez  though  she  wish’d  him  furder, 

An’  on  her  apples  kep’  to  work, 

Parin’  away  like  murder. 

“  You  want  to  see  my  pa,  I  s’pose  ?” 

“  Wal  .  .  .  .  no  .  .  .  .  I  come  dasign- 
in’  ” — 

“To  see  my  ma?  She’s  sprinklin’  clo’es 
Agin  to-inorrer’s  i’nin’.” 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 

Or  don’t,  ’ould  be  presumin’ ; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an’  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 

S91 


892 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 

Then  stood  a  spell  on  t’other, 

An’  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  couldn’t  ha’  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  “  I’d  better  call  agin 

Says  she,  “  Think  likely,  mister;” 

Thet  last  word  prick’d  him  like  a  pin, 

An’  ....  Wal,  he  up  an’  kist  her. 

When  ma  bimeby  upon  ’em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 

All  kin’  o’  smily  roun’  the  lips 
An’  teary  roun’  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes’  the  quiet  kind 
>  Whose  naturs  never  vary, 

Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 
Snow-liid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  dost  roun’  her  heart  felt  glued 
Too  tight  for  all  expressin’, 

Tell  mother  see  how  matters  stood, 

An’  gin  ’em  both  her  blessin’. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 
Down  to  the  Bay  o’  Fundy, 

An’  all  I  know  is  they  wras  cried 

In  meetin’  come  nex’  Sunday. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

•O* - 

The  Laird  o’  Cockpen. 

The  laird  o’  Cockpen  he’s  proud  and  he’s 
great, 

His  mind  is  ta’en  up  with  the  things  o’  the 
state  ; 

He  wanted  a  wife  his  brawr  house  to  keep, 
But  favor  wi’  wooin’  was  fashious  to  seek. 

Down  by  the  dyke-side  a  lady  did  dwell, 
At  his  table-head  he  thought  she’d  look 
well ; 

M’Lish’s  ae  daughter  o’  Claverse-ha’  Lee, 
A  penniless  lass  wi’  a  lang  pedigree. 

His  wig  was  weel  pouther’d,  and  as  gude 
as  new  ; 

His  waistcoat  was  white,  his  coat  it  was 
blue ; 

He  put  on  a  ring,  a  sword,  and  cock’d  hat, 
And  wha  could  refuse  the  Laird  wi’  a’ 
that  ? 


i  He  took  the  gray  mare,  and  rade  cannily — 

I  And  rapp’d  at  the  yett  o’  Claverse-ha’ 
Lee : 

“’Gae  tell  Mistress  Jean  to  come  speedily 
ben, 

She’s  wanted  to  speak  to  the  Laird  o’ 
Cockpen.” 

Mistress  Jean  was  makin’  the  elder-flower 
wine  : 

“And  ivhat  brings  the  Laird  at  sic  a  like 
time  ?” 

She  put  aff  her  apron,  and  on  her  silk 
gown, 

Her  mutch  wi’  red  ribbons,  and  gaed  awa’ 
down. 

And  when  she  cam’  ben,  he  bow’d  fu’  low, 

And  what  was  his  errand  he  soon  let  her 
know  ; 

Amazed  was  the  Laird  when  the  lady  said 
“Na;” 

And  wi’  a  laigh  curtsey  she  turned  awa’. 

Dumfounder’d  he  was — nae  sigh  did  he 
gie; 

He  mounted  his  mare — he  rade  cannily  ; 

And  aften  he  thought,  as  he  gaed  through 
the  glen, 

She’s  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o’  Cockpen. 

And  now  that  the  Laird  his  exit  had 
made, 

Mistress  Jean  she  reflected  on  what  she 
had  said  ; 

“  Oh  !  for  ane  I’ll  get  better,  it’s  waur  I’ll 
get  ten, 

I  wras  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o’  Cockpen.” 

Next  time  that  the  Laird  and  the  lady 
were  seen, 

They  were  gaun  arm-in-arm  to  the  kirk  on 
the  green. 

Now  she  sits  in  the  ha’  like  a  weel-tappit, 
hen — 

But  as  yet  there’s  nae  chickens  appear’d  at 
Cockpen. 

Lady  Carolina  Nairne. 

■  ■  »o« - 

The  Whiskers. 

The  kings  who  ruled  mankind  with  haugh¬ 
ty  sway, 

J  The  prouder  pope,  whom  even  kings  obey—  > 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


893 


Love,  at  whose  shrine  both  popes  and  mon- 
archs  fall, 

And  e’en  self-interest,  that  controls  them 
all— 

Possess  a  petty  power,  when  all  combined,  , 
Compared  with  fashion’s  influence  on  man¬ 
kind  : 

. 

For  love  itself  will  oft  to  fashion  bow : 

The  following  story  will  convince  you  how : 

A  petit  maitre  woo’d  a  fair, 

Of  virtue,  wealth,  and  graces  rare ; 

But  vainly  had  preferr’d  his  claim, 

The  maiden  own’d  no  answering  flame; 
At  length  by  doubt  and  anguish  torn, 
Suspense  too  painful  to  be  borne, 

Low  at  her  feet  he  humbly  kneel’d, 

And  thus  his  ardent  flame  reveal’d : 

“  Pity  my  grief,  angelic  fair, 

Behold  my  anguish  and  despair ; 

For  you  this  heart  must  ever  burn — 

Oh  bless  me  with  a  kind  return  ; 

My  love  no  language  can  express, 

Reward  it,  then,  with  happiness ; 

Nothing  on  earth  but  you  I  prize, 

All  else  is  trifling  in  my  eyes ; 

And  cheerfully  would  I  resign 

The  wealth  of  worlds  to  call  you  mine. 

But,  if  another  gain  your  hand, 

Far  distant  from  my  native  land, 

Far  hence  from  you  and  hope  I’ll  fly, 

And  in  some  foreign  region  die.” 

The  virgin  heard,  and  thus  replied : 

“  If  my  consent  to  be  your  bride 
Will  make  you  happy,  then  be  blest; 

But  grant  me,  first,  one  small  request  ; 

A  sacrifice  I  must  demand, 

And  in  return  will  give  my  hand.” 

“  A  sacrifice  !  Oh  speak  its  name, 

For  you  I’d  forfeit  Avealth  and  fame; 

Take  my  whole  fortune — every  cent — ” 

“  ’Twas  something  more  than  wealth  I 
meant.” 

“ Must  I  the  realms  of  Neptune  trace? 

Oh  speak  the  word — where’er  the  place, 
For  you,  the  idol  of  my  soul, 

I’d  e’en  explore  the  frozen  pole  ; 

Arabia’s  sandy  deserts  tread, 

Or  trace  the  Tigris  to  its  head.” 


“  Oh  no,  dear  sir,  I  do  not  ask 
Bo  long  a  voyage,  so  hard  a  task ; 

You  must — but  ah  !  the  boon  I  want, 

I  have  no  hope  that  you  will  grant.” 

“  Shall  I,  like  Bonaparte,  aspire 
To  be  the  world’s  imperial  sire? 

Express  the  wish,  and  here  I  vow, 

To  place  a  crown  upon  your  brow.” 

“Sir,  these  are  trifles,”  she  replied — 

“  But,  if  you  wish  me  for  your  bride, 

You  must — but  still  I  fear  to  speak — 
You’ll  never  grant  the  boon  I  seek.” 

“  O  say,”  he  cried — “  dear  angel,  say — 
What  must  I  do,  and  I  obey ; 

No  longer  rack  me  with  suspense, 

Speak  your  commands,  and  send  me 
hence.” 

“Well,  then,  dear  generous  youth!”  she 
cries, 

“  If  thus  my  heart  you  really  prize, 

And  wish  to  link  your  fate  with  mine, 
On  one  condition  I  am  thine ; 

’Twill  then  become  my  pleasing  duty 
To  contemplate  a  husband’s  beauty  ; 
And,  gazing  on  your  manly  face, 

His  feelings  and  his  wishes  trace ; 

To  banish  thence  each  mark  of  care, 
And  light  a  smile  of  pleasure  there. 

Oh  let  me,  then,  ’tis  all  I  ask, 

Commence  at  once  the  pleasing  task  ; 

Oh  let  me,  as  becomes  my  place, 

Cut  those  huge  whiskers  from  your 
face.” 

She  said — but  oh  what  strange  surprise 
Was  pictured  in  her  lover’s  eyes! 

Like  lightning  from  the  ground  he 
sprung, 

While  wild  amazement  tied  his  tongue  *. 
A  statue,  motionless,  he  gazed, 
Astonished,  horror-struck,  amazed. 

So  look’d  the  gallant  Perseus,  when 
Medusa’s  visage  met  his  ken ; 

So  look’d  Macbeth,  whose  guilty  eye 
Discern’d  an  “  air-drawn  dagger”  nigh; 
And  so  the  Prince  of  Denmark  stared, 
When  first  his  father’s  ghost  appear’d. 

At  length  our  hero  silence  broke, 

And  thus  in  wildest  accents  spoke : 


894 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


“  Cut  off  my  whiskers !  O  ye  gods  ! 

I’d  sooner  lose  my  ears  by  odds ; 

Madam,  I’d  not  be  so  disgraced, 

So  lost  to  fashion  and  to  taste, 

To  win  an  empress  to  my  arms, 

Though  blest  with  more  than  mortal 
charms. 

My  whiskers !  zounds !”  He  said  no 
more, 

But  quick  retreated  through  the  door, 
And  sought  a  less  obdurate  fair 
To  take  the  beau  with  all  his  hair. 

Samuel  Woodworth. 

■  Kx  ■  - 

The  Bumbo  at  womans  Story. 

I’m  old,  my  dears,  and  shrivell’d,  with  age, 
and  work,  and  grief, 

My  eyes  are  gone,  and  my  teeth  have  been 
drawn  by  Time,  the  thief! 

For  terrible  sights  I’ve  seen,  and  dangers 
great  I’ve  run — 

I'm  nearly  seventy  now,  and  my  work  is 
almost  done  ! 

Ah  !  I’ve  been  young  in  my  time,  and  I’ve 
play’d  the  deuce  with  men — 

I’m  speaking  of  ten  years  past — I  was 
barely  sixty  then  : 

Mv  cheeks  were  mellow  and  soft,  and  mv 
eyes  were  large  and  sweet, 

Poll  Pineapple’s  eyes  were  the  standing 
toast  of  the  Royal  Fleet. 

A  bumboat  woman  was  I,  and  I  faithfully 
served  the  ships 

With  apples  and  cakes,  and  fowls  and  beer, 
and  halfpenny  dips, 

And  beef  for  the  generous  mess,  where  the 
officers  dine  at  nights, 

And  fine  fresh  peppermint  drops  for  the 
rollicking  midshipmites. 

Of  all  the  kind  commanders  who  anchor’d 
in  Portsmouth  Bay, 

By  far  the  sweetest  of  all  was  kind  Lieu¬ 
tenant  Belaye. 

Lieutenant  Belaye  commanded  the  gun¬ 
boat  Hot  Cross  Bun, 

£he  was  seven-and-thirty  feet  in  length, 
and  she  carried  a  gun. 


With  the  laudable  view  of  enhancing  his 
country’s  naval  pride, 

When  people  inquired  her  size,  Lieutenant 
Belaye  replied, 

“  Oh,  my  ship  ?  my  ship  is  the  first  of  the 

Hundred  and  seventv-ones  !” 

*/ 

Which  meant  her  tonnage,  but  people  im¬ 
agined  it  meant  her  guns. 

Whenever  I  went  on  board  he  would 
beckon  me  down  below  : 

“  Come  down,  Little  Buttercup,  come !” 
(for  he  loved  to  call  me  so). 

And  he’d  tell  of  the  fights  at  sea  in  which 
he’d  taken  a  part, 

And  so  Lieutenant  Belaye  won  poor  Poll 
Pineapple’s  heart ! 

But  at  length  his  orders  came,  and  he  said 
one  day,  said  he, 

“  I’m  order’d  to  sail  with  the  Hot  Cross 
Bun  to  the  German  Sea.” 

And  the  Portsmouth  maidens  wept  when 
they  learnt  the  evil  day, 

For  every  Portsmouth  maid  loved  good 
Lieutenant  Belaye. 

And  I  went  to  a  back,  back  street,  with 
plenty  of  cheap,  cheap  shops, 


hand  suit  of  slops, 


And  I  went  to  Lieutenant  Belaye  (and  he 
never  suspected  me), 

And  I  enter’d  myself  as  a  chap  as  wanted 
to  go  to  sea. 

We  sail’d  that  afternoon  at  the  mystic 
hour  of  one, — 

Remarkably  nice  young  men  were  the  crew 
of  the  Hot  Cross  Bun, 

I’m  sorry  to  say  that  I’ve  heard  that  sailors 
sometimes  swear, 

But  I  never  yet  heard  a  Bun  say  anything 
wrong,  I  declare. 

When  Jack  Tars  meet,  they  meet  with  a 
“  Messmate,  ho  !  what  cheer?” 

But  here,  on  the  Hot  Cross  Bun ;  it  was 
“  How  do  you  do,  my  dear?” 

When  Jack  Tars  growl,  I  believe  they 
growl  with  a  big  big  D — 

But  the  strongest  oath  of  the  Hot  Cross 
i  Buns  was  a  mild  “  Dear  me !” 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


895 


Yet,  though  they  were  all  well-bred,  you 
could  hardly  call  them  slick  : 

Whenever  a  sea  was  on,  they  were  all 
extremely  sick ; 

And  whenever  the  weather  was  calm,  and 
the  wind  was  light  and  fair, 

They  spent  more  time  than  a  sailor  should 
on  his  back,  back  hair. 

They  certainly  shiver’d  and  shook  when 
order’d  aloft  to  run, 

And  they  scream’d  when  Lieutenant  Belaye 
discharged  his  only  gun. 

And  as  he  was  proud  of  his  gun — such 
pride  is  hardly  wrong — 

The  lieutenant  was  blazing  away  at  inter¬ 
vals  all  day  long. 

They  all  agreed  very  well,  though  at  times 
you  heard  it  said 

That  Bill  had  a  way  of  his  own  of  making 
his  lips  look  red — 

That  Joe  look’d  quite  his  age — or  some¬ 
body  might  declare 

That  Barnacle’s  long  pig-tail  was  never  his 
own,  own  hair. 

Belaye  would  admit  that  his  men  were  of 
no  great  use  to  him, 

“  But  then,”  he  would  say,  “  there  is  little 
to  do  on  a  gun-boat  trim. 

I  can  hand,  and  reef,  and  steer,  and  fire  my 
big  gun  too — 

And  it  is  such  a  treat  to  sail  with  a  gentle, 
well-bred  crew.” 

I  saw  him  every  day!  How  the  happy 
moments  sped ! 

Reef  topsails!  Make  all  taut!  There’s 
dirty  weather  ahead ! 

(I  do  not  mean  that  tempests  threaten’d 
the  Hot  Cross  Bun  : 

In  that  case  I  don’t  know  whatever  we 
should  have  done  !) 

After  a  fortnight’s  cruise,  we  put  into  port 
one  day, 

And  off  on  leave  for  a  week  went  kind 
Lieutenant  Belaye, 

And  after  a  long,  long  week  had  pass’d 
(and  it  seem’d  like  a  life) 

Lieutenant  Belaye  return’d  to  his  ship 
with  a  fair  young  wife ! 


He  up  and  he  says,  says  he,  “  O  crew  of 
the  Hot  Cross  Bun, 

Here  is  the  wife  of  my  heart,  for  the 
church  has  made  us  one.” 

And  as  he  utter’d  the  word,  the  crew  went 
out  of  their  wits, 

And  all  fell  down  in  so  many  separate 
fainting  fits. 

And  then  their  hair  came  down,  or  off',  as 
the  case  might  be, 

And  lo !  the  rest  of  the  crew  were  simple 
girls,  like  me, 

Who  all  had  fled  from  their  homes  in  a 
sailor’s  blue  array, 

To  follow  the  shifting  fate  of  kind  Lieuten¬ 
ant  Belaye. 

****** 

It’s  strange  to  think  I  should  ever  have 
loved  young  men, 

But  I’m  speaking  of  ten  years  past— I  was 
barelv  sixtv  then, 

And  now  my  cheeks  are  furrow’d  with 
grief  and  age,  I  trow  ! 

And  poor  Poll  Pineapple’s  eyes  have  lost 
their  lustre  now ! 

William  S.  Gilbert. 

- KX - 

The  Sorrows  of  Werther. 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte, 

Such  as  words  could  never  utter ; 

Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 

And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sigh’d  and  pined  and  ogled, 

And  his  passion  boil’d  and  bubbled, 

I  Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 

And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 

Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


896 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Irishman. 

There  was  a  lady  lived  at  Leith, 

A  lady  very  stylish,  man, 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  her  teeth, 

She  fell  in  love  with  an  Irishman, — 

A  nasty,  ugly  Irishman, 

A  wild,  tremendous  Irishman, 

A  tearing,  swearing,  thumping,  bumping, 
ramping,  roaring  Irishman. 

His  face  was  no  wavs  beautiful, 

For  with  small-pox  ’twas  scarr’d  across, 
And  the  shoulders  of  the  ugly  dog 
Were  almost  double  a  yard  across. 

Oh,  the  lump  of  an  Irishman, 

The  whiskey-devouring  Irishman, 
The  great  he-rogue,  with  his  wonderful 
brogue,  the  fighting,  rioting  Irish¬ 
man  ! 

One  of  his  eyes  was  bottle-green, 

And  the  other  eye  was  out,  my  dear, 
And  the  calves  of  his  wicked-looking 
legs 

Were  more  than  two  feet  about,  my  dear. 
Oh,  the  great  big  Irishman, 

The  rattling,  battling  Irishman, 

The  stamping,  ramping,  swaggering,  stag¬ 
gering,  leathering  swash  of  an 
Irishman ! 

He  took  so  much  of  Lundy-Foot 
That  he  used  to  snort  and  snuffle,  oh  ! 
And  in  shape  and  size  the  fellow’s  neck 
Was  as  bad  as  the  neck  of  a  buffalo. 
Oh,  the  horrible  Irishman, 

The  thundering,  blundering,  Irish¬ 
man, 

The  slashing,  dashing,  smashing,  lashing, 
thrashing,  hashing  Irishman  ! 

His  name  was  a  terrible  name  indeed, 
Being  Timothy  Thady  Mulligan  ; 

And  whenever  he  emptied  his  tumbler 
of  punch 

He’d  not  rest  till  he  fill’d  it  full 
again. 

The  boozing,  bruising  Irishman, 
The  ’toxicated  Irishman, 

The  whisky,  frisky,  rummy,  gummy, 
brandy,  no-dandy  Irishman  ! 


This  was  the  lad  the  lady  loved, 

Like  all  the  girls  of  quality, 

And  he  broke  the  skulls  of  the  men  of 
Leith, 

Just  by  the  way  of  jollity. 

Oh,  the  leathering  Irishman, ' 

The  barbarous,  savage  Irishman  ! 

The  hearts  of  the  maids,  and  the  gentle¬ 
men’s  heads,  were  bother’d,  I’m 
sure,  by  this  Irishman. 

William  Maginn. 


Faithless  Nelly  Gray. 

A  Pathetic  Ballad. 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, 

And  used  to  war’s  alarms  : 

But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms ! 

Now  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  he,  “  Let  others  shoot, 

For  here  I  leave  my  second  leg, 

And  the  Forty-second  Foot!” 

The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs : 
Said  he,  “  They’re  only  pegs  ; 

But  there’s  as  wooden  Members  quite. 
As  represent  my  legs  !” 

Now,  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid, 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray ; 

So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours 
When  he’d  devour’d  his  pay ! 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 
She  made  him  quite  a  scoff; 

And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs 
Began  to  take  them  off! 

“  O  Nelly  Gray !  O  Nelly  Gray  ! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm? 

The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 
Should  be  more  uniform  !” 

Said  she,  “  I  loved  a  soldier  once, 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave  ; 

But  I  will  never  have  a  man 
With  both  legs  in  the  grave ! 

“  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes, 
Your  love  I  did  allow  ; 

But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 
Another  footing  now !” 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


897 


“  G  Nelly  Gray  !  0  Nelly  Gray  ! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 

At  duty’s  call,  I  left  my  legs, 

In  Badajos’s  breaches  /” 

“  Why,  then,”  said  she,  “  you’ve  lost  the 
feet 

Of  legs  in  war’s  alarms, 

And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 
Upon  your  feats  of  arms!” 

“  0  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray  ! 

I  know  why  you  refuse  : — 

Though  I’ve  no  feet — some  other  man 
Is  standing  in  my  shoes ! 

“  I  wish  I  ne’er  had  seen  your  face ; 

But  now  a  long  farewell ! 

For  you  will  be  my  death  ; — alas! 

You  will  not  be  mv  Nell  /” 

V 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got, 

And  life  was  such  a  burden  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot ! 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck, 

A  rope  he  did  entwine, 

And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line. 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs, 

And,  as  his  legs  were  off — of  course 
He  soon  was  off  his  legs  ! 

And  there  he  hung,  till  he  was  dead 
As  any  nail  in  town, — 

For,  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down  ! 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died — 

And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 
With  a  stake  in  his  inside ! 

Thomas  IIood. 

- K>* - 

Faithless  Sally  Brown. 

An  Old  Ballad. 

Young  Ben  he  was  a  nice  young  man, 

A  carpenter  by  trade ; 

And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 
That  was  a  lady’s  maid. 

57 


But  as  they  fetch’d  a  walk  one  day, 

They  met  a  press-gang  crew ; 

And  Sally  she  did  faint  away, 

Whilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  boatswain  swore  with  wicked  words, 
Enough  to  shock  a  saint, 

That  though  she  did  seem  in  a  fit, 

’Twas  nothing  but  a  feint. 

“Come,  girl,”  said  he,  “hold  up  your  head. 
He’ll  be  as  good  as  me ; 

For  when  your  swain  is  in  our  boat, 

A  boatswain  he  will  be.” 

So  when  they’d  made  their  game  of  her. 
And  taken  off  her  elf, 

She  roused,  and  found  she  only  was 
A-coming  to  herself. 

“And  is  he  gone?  and  is  he  gone?” 

She  cried,  and  wept  outright : 

“  Then  I  will  to  the  waterside, 

And  see  him  out  of  sight.” 

A  waterman  came  up  to  her — 

“Now,  young  woman,”  said  he, 

“If  you  weep  on  so,  you  will  make 
Eye-water  in  the  sea.” 

“Alas  !  they’ve  taken  my  beau  Ben 
To  sail  with  old  Benbow 

And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh, 

As  if  she’d  said,  Gee  woe ! 

Says  he,  “  They’ve  only  taken  him 
To  the  Tender  ship,  you  see.” 

“  The  Tender  ship !”  cried  Sally  Brown, 

“  What  a  hard-ship  that  must  be  I 

“  Oh  !  would  I  were  a  mermaid  now, 

For  then  I’d  follow  him  ; 

But  oh  ! — I’m  not  a  fish-woman, 

And  so  I  cannot  swim. 

“Alas  !  I  was  not  born  beneath 
The  Virgin  and  the  Scales, 

So  I  must  curse  my  cruel  stars, 

And  walk  about  in  Wales.” 

Now  Ben  had  sail’d  to  many  a  place 
That’s  underneath  the  world, 

But  in  two  years  the  ship  came  home. 

And  all  her  sails  were  furl’d. 


898 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  when  he  call’d  on  Sally  Brown, 

To  see  how  she  got  on, 

He  found  she’d  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian  name  was  John. 

“  0  Sally  Brown  !  0  Sally  Brown  ! 

How  could  you  serve  me  so  ? 

I’ve  met  with  many  a  breeze  before, 

But  never  such  a  blow.” 

Then  reading  on  his  ’bacco-box, 

He  heaved  a  bitter  sigh, 

And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe, 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  “All’s  well,” 
But  could  not,  though  he  tried ; 

His  head  was  turn’d,  and  so  he  chew’d 
His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

His  death,  which  happen’d  in  his  berth, 
At  forty-odd  befell : 

They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 
The  sexton  toll’d  the  bell. 

Thomas  Hood. 


The  Well  of  St.  Keyne. 

A  well  there  is  in  the  west  country, 

And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen ; 

There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 
But  has  heard  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne. 

An  oak  and  an  elm  tree  stand  beside, 

And  behind  doth  an  ash  tree  grow, 

And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 
Droops  to  the  water  below. 

A  traveller  came  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne; 
Joyfully  he  drew  nigh, 

For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  travelling, 
And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 
For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he ; 

And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank 
Under  the  willow  tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  house  hard  by 
At  the  well  to  fill  his  pail ; 

On  the  well-side  he  rested  it, 

And  he  bade  the  stranger  hail. 


“Now,  art  thou  a  bachelor,  stranger?” 
quoth  he ; 

“  For  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife, 

The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this 
day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

“  Or  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast, 
Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been  ? 

For  an  if  she  have,  I’ll  venture  my  life, 
She  has  drank  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne.” 

“  I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was 
here,” 

The  stranger  he  made  reply  ; 

“  But  that  my  draught  should  be  the  better 
for  that, 

I  pray  you  answer  me  why.” 

“  St.  Keyne,”  quoth  the  Cornish-man, 
“  many  a  time 
Drank  of  this  crvstal  well ; 

And  before  the  angel  summon’d  her, 

She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

“  If  the  husband  of  this  gifted  well 
Shall  drink  before  his  wife, 

A  happy  man  thenceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  be  master  for  life. 

“  But  if  the  wife  should  drink  of  it  first, — 
God  help  the  husband  then  !” 

The  stranger  stoopt  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne, 
And  drank  of  the  water  again. 

“You  drank  of  the  well,  I  warrant,  be¬ 
times?” 

He  to  the  Cornish-man  said  ; 

But  the  Cornish-man  smiled  as  the  stranger 
spake, 

And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

“  I  hasten’d  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was 
done, 

And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch; 

But  i’  faith  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 

For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church.” 

Robert  Southey. 


Where  are  you  Going,  my 
Pretty  Maid? 

“  Where  are  you  going,  my  pretty  maid  V 
“  I  am  going  a-milking,  sir,”  she  said. 


'THEN  I  can't  marry 
NOBODY  ASKED  YOU, 


YOU,  MY  PRETTY  MAID'.1 
SIR  !  "  SHE  SAID  . 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


8te. 


“May  I  go  with  you,  my  pretty  maid?” 

“  You’re  kindly  welcome,  sir,”  she  said. 

“  What  is  your  father,  my  pretty  maid  ?” 

“  My  father’s  a  farmer,  sir,”  she  said. 

“  What  is  your  fortune,  my  pretty  maid?” 
“  My  face  is  my  fortune,  sir,”  she  said. 
“Then  I  can’t  marry  you,  my  pretty 
maid?” 

“Nobody  asked  you,  sir,”  she  said. 

Author  Unknown. 

- K>« - 

Tiie  Old  Man  Dreams. 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring  ! 

I’d  rather  laugh  a  bright-hair’d  boy 
Than  reign  a  gray-beard  king ! 

Off  with  the  spoils  of  wrinkled  age ! 

AwTay  with  learning’s  crown  ! 

Tear  out  life’s  wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood’s  fount  of  flame! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame ! 

My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 

“  If  I  but  touch  thy  silver’d  hair, 

Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

“  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 
To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 

While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wish’d-for  day  ?” 

Ah  !  truest  soul  of  womankind ! 

Without  thee  wThat  were  life  ? 

One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind  : 

I’ll  take — my — precious — wife  ! 

The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 

“  The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  husband,  too  !” 

“  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 
Before  the  change  appears? 

Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years  !” 


“  Why,  yes ;  for  memory  would  recall 
My  fond  paternal  joys  ; 

I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all : 

I’ll  take — my — girl — and — boys  !” 

The  smiling  angel  dropp’d  his  pen — 

“  Why,  this  will  never  do ; 

The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father,  too  !” 

And  so  I  laugh’d — my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning 
broke, 

To  please  the  gray -hair’d  boys. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 
- •<>« - 

Baucis  and  Philemon. 

Ix  ancient  times,  as  story  tells, 

The  saints  would  often  leave  their  cells, 
And  stroll  about,  but  hide  their  quality, 
To  try  good  people’s  hospitality. 

It  happen’d  on  a  winter  night, 

As  authors  of  the  legend  write, 

Two  brother  hermits,  saints  by  trade, 
Taking  their  tour  in  masquerade, 
Disguised  in  tatter’d  habits,  wrent 
To  a  small  village  down  in  Kent ; 

Where,  in  the  strollers’  canting  strain, 
They  begg’d  from  door  to  door  in  vain, 
Tried  every  tone  might  pity  win  ; 

But  not  a  soul  would  let  them  in. 

Our  wandering  saints,  in  woeful  state, 
Treated  at  this  ungodly  rate, 

Having  through  all  the  village  past, 

To  a  small  cottage  came  at  last 
Where  dwelt  a  good  old  honest  ye’man, 
Call’d  in  the  neighborhood  Philemon  ; 
Who  kindly  did  these  saints  invite 
In  his  poor  hut  to  pass  the  night  ; 

And  then  the  hospitable  sire 
Bid  Goodv  Baucis  mend  the  fire ; 

While  he  from  out  the  chimney  took 
A  flitch  of  bacon  off  the  hook, 

And  freely  from  the  fattest  side 
Cut  out  large  slices  to  be  fried  ; 

Then  stepp’d  aside  to  fetch  them  drink, 
Fill’d  a  large  jug  up  to  the  brink, 

And  saw  it  fairly  twice  go  round  ; 

Yet  (what  was  wonderful)  they  found 
’Twas  still  replenish’d  to  the  top, 

As  if  they  ne’er  had  touch’d  a  drop. 


000 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  good  old  couple  were  amazed, 

And  often  on  each  other  gazed  ; 

For  both  were  frighten'd  to  the  heart, 

And  just  began  to  cry  “  What  ar’t?” 

Then  softly  turn'd  aside  to  view 
Whether  the  lights  were  burning  blue. 

The  gentle  pilgrims,  soon  aware  on’t, 

Told  them  their  calling  and  their  errand : 
“  Good  folks,  you  need  not  be  afraid, 

We  are  but  saints,”  the  hermits  said  ; 

“  No  hurt  shall  come  to  you  or  yours  : 

But  for  that  pack  of  churlish  boors, 

Not  fit  to  live  on  Christian  ground, 

They  and  their  houses  shall  be  drown’d ; 
While  you  shall  see  your  cottage  rise, 

And  grow  a  church  before  your  eves.” 
They  scarce  had  spoke,  when  fair  and 
soft, 

The  roof  began  to  mount  aloft  ; 

Aloft  rose  every  beam  and  rafter  ; 

The  heavy  wall  climb’d  slowly  after. 

The  chimney  widen’d,  and  grew  higher, 
Became  a  steeple  with  a  spire. 

The  kettle  to  the  top  was  hoist, 

And  there  stood  fasten’d  to  a  joist, 

But  with  the  up  side  down,  to  show 
Its  inclination  for  below  : 

In  vain  ;  for  a  superior  force 
Applied  at  bottom  stops  its  course  : 
Doom’d  ever  in  suspense  to  dwell, 

’Tis  now  no  kettle,  but  a  bell. 

A  wooden  jack,  which  had  almost 
Lost  by  disuse  the  art  to  roast, 

A  sudden  alteration  feels, 

Increased  by  new  intestine  wheels  ; 

And,  what  exalts  the  wonder  more, 

The  number  made  the  motion  slower. 

The  flier,  though  it  had  leaden  feet, 
Turn’d  round  so  quick  you  scarce  could 
see’t ; 

But,  slacken’d  by  some  secret  power, 

Now  hardly  moves  an  inch  an  hour. 

The  jack  and  chimney,  near  allied, 

Had  never  left  each  other’s  side  ; 

The  chimney  to  a  steeple  grown, 

The  jack  would  not  be  left  alone ; 

But,  up  against  the  steeple  rear’d, 

Became  a  clock,  and  still  adhered  ; 

And  still  its  love  to  household  cares, 

By  a  shrill  voice  at  noon,  declares, 
Warning  the  cook-maid  not  to  burn 
That  roast  meat  which  it  cannot  turn. 


The  groaning  chair  began  to  crawl, 

Like  a  huge  snail,  along  the  wall ; 

There  stuck  aloft  in  public  view, 

And  with  small  change,  a  pulpit  grew. 

The  porringers,  that  in  a  row 
Hung  high,  and  made  a  glittering  show 
To  a  less  noble  substance  changed, 

Were  now  but  leathern  buckets  ranged. 

The  ballads  pasted  on  the  wall, 

Of  Joan  of  France,  and  English  Moll, 
Fair  Bosamond,  and  Bobin  Hood, 

The  little  Children  in  the  Wood, 

Now  seem’d  to  look  abundance  better, 
Improved  in  picture,  size,  and  letter : 

And,  high  in  order  placed,  describe 
The  heraldry  of  every  tribe. 

A  bedstead  of  the  antique  mode, 
Compact  of  timber  many  a  load, 

Such  as  our  ancestors  did  use, 

Was  metamorphosed  into  pews  ; 

Which  still  their  ancient  nature  keep 
By  lodging  folks  disposed  to  sleep. 

The  cottage,  by  such  feats  as  these, 
Grown  to  a  church  by  just  degrees, 

The  hermits  then  desired  their  host 
To  ask  for  what  he  fancied  most. 
Philemon,  having  paused  a  while, 

Beturn’d  them  thanks  in  homely  style ; 
Then  said,  “  My  house  is  grown  so  fine, 
Methinks,  I  still  would  call  it  mine. 

I’m  old,  and  fain  would  live  at  ease ; 

Make  me  the  parson  if  you  please.” 

He  spoke,  and  presently  he  feels 
His  grazier’s  coat  fall  down  his  heels : 

He  sees,  yet  hardly  can  believe, 

About  each  arm  a  pudding  sleeve  ; 

His  waistcoat  to  a  cassock  grew, 

And  both  assumed  a  sable  hue ; 

But,  being  old,  continued  just 
As  threadbare,  and  as  full  of  dust. 

His  talk  was  now  of  tithes  and  dues  : 

He  smoked  his  pipe,  and  read  the  news ; 
Knew  how  to  preach  old  sermons  next, 
Vamp’d  in  the  preface  and  the  text; 

At  christenings  well  could  act  his  part, 
And  had  the  service  all  by  heart; 

Wish’d  women  might  have  children  fast, 
And  thought  whose  sow  had  farrow'd  last; 
Against  dissenters  would  repine, 

And  stood  up  firm  for  “  right  divine ;” 
Found  his  head  fill’d  with  many  a  system  ; 
But  classic  authors, — he  ne’er  miss’d  ’em. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


901 


Thus  having  furbish’d  up  a  parson, 
Dame  Baucis  next  they  play’d  their  farce  on. 
Instead  of  homespun  coifs,  were  seen 
Good  pinners  edged  with  colberteen  ; 

Her  petticoat,  transform’d  apace, 

Became  black  satin,  flounced  with  lace. 

“  Plain  Goody  ”  would  no  longer  down, 
’Twas  “Madame,”  in  her  grogram  gown. 
Philemon  was  in  great  surprise, 

And  hardly  could  believe  his  eyes. 

Amazed  to  see  her  look  so  prim, 

And  she  admired  as  much  at  him. 

Thus  happy  in  their  change  of  life, 
Were  several  years  this  man  and  wife  : 
When  on  a  day,  which  proved  their  last, 
Discoursing  o’er  old  stories  past, 

They  went  by  chance,  amid  their  talk, 

To  the  churchyard  to  take  a  walk  ; 

When  Baucis  hastily  cried  out, 

“  My  dear,  I  see  your  forehead  sprout !” — 
“  Sprout !”  quoth  the  man  ;  “  What’s  this 
you  tell  us  ? 

I  hope  you  don’t  believe  me  jealous  ! 

But  yet,  methinks  I  feel  it  true, 

And  really  yours  is  budding  too — 

Nay, — now  I  cannot  stir  my  foot ; 

It  feels  as  if  ’twere  taking  root.” 

Description  would  but  tire  my  Muse, 

In  short,  they  both  were  turn’d  to  yews. 
Old  Goodman  Dobson  of  the  green 
Remembers  he  the  trees  has  seen  ; 

He’ll  talk  of  them  from  noon  till  night, 
And  goes  with  folks  to  show  the  sight  ; 

On  Sundays  after  evening  prayer, 

He  gathers  all  the  parish  there  ; 

Points  out  the  place  of  either  yew, 

Here  Baucis,  there  Philemon  grew  : 

Till  once  a  parson  of  our  town, 

To  mend  his  barn,  cut  Baucis  down  ; 

At  which,  ’tis  hard  to  be  believed 
How  much  the  other  tree  was  grieved, 
Grew  scrubbed,  died  a-top,  was  stunted. 

So  the  next  parson  stubb’d  and  burnt  it. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


Take  thy  Old  Cloak  about 
thee . 

This  winters  weather  itt  waxeth  cold, 
And  frost  doth  freese  on  every  hill, 
And  Boreas  blowes  his  blasts  soe  bold, 
That  all  our  cattell  are  like  to  spill ; 


Bell  my  wiffe,  who  loves  noe  strife, 

Shee  sayd  unto  me  quietlye, 

Rise  up,  and  save  cow  Cumbockes  liffe, 
Man,  put  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He. 

O  Bell,  why  dost  thou  flyte  “  and  scorne  ?” 

Thou  kenst  my  cloak  is  very  thin : 

Itt  is  soe  bare  and  overworne 
A  cricke  he  theron  cannot  renn  : 

Then  lie  no  longer  borrowe  nor  lend, 

“  For  once  lie  new  appareld  bee, 
To-morrow  lie  to  towne  and  spend,” 

For  lie  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 

She. 

Cow  Cumbocke  is  a  very  good  cowe, 

Shee  ha  beene  alwayes  true  to  the  payle, 
Shee  has  helpt  us  to  butter  and  cheese,  I 
trow, 

And  other  things  shee  will  not  fayle  ; 

I  wold  be  loth  to  see  her  pine, 

Good  husband,  councell  take  of  mee, 

It  is  not  for  us  to  go  soe  fine, 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He. 

My  cloake  it  was  a  very  good  cloake, 

Itt  hath  been  always  true  to  the  weare, 
But  now  it  is  not  worth  a  groat ; 

I  have  had  it  four  and  forty  yeere; 
Sometime  itt  was  of  cloth  in  graine, 

’Tis  now  but  a  sigh  clout  as  you  may  see, 
It  will  neither  hold  out  winde  nor  raine  ; 
And  lie  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 

She. 

It  is  four  and  fortye  yeeres  agoe 
Since  the  one  of  us  the  other  did  ken, 
And  we  have  had  betwixt  us  towe 
Of  children  either  nine  or  ten ; 

Wee  have  brought  them  up  to  women  and 
men  ; 

In  the  feare  of  God  I  trow  they  bee ; 
And  why  wilt  thou  thyselfe  misken  ? 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He. 

0  Bell  my  wiffe,  wdiy  dost  thou  “  floute  ?” 

Now  is  no  we  and  then  was  then  : 

Seeke  now  all  the  world  throughout. 

Thou  kenst  not  clownes  from  gentlemen 


902 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


They  are  clad  in  blacke,  greene,  yellow,  or 
gray, 

Soe  far  above  their  owne  degree  : 

Once  in  my  life  He  “  doe  as  they,” 

For  lie  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 

She. 

King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peere, 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crowne, 

He  held  them  sixpence  all  too  deere  ; 

Therefore  he  called  the  taylor  Lowne. 
He  was  a  wight  of  high  renowne, 

And  thouse  but  of  a  low  degree  : 

Itt’s  pride  that  putts  this  countrye  downe, 
Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He. 

‘  Bell  my  wife  she  loves  not  strife, 

Yet  she  will  lead  me  if  she  can  ; 

And  oft,  to  live  a  quiet  life, 

I  am  forced  to  yield,  though  Ime  good- 
man 

Itt’s  not  for  a  man  with  a  woman  to  tlireape, 
Unlesse  he  first  gave  oer  the  plea : 

A.s  wee  began  wee  now  will  leave, 

And  lie  take  mine  old  cloake  about  mee. 

Author  Unknown. 

- *o#_ 

The  Bachelors  Dream. 

My  pipe  is  lit,  my  grog  is  mix’d, 

My  curtains  drawn  and  all  is  snug ; 

Old  Puss  is  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  Tray  is  sitting  on  the  rug. 

Last  night  I  had  a  curious  dream, 

Miss  Susan  Bates  was  Mistress  Mog — 
What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog? 

She  look’d  so  fair,  she  sang  so  well, 

I  could  but  woo,  and  she  was  won ; 
Myself  in  blue,  the  bride  in  white, 

The  ring  was  placed,  the  deed  was  done ! 
Away  we  went  in  chaise-and-four, 

As  fast  as  grinning  boys  could  flog — 
What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat, 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog? 

What  loving  tete-d-tetes  to  come ! 

But  tete-d-tetes  must  still  defer  ! 

When  Susan  came  to  live  with  me, 

Her  mother  came  to  live  with  her  ! 


With  Sister  Belle  she  couldn’t  part, 

But  all  my  ties  had  leave  to  jog — 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

The  mother  brought  a  pretty  Poll — 

A  monkey,  too,  what  work  he  made ! 
The  sister  introduced  a  beau, 

My  Susan  brought  a  favorite  maid. 

She  had  a  tabby  of  her  own, — 

A  snappish  mongrel  christen’d  Gog, — 
What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog? 

The  monkey  bit,  the  parrot  scream’d, 

All  day  the  sister  strumm’d  and  sung; 
The  petted  maid  was  such  a  scold  ! 

My  Susan  learn’d  to  use  her  tongue ; 
Her  mother  had  such  wretched  health, 
She  sate  and  croak’d  like  any  frog — 
What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

No  longer  Deary,  Duck,  and  Love, 

I  soon  came  down  to  simple  “  M !” 

The  very  servants  cross’d  my  wish, 

My  Susan  let  me  down  to  them. 

The  poker  hardly  seem’d  my  own, 

I  might  as  well  have  been  a  log — 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

My  clothes  they  were  the  queerest  shape  ! 

Such  coats  and  hats  she  never  met ! 

My  ways  they  were  the  oddest  ways  ! 

My  friends  were  such  a  vulgar  set ! 

Poor  Tompkinson  was  snubb’d  and  huff’d 
She  could  not  bear  that  Mister  Blogg — 
What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

At  times  we  had  a  spar,  and  then 
Mamma  must  mingle  in  the  song — 

The  sister  took  a  sister’s  part — 

The  maid  declared  her  master  wrong — 
The  parrot  learn’d  to  call  me  “  Fool !” 

My  life  was  like  a  London  fog — 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog? 

My  Susan’s  taste  was  superfine, 

As  proved  by  bills  that  had  no  end ; 
/never  had  a  decent  coat — 

/never  had  a  coin  to  spend ! 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL . 


903 


She  forced  me  to  resign  my  club, 

Lay  down  my  pipe,  retrench  my  grog — 
What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

Each  Sunday  night  we  gave  a  rout 
To  fops  and  flirts,  a  pretty  list  ; 

And  when  I  tried  to  steal  away, 

I  found  my  study  full  of  whist ! 

Then,  first  to  come  and  last  to  go, 

There  always  was  a  Captain  Hogg — 
What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

Now  was  not  that  an  awful  dream 
For  one  who  single  is  and  snug, 

With  Pussy  in  the  elbow-chair, 

And  Tray  reposing  on  the  rug? — 

If  I  must  totter  down  the  hill, 

’Tis  safest  done  without  a  clog — 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 

What  d’ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

Thomas  Hood. 

- 

A  Serenade. 

“Lullaby,  O,  lullaby!” 

Thus  I  heard  a  father  cry. 

“  Lullaby,  0,  lullaby ! 

The  brat  will  never  shut  an  eye; 
Hither  come,  some  power  divine  ! 

Close  his  lids,  or  open  mine !” 

“  Lullaby,  O,  lullaby  ! 

What  the  devil  makes  him  cry? 

Lullaby,  O,  lullaby! 

Still  he  stares — I  wonder  why, 

Why  are  not  the  sons  of  earth 
Blind,  like  puppies,  from  their  birth?” 

“  Lullaby,  O,  lullaby  !” 

Thus  I  heard  the  father  cry ; 

“  Lullaby,  O,  lullaby ! 

Mary,  you  must  come  and  try ! — 
Hush,  oh,  hush,  for  mercy’s  sake — 

The  more  I  sing,  the  more  you  wake !” 

“  Lullaby,  O,  lullaby ! 

Fie,  you  little  creature,  fie! 

Lullaby,  O,  lullaby ! 

Is  no  poppy-syrup  nigh  ? 

Give  him  some,  or  give  him  all, 

I  am  nodding  to  his  fall !” 


“  Lullaby,  O,  lullaby  ! 

Two  such  nights  and  I  shall  die! 
Lullaby,  0,  lullaby ! 

He’ll  be  bruised,  and  so  shall  I — 

How  can  I  from  bedposts  keep, 

When  I’m  walking  in  my  sleep  ?” 

“  Lullaby,  O,  lullaby  ! 

Sleep  his  very  looks  deny — 

Lullaby,  O,  lullaby ! 

Nature  soon  will  stupefy — 

My  nerves  relax — my  eyes  grow  dim — 
Who’s  that  fallen — me  or  him  ?” 

Thomas  Hood. 

- »<>•—  — 

Ode  to  my  Little  Son. 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf! 

(But  stop — first  let  me  kiss  away  that 
tear) — 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself! 

(My  love,  he’s  poking  peas  into  his  ear!) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite! 

With  spirits  feather-light, 

Untouch’d  by  sorrow,  and  unsoil’d  by  sin — 
(Good  heavens !  the  child  is  swallowing  a 
pin!) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 

With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the 
air — 

(The  door !  the  door !  he’ll  tumble  down 
the  stair !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 

(Why,  Jane,  he’ll  set  his  pinafore  afire!) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 

In  Love’s  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright 
a  link, 

Thou  idol  of  thy  parents — (Drat  the  boy  ! 

There  goes  my  ink  !) 

Thou  cherub — but  of  earth  ; 

Fit  playfellow  for  Fays,  by  moonlight 
pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth — 

(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  its  tail ! ) 
Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting 
honey 

From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that 
blows, 

Singing  in  youth’s  elysium  ever  sunny — 
(Another  tumble! — that’s  his  precious 
nose ! ) 


904 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Thy  father’s  pride  and  hope ! 

(He’ll  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping- 
rope  ! ) 

With  pure  heart  newly  stamp’d  from 
Nature’s  mint — 

(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint?) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove ! 

(He’ll  have  that  jug  off,  with  another 
shove !) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  Hymeneal  nest! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best?) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 

(He’ll  climb  upon  the  table,  that’s  his 
plan !) 

Touch’d  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawn¬ 
ing  life — 

(He’s  got  a  knife  !) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 

No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  fore¬ 
seeing, 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John ! 

Toss  the  light  ball — bestride  the  stick — 

(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him 
sick !) 

With  fancies,  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 

Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic 
brisk, 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk  — 

(He’s  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your 
gown !) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose  ! 

(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your 
nose !) 

Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  south — 

(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth !) 

Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its 
star — 

(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar!) 

Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove — 

(I’ll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 

I  cannot  write,  unless  he’s  sent  above  !) 

Thomas  Hood. 


The  Lost  Heir. 

“  Oh  where,  and  oh  where, 

Is  my  bonny  laddie  gone?” — Old  Song. 

One  day,  as  I  was  going  by 

That  part  of  Holborn  christen’d  High, 

I  heard  a  loud  and  sudden  cry 


That  chill’d  mv  verv  blood  ; 

And  lo !  from  out  a  dirty  alley, 

Where  pigs  and  Irish  wont  to  rally, 

I  saw  a  crazy  woman  sally, 

Bedaub’d  with  grease  and  mud. 

She  turn’d  her  east,  she  turn’d  her  west, 
Staring  like  Pythoness  possest, 

With  streaming  hair  and  heaving  breast, 
As  one  stark  mad  with  grief. 

This  way  and  that  she  wildly  ran, 

Jostling  with  woman  and  with  man — 

Her  right  hand  held  a  frying-pan, 

The  left  a  lump  of  beef. 

At  last  her  frenzy  seem’d  to  reach 
A  point  just  capable  of  speech, 

And  with  a  tone  almost  a  screech, 

As  wild  as  ocean  birds, 

Or  female  Ranter  moved  to  preach, 

She  gave  her  “  sorrow  words 

“  O  Lord  !  O  dear !  my  heart  will  break,  I 
shall  go  stick  stark  staring  wild ! 
Has  ever  a  one  seen  anything  about  the 
streets  like  a  crying  lost-looking 
child  ? 

Lawk  help  me,  I  don’t  know  where  to  look, 
or  to  run,  if  I  only  knew  which  way — 
A  Child  as  is  lost  about  London  streets, 
and  especially  Seven  Dials,  is  a 
needle  in  a  bottle  of  hay. 

I  am  all  in  a  quiver — get  out  of  my  sight, 
do,  you  wretch,  you  little  Kitty 
M’Nab  ! 

You  promised  to  have  half  an  eye  to  him, 
you  know  you  did,  you  dirty  deceit¬ 
ful  young  drab. 

The  last  time  as  ever  I  see  him,  poor  thing, 
was  with  my  own  blessed  Motherly 
eyes, 

Sitting  as  good  as  gold  in  the  gutter,  a- 
playing  at  making  little  dirt  pies. 

I  wonder  he  left  the  court  where  he  was  bet¬ 
ter  off  than  all  the  other  young  boys, 
With  two  bricks,  an  old  shoe,  nine  oyster- 
shells,  and  a  dead  kitten  by  way  of 
toys. 

When  his  Father  comes  home — and  he 
always  comes  home  as  sure  as  ever 
the  clock  strikes  one — 

He’ll  be  rampant,  he  will,  at  his  child  be¬ 
ing  lost ;  and  the  beef  and  the 
inguns  not  done ! 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


905 


La  bless  you,  good  folks,  mind  your  own 
consarns,  and  don’t  be  making  a 
mob  in  the  street ; 

O  Sergeant  M’Farland  !  you  have  not  come 
across  my  poor  little  boy,  have  you 
in  your  beat? 

Do,  good  people,  move  on  !  don’t  stand 
staring  at  me  like  a  parcel  of  stupid 
stuck  pigs ; 

Saints  forbid  !  but  he’s  p’r’aps  been  in- 
viggled  away  up  a  court  for  the  sake 
of  his  clothes  by  the  prigs ; 

He’d  a  very  good  jacket,  for  certain,  for  I 
bought  it  myself  for  a  shilling  one 
day  in  Rag  Fair, 

And  his  trowsers  considering  not  very 
much  patch’d,  and  red  plush,  they 
was  once  his  Father’s  best  pair. 

His  shirt,  it’s  very  lucky  I’d  got  washing 
in  the  tub,  or  that  might  have  gone 
with  the  rest  ; 

But  he’d  got  on  a  very  good  pinafore  with 
only  two  slits  and  a  burn  on  the  breast. 

He’d  a  goodish  sort  of  hat,  if  the  crown 
was  sew’d  in,  and  not  quite  so  much 
jagg’d  at  the  brim. 

With  one  shoe  on,  and  the  other  shoe  is  a 
boot,  and  not  a  fit,  and  you’ll  know 
by  that  if  it’s  him. 

Except  being  so  well  dress’d,  my  mind 
would  misgive,  some  old  beggar 
woman,  in  want  of  an  orphan, 

Had  borrow’d  the  child  to  go  a-begging 
with,  but  I’d  rather  see  him  laid 
out  in  his  coffin  ! 

Do,  good  people,  move  on,  such  a  rabble 
of  boys !  I’ll  break  every  bone  of 
’em  I  come  near, 

Go  home — you’re  spilling  the  porter — go 
home — Tommy  Jones,  go  along 
home  with  your  beer. 

This  day  is  the  sorrowfullest  day  of  my 
life,  ever  since  my  name  was  Betty 
Morgan, 

Them  vile  Savoyards !  they  lost  him  once 
before  all  along  of  following  a 
Monkey  and  an  Organ  : 

0  my  Billy — my  head  will  turn  right 
round — if  he’s  got  kiddynapp’d  with 
them  Italians, 

They’ll  make  him  a  plaster  parish  image 
boy,  they  will,  the  outlandish  tat¬ 
terdemalions. 


Billy — where  are  you,  Billy? — I’m  as  hoarse 
as  a  crow  with  screaming  for  ye,  you 
young  sorrow ! 

And  sha’n’t  have  half  a  voice,  no  more  I 
sha’n’t,  for  crying  fresh  herrings  to¬ 
morrow. 

0  Billy,  you’re  bursting  my  heart  in  two, 
and  my  life  won’t  be  of  no  more  vallv, 

If  I’m  to  see  other  folks’  darlins,  and  none 
of  mine,  playing  like  angels  in  our 
alley ; 

And  what  shall  I  do  but  cry  out  my  eyes, 
when  I  looks  at  the  old  three-legged 
chair 

As  Billy  used  to  make  coach  and  horses  of, 
and  there  ain’t  no  Billy  there? 

I  would  run  all  the  wide  world  over  to  find 
him,  if  I  only  know’d  where  to  run. 

Little  Murphy,  now  I  remember,  was  once 
lost  for  a  month  through  stealing  a 
penny  bun, — 

The  Lord  forbid  of  any  child  of  mine !  I 
think  it  would  kill  me  raily 

To  find  my  Bill  koldin’  up  his  little  inno¬ 
cent  hand  at  the  Old  Bailey. 

For  though  I  say  it  as  oughtn’t,  yet  I  will 
say,  you  may  search  for  miles  and 
mileses 

And  not  find  one  better  brought  up,  and 
more  pretty  behaved,  from  one  end 
to  t’other  of  St.  Giles’s. 

And  if  I  call’d  him  a  beauty,  it’s  no  lie, 
but  only  as  a  mother  ought  to  speak ; 

You  never  set  eyes  on  a  more  handsomer 
face,  only  it  hasn’t  been  wash’d  for 
a  week  ; 

As  for  hair,  tho’  it’s  red,  it’s  the  most  nicest 
hair  when  I’ve  time  to  just  show  it 
the  comb ; 

I’ll  owe  ’em  five  pounds,  and  a  blessing 
besides,  as  will  only  bring  him  safe 
and  sound  home. 

He’s  blue  eyes,  and  not  to  be  call’d  a  squint, 
though  a  little  cast  lie’s  certainly  got ; 

And  his  nose  is  still  a  good  un,  tho’  the 
bridge  is  broke  by  his  falling  on  a 
pewter  pint  pot ; 

He’s  got  the  most  elegant  wide  mouth  in  the 
world, and  very  large  teeth  for  his  age ; 

And  quite  as  fit  as  Mrs.  Murdockson’s  child 
to  play  Cupid  on  the  Drury  Lane 
stage. 


906 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  then  he  has  got  such  dear  winning 
ways — but  oh  I  never,  never  shall 
see  him  no  more  ! 

Oh  dear !  to  think  of  losing  him  just  after 
nussing  him  back  from  death’s  door ! 

Only  the  very  last  month  when  the  windfalls, 
hang  ’em,  was  at  twenty  a  penny ! 

And  the  threepence  he’d  got  by  grottoing 
was  spent  in  plums,  and  sixty  for  a 
child  is  too  many. 

And  the  Cholera  man  came  and  white¬ 
wash’d  us  all,  and,  drat  him,  made 
a  seize  of  our  hog. — 

It’s  no  use  to  send  the  Crier  to  cry  him 
about,  he’s  such  a  blunderin’  drunk¬ 
en  old  dog ; 

The  last  time  he  was  fetch’d  to  find  a  lost  ' 
child,  he  was  guzzling  with  his  bell 
at  the  Crown, 

And  went  and  cried  a  boy  instead  of  a  girl, 
for  a  distracted  mother  and  father 
about  town. 

Billy — where  are  you,  Billy,  I  say  ?  come, 
Billy,  come  home,  to  your  best  of 
mothers  ! 

I’m  scared  when  I  think  of  them  Cabroleys, 
they  drive  so,  they’d  run  over  their 
own  sisters  and  brothers. 

Or  may  be  he’s  stole  by  some  chimbly- 
sweeping  wretch,  to  stick  fast  in 
narrow  flues,  and  what  not, 

And  be  poked  up  behind  with  a  pick’d 
pointed  pole,  when  the  soot  has 
ketch’d,  and  the  chimbly’s  red  hot. 

Oh  I’d  give  the  whole  wide  world,  if  the 
world  was  mine,  to  clap  my  two 
longin’  eyes  on  his  face, 

For  he’s  my  darlin  of  darlins,  and  if  he 
don’t  soon  come  back,  you’ll  see 
me  drop  stone  dead  on  the  place. 

I  only  wish  I’d  got  him  safe  in  these  two 
Motherly  arms,  and  wouldn’t  I  hug 
him  and  kiss  him  ! 

Lauk !  I  never  knew  what  a  precious  he 
was — but  a  child  don’t  not  feel  like 
a  child  till  you  miss  him. 

Why,  there  he  is!  Punch  and  Judy  hunt¬ 
ing,  the  young  wretch,  it’s  that  Billy 
as  sartin  as  sin  ! 

But  let  me  get  him  home,  with  a  good  grip 
of  his  hair,  and  I’m  blest  if  he  shall 

have  a  whole  bone  in  his  skin ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


The  Twins. 

In  form  and  feature,  face  and  limb, 

I  grew  so  like  my  brother, 

That  folks  got  taking  me  for  him, 

And  each  for  one  another. 

It  puzzled  all  our  kith  and  kin, 

It  reach’d  a  fearful  pitch  ; 

For  one  of  us  was  born  a  twin, 

And  not  a  soul  knew  which. 

One  day,  to  make  the  matter  worse, 
Before  our  names  were  fix’d, 

As  we  were  being  wash’d  by  nurse, 

We  got  completely  mix’d  ; 

And  thus,  you  see,  by  Fate’s  decree, 

Or  rather  nurse’s  whim, 

My  brother  John  got  christen’d  me, 
And  I  got  christen’d  him. 

This  fatal  likeness  ever  dogg’d 
My  footsteps  when  at  school, 

And  I  was  always  getting  flogg’d 
When  John  turn’d  out  a  fool. 

I  put  this  question,  fruitlessly, 

To  every  one  I  knew, 

“  Wrhat  would  you  do,  if  you  were  me, 
To  prove  that  you  were  you  ?” 

Our  close  resemblance  turned  the  tide 
Of  my  domestic  life, 

For  somehow,  my  intended  bride 
Became  my  brother’s  wife. 

In  fact,  year  after  year  the  same 
Absurd  mistakes  went  on, 

And  when  I  died,  the  neighbors  came 

And  buried  brother  John. 

Henry  S.  Leigh. 

■ - K>« - 

The  King  of  Brentford’s  Tes¬ 
tament. 

The  noble  king  of  Brentford 
Was  old  and  verv  sick; 

He  summon’d  his  physicians 
To  wait  upon  him  quick ; 

They  stepp’d  into  their  coaches, 

And  brought  their  best  physic. 

They  cramm’d  their  gracious  master 
With  potion  and  with  pill ; 

They  drench’d  him  and  they  bled  him: 
They  could  not  cure  his  ill. 

“  Go  fetch,”  says  he,  “my  lawyer ; 

I’d  better  make  my  will.” 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


907 


The  monarch’s  royal  mandate 
The  lawyer  did  obey ; 

The  thought  of  six-and-eightpence 
Did  make  his  heart  full  gay. 

“  What  is’t,”  says  he,  “  Your  Majesty 
Would  wish  of  me  to-day?” 

“  The  doctors  have  belabor’d  me 
With  potion  and  with  pill: 

Mv  hours  of  life  are  counted, 

O  man  of  tape  and  quill ! 

Sit  down  and  mend  a  pen  or  two, 

I  want  to  make  my  will. 

“  O’er  all  the  land  of  Brentford 
I’m  lord,  and  eke  of  Kew : 

I’ve  three  per  cents,  and  five  per  cents. ; 

My  debts  are  but  a  few ; 

And  to  inherit  after  me 
I  have  but  children  two. 

“  Prince  Thomas  is  my  eldest  son, 

A  sober  prince  is  he ; 

And  from  the  day  we  breech’d  him, 

Till  now  he’s  twenty-three, 

He  never  caused  disquiet 
To  his  poor  mamma  or  me. 

“  At  school  they  never  flogg’d  him ; 

At  college,  though  not  fast, 

Yet  his  little  go  and  great  go 
He  creditably  pass’d, 

And  made  his  year’s  allowance 
For  eighteen  months  to  last. 

“  He  never  owed  a  shilling, 

Went  never  drunk  to  bed, 

He  has  not  two  ideas 
Within  his  honest  head; 

In  all  respects  he  differs 

From  my  second  son,  Prince  Ned. 

“  When  Tom  has  half  his  income 
Laid  by  at  the  year’s  end, 

Poor  Ned  has  ne’er  a  stiver 
That  rightly  he  may  spend, 

But  sponges  on  a  tradesman, 

Or  borrows  from  a  friend. 

“While  Tom  his  legal  studies 
Most  soberly  pursues, 

Poor  Ned  must  pass  his  mornings 
A-dawdling  with  the  Muse; 

While  Tom  frequents  his  banker, 
Young  Ned  frequents  the  Jews. 


“  Ned  drives  about  in  buggies, 

Tom  sometimes  takes  a  ’bus ; 

Ah,  cruel  Fate!  why  made  you 
My  children  differ  thus? 

Why  make  of  Tom  a  dullard, 

And  Ned  a  genius?” 

“You’ll  cut  him  with  a  shilling,” 
Exclaim’d  the  man  of  wits: 

“  I’ll  leave  my  wealth,”  said  Brentford, 

“  Sir  Lawyer,  as  befits, 

And  portion  both  their  fortunes 
Unto  their  several  wits.” 

“  Your  Grace  knows  best,”  the  lawyer  said, 
“  On  your  commands  I  wait.” 

“  Be  silent,  sir,”  says  Brentford  ; 

“  A  plague  upon  your  prate  ! 

Come,  take  your  pen  and  paper, 

And  write  as  I  dictate.” 

The  will,  as  Brentford  spoke  it, 

Was  writ,  and  sign’d,  and  closed ; 

He  bade  the  lawyer  leave  him, 

And  turn’d  him  round  and  dozed ; 

And  next  week  in  the  churchvard 

%) 

The  good  old  king  reposed. 

Tom,  dress’d  in  crape  and  hatband, 

Of  mourners  was  the  chief ; 

In  bitter  self-upbraidings 

Poor  Edward  sliow’d  his  grief; 

Tom  hid  his  fat,  white  countenance 
In  his  pocket  handkerchief. 

Ned’s  eyes  were  full  of  weeping. 

He  falter’d  in  his  walk  ; 

Tom  never  shed  a  tear, 

But  onward  he  did  stalk, 

As  pompous,  black,  and  solemn 
As  any  catafalque. 

And  when  the  bones  of  Brentford— 
That  gentle  king  and  just — 

With  bell,  and  book,  and  candle 
Were  duly  laid  in  dust, 

“Now,  gentlemen,”  says  Thomas, 

“  Let  business  be  discuss’d. 

“  When  late  our  sire  beloved, 

Was  taken  deadly  ill, 

Sir  Lawyer,  you  attended  him 
(I  mean  to  tax  your  bill)  ; 

And,  as  you  sign’d  and  wrote  it, 

I  prithee  read  the  will.” 


908 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  lawyer  wiped  his  spectacles, 

And  drew  the  parchment  out ; 

And  all  the  Brentford  family 
Sat  eager  round  about: 

Poor  Ned  was  somewhat  anxious, 

But  Tom  had  ne’er  a  doubt. 

“  My  son,  as  I  make  ready 
To  seek  my  last  long  home, 

Some  cares  I  have  for  Neddy, 

But  none  for  thee,  my  Tom  : 

Sobriety  and  order 

You  ne’er  departed  from. 

“Ned  hath  a  brilliant  genius, 

And  thou  a  plodding  brain  ; 

On  thee  I  think  with  pleasure, 

On  him  with  doubt  and  pain.” 

(“You  see,  good  Ned,”  says  Thomas, 

“  What  he  thought  about  us  twain.”) 

“  Though  small  was  your  allowance, 

You  saved  a  little  store ; 

And  those  who  save  a  little 
Shall  get  a  plenty  more.” 

As  the  lawyer  read  this  compliment, 
Tom’s  eyes  were  running  o’er. 

“  The  tortoise  and  the  hare,  Tom, 

Set  out,  at  each  his  pace ; 

The  hare  it  was  the  fleeter, 

The  tortoise  won  the  race  ; 

And  since  the  world’s  beginning 
This  ever  was  the  case. 

“  Ned’s  genius,  blithe  and  singing, 

Steps  gayly  o’er  the  ground  ; 

As  steadily  you  trudge  it, 

He  clears  it  with  a  bound ; 

But  dulness  has  stout  legs,  Tom, 

And  wind  that’s  wondrous  sound. 

“  O’er  fruits  and  flowers  alike,  Tom, 

You  pass  with  plodding  feet ; 

You  heed  not  one  nor  t’other, 

But  onward  go  your  beat, 

While  Genius  stops  to  loiter 
With  all  that  he  may  meet; 

“  And  ever,  as  he  wanders, 

Will  have  a  pretext  fine 
For  sleeping  in  the  morning, 

Or  loitering  to  dine, 

Or  dozing  in  the  shade, 

Or  basking  in  the  shine. 


“  Your  little  steady  eyes,  Tom, 

Though  not  so  bright  as  those 
That  restless  round  about  him 
His  flashing  genius  throws, 

Are  excellently  suited 
To  look  before  your  nose. 

“  Thank  Heaven,  then,  for  the  blinkers 
It  placed  before  your  eyes ; 

The  stupidest  are  weakest, 

The  witty  are  not  wise  ; 

Oh  bless  your  good  stupidity, 

It  is  your  dearest  prize  ! 

“  And  though  my  lands  are  wide, 

And  plenty  is  my  gold, 

Still  better  gifts  from  Nature, 

My  Thomas,  do  you  hold — 

A  brain  that’s  thick  and  heavy, 

A  heart  that’s  dull  and  cold  ; 

“  Too  dull  to  feel  depression, 

Too  hard  to  heed  distress, 

Too  cold  to  yield  to  passion 
Or  silly  tenderness. 

March  on — your  road  is  open 
To  wealth,  Tom,  and  success. 

“  Ned  sinneth  in  extravagance, 

And  you  in  greedy  lust.” 

“I’  faith,”  says  Ned,  “our  father 
Is  less  polite  than  just.” 

“  In  you,  son  Tom,  I’ve  confidence, 

But  Ned  I  cannot  trust. 

“  Wherefore,  my  lease  and  copyholds, 

My  lands  and  tenements, 

My  parks,  my  farms,  and  orchards, 

My  houses  and  my  rents, 

My  Dutch  stock,  and  my  Spanish  stock, 
My  five  and  three  per  cents., 

“  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas  ”  — 

(“  What,  all?”  poor  Edward  said  ; 

“  Well,  well,  I  should  have  spent  them, 
And  Tom’s  a  prudent  head”) — 

“  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas, — 

To  you,  in  trust  for  Ned.” 

The  wrath  and  consternation 
WThat  poet  e’er  could  trace 
That  at  this  fatal  passage 

Came  o’er  Prince  Tom  his  face ; 

The  wonder  of  the  company, 

And  honest  Ned’s  amaze  ! 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


909 


“  ’Tis  surely  some  mistake,” 
Good-naturedly  cries  Ned  ; 

The  lawyer  answer’d  gravely, 

“  ’Tis  even  as  I  said  ; 

’Twas  thus  His  Gracious  Majesty 
Ordain’d  on  his  deathbed. 

“See,  here  the  will  is  witness’d, 

And  here’s  his  autograph.” 

“  In  truth,  our  father’s  writing,” 

Says  Edward,  with  a  laugh ; 

“  But  thou  shalt  not  be  a  loser,  Tom, 
We’ll  share  it  half  and  half.” 

“  Alas  !  my  kind  young  gentleman, 

This  sharing  cannot  be  ; 

’Tis  written  in  the  testament 
That  Brentford  spoke  to  me, 

‘ 1  do  forbid  Prince  Ned  to  give 
Prince  Tom  a  halfpenny. 

“  1  He  hath  a  store  of  money, 

But  ne’er  was  known  to  lend  it; 

He  never  help’d  his  brother ; 

The  poor  he  ne’er  befriended  ; 

He  hath  no  need  of  property 
Who  knows  not  how  to  spend  it. 

“  ‘  Poor  Edward  knows  but  how  to  spend, 
And  thrifty  Tom  to  hoard  ; 

Let  Thomas  be  the  steward  then, 

And  Edward  be  the  lord ; 

And  as  the  honest  laborer 
Is  worthy  his  reward, 

“  ‘  I  pray  Prince  Ned,  my  second  son, 

And  my  successor  dear, 

To  pay  to  his  intendant 

Five  hundred  pounds  a  year; 

And  to  think  of  his  old  father, 

And  live  and  make  good  cheer.’  ” 

Such  was  old  Brentford’s  honest  testa¬ 
ment  ; 

He  did  devise  his  moneys  for  the  best, 

And  lies  in  Brentford  church  in  peace¬ 
ful  rest. 

Prince  Edward  lived,  and  money  made 
and  spent ; 

But  his  good  sire  was  wrong,  it  is  con¬ 
fess’d, 

To  say  his  son,  young  Thomas,  never  lent. 

He  did.  Young  Thomas  lent  at  interest, 

And  nobly  took  his  twenty-five  per  cent. 


Long  time  the  famous  reign  of  Ned  endured 
O’er  Chiswick,  Fulham,  Brentford,  Put¬ 
ney,  K%w  ; 

But  of  extravagance  he  ne’er  was  cured ; 
And  when  both  died,  as  mortal  men  will 
do, 

’Twas  commonly  reported  that  the  steward 
Was  very  much  the  richer  of  the  two. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

- K>« - 

Little  Billee. 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  City 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea, 

But  first  with  beef  and  captain’s  biscuits 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

There  was  gorging  Jackand  guzzling  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee ; 
Now  when  they’d  got  as  far  as  the  Equator 
They’d  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

“  I  am  extremely  hungaree.” 

To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 

“  We’ve  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we.” 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

“  With  one  another  we  shouldn’t  agree! 
There’s  little  Bill,  he’s  young  and  tender, 
We’re  old  and  tough,  so  let’s  eat  he.” 

“O  Billy!  we’re  going  to  kill  and  eat  you. 
So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie.” 
When  Bill  received  this  information, 

He  used  his  pocket-handkerchie. 

“  First  let  me  say  my  catechism 
Which  my  poor  mammy  taught  to  me.” 

“  Make  haste  !  make  haste !”  says  guzzling 
Jimmy, 

While  Jack  pull’d  out  his  snickersnee. 

So  Billy  went  up  to  the  main-top-gallant 
mast, 

And  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee ; 
He  scarce  had  come  to  the  twelfth  com¬ 
mandment, 

When  up  he  jumps — “  There’s  land  I  see ! 

“Jerusalem  and  Madagascar 
And  North  and  South  Amerikee; 
There’s  the  British  flag  a-riding  at  anchor. 
With  Admiral  Napier,  K.  C.  B.” 


910 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Admiral’s, 
He  bang’d  fat  Jack  and  flogg’d  Jimmee, 
But  as  for  little  Bill,  he  made  him 
The  captain  of  a  Seventy-three. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

~  -♦<>•  — 

The  Yarn  of  the  “Nancy  Belle 

’Twas  on  the  shores  that  round  our  coast 
From  Deal  to  Ramsgate  span, 

That  I  found  alone,  on  a  piece  of  stone, 
An  elderly  naval  man. 

His  hair  was  weedy,  his  beard  was  long, 
And  weedy  and  long  was  he ; 

And  I  heard  this  wight  on  the  shore 

recite, 

In  a  singular  minor  key : — 

u  Oh,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  a  bo’sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 
And  the  crew  of  the  captain’s  gig.” 

And  he  shook  his  fists  and  he  tore  his  hair, 
Till  I  really  felt  afraid, 

For  I  couldn’t  help  thinking  the  man  had 
been  drinking, 

And  so  I  simply  said : — 

“  0  elderly  man,  it’s  little  I  know 
Of  the  duties  of  men  of  the  sea, 

And  I’ll  eat  my  hand  if  I  understand 
How  ever  you  can  be 

“  At  once  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  a  bo’sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain’s  gig !” 

« 

Then  he  gave  a  hitch  to  his  trowsers,  which 
Is  a  trick  all  seamen  larn, 

And  having  got  rid  of  a  thumping  quid, 
He  spun  this  painful  yarn  : — 

“  ’Twas  in  the  good  ship  Nancy  Bell 
That  we  sail’d  to  the  Indian  sea, 

And  there  on  a  reef  we  come  to  grief, 
Which  has  often  occurr’d  to  me. 

“  And  pretty  nigh  all  o’  the  crew  was 
drown’d 

(There  was  seventy-seven  o’  soul) ; 

And  only  ten  of  the  Nancy’s  men 
Said  ‘  Here  !’  to  the  muster-roll. 


“  There  wTas  me,  and  the  cook,  and  the 
captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  the  bo’sun  tight  and  a  midshipmite, 
And  the  crew  of  the  captain’s  gig. 

“For  a  month  we’d  neither  wittles  nor 
drink, 

Till  a-hungry  we  did  feel, 

So  we  draw’d  a  lot,  and,  accordin’,  shot 
The  captain  for  our  meal. 

“  The  next  lot  fell  to  the  Nancy’s  mate, 
And  a  delicate  dish  he  made ; 

Then  our  appetite  with  the  midshipmite 
We  seven  survivors  stay’d. 

“  And  then  we  murder’d  the  bo’sun  tight, 
And  he  much  resembled  pig; 

Then  we  wittled  free,  did  the  cook  and  me. 
On  the  crew  of  the  captain’s  gig. 

“Then  only  the  cook  and  me  was  left, 

And  the  delicate  question,  ‘  Which 
Of  us  two  goes  to  the  kettle?’  arose, 

And  we  argued  it  out  as  sich. 

“  For  I  loved  that  cook  as  a  brother,  I  did. 

And  the  cook  he  worshipp’d  me ; 

But  we’d  both  be  blow’d  if  we’d  either  be 
stow’d 

In  the  other  chap’s  hold,  you  see. 

“  ‘  I’ll  be  eat  if  you  dines  off  me,’  says 
Tom. 

‘  Yes,  that,’  says  I,  ‘you’ll  be. 

I’m  boil’d  if  I  die,  my  friend,’  quoth  I  ; 
And  ‘  Exactly  so,’  quoth  he. 

“  Says  he :  ‘  Dear  James,  to  murder  me 
Were  a  foolish  thing  to  do, 

For  don’t  you  see  that  you  can’t  cook  vie, 
While  I  can — and  will — cook  you  ?’ 

“  So  he  boils  the  water,  and  takes  the  salt 
And  the  pepper  in  portions  true 
(Which  he  never  forgot),  and  some  chopp’d 
shalot, 

And  some  sage  and  parsley  too. 

“  ‘  Come  here,’  says  he,  with  a  proper  pride, 
Which  his  smiling  features  tell ; 

‘  ’Twill  soothing  be  if  I  let  you  see 
How  extremelv  nice  vou’ll  smell.’ 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


911 


“  And  lie  stirr'd  it  round  and  round  and 
round, 

And  he  sniff’d  at  the  foaming  froth  ; 
When  I  ups  with  his  heels,  and  smothers 
his  squeals 

In  the  scum  of  the  boiling  broth. 

“  And  I  eat  that  cook  in  a  week  or  less, 
And  as  I  eating  be 

The  last  of  his  chops,  why  I  almost  drops, 
For  a  wessel  in  sight  I  see. 

****** 

“  And  I  never  larf,  and  I  never  smile, 

And  I  never  lark  nor  play  ; 

But  I  sit  and  croak,  and  a  single  joke 
I  have — which  is  to  say  : 

“  Oh,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  a  bo’sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain’s  gig!” 

William  S.  Gilbert. 

- K>« - 

Quince. 

Ne^Pv  a  small  village  in  the  West, 

Where  many  very  worthy  people 
Eat,  drink,  play  whist,  and  do  their  best 
To  guard  from  evil  church  and  steeple, 
There  stood — alas !  it  stands  no  more  ! — 

A  tenement  of  brick  and  plaster, 

Of  which,  for  forty  years  and  four, 

My  good  friend  Quince  was  lord  and 
master. 

Welcome  was  he  in  hut  and  hall 
To  maids  and  matrons,  peers  and  peas¬ 
ants  ; 

He  won  the  sympathies  of  all 

By  making  puns  and  making  presents. 
Though  all  the  parish  were  at  strife, 

He  kept  his  counsel  and  his  carriage, 
And  laugh’d,  and  loved  a  quiet  life, 

And  shrank  from  chancery  suits  and 
marriage. 

Sound  was  his  claret — and  his  head  ; 

Warm  was  his  double  ale — and  feelings; 
His  partners  at  the  whist-club  said 
That  he  was  faultless  in  his  dealings: 

He  went  to  church  but  once  a  week  ; 

Yet  Dr.  Poundtext  always  found  him 
An  upright  man  who  studied  Greek, 

And  liked  to  see  his  friends  around  him. 


Asylums,  hospitals,  and  schools, 

He  used  to  swear  were  made  to  cozen ; 

All  who  subscribed  to  them  were  fools, — 
And  he  subscribed  to  half  a  dozen: 

It  was  his  doctrine  that  the  poor 
Were  always  able,  never  willing  ; 

And  so  the  beggar  at  his  door 

Had  first  abuse,  and  then  a  shilling. 

Some  public  principles  he  had, 

But  was  no  flatterer  nor  fretter  ; 

He  rapp’d  his  box  when  things  were  bad, 
And  said,  “  I  cannot  make  them  better !” 

And  much  he  loathed  the  patriot’s  snort, 
And  much  he  scorn’d  the  placeman’s 
snuffle ; 

And  cut  the  fiercest  quarrels  short 
With  “Patience,  gentlemen,  and  shuffle!” 

For  full  ten  years  his  pointer  Speed 

Had  couch’d  beneath  her  master’s  ta¬ 
ble  ; 

For  twice  ten  years  his  old  white  steed 
Had  fatten’d  in  his  master’s  stable; 

Old  Quince  averr’d,  upon  his  troth, 

They  were  the  ugliest  beasts  in  Devon ; 

And  none  knew  why  he  fed  them  both 
With  his  own  hands  six  days  in  seven. 

Whene’er  they  heard  his  ring  or  knock, 
Quicker  than  thought  the  village  slat¬ 
terns 

Flung  down  the  novel,  smoothed  the  frock, 
And  took  up  Mrs.  Glasse  and  patterns ; 

Adine  was  studying  baker’s  bills  ; 

Louisa  look’d  the  queen  of  knitters  ; 

Jane  happen’d  to  be  hemming  frills, 

And  Bell  by  chance  was  making  fritters. 

But  all  was  vain  ;  and  while  decay 

Came  like  a  tranquil  moonlight  o’er  him, 

And  found  him  gouty  still  and  gay, 

With  no  fair  nurse  to  bless  cr  bore  him, 

His  rugged  smile  and  easy-chair, 

His  dread  of  matrimonial  lectures, 

His  wig,  his  stick,  his  powder’d  hair, 

Were  themes  for  very  strange  conjec¬ 
tures. 

Some  sages  thought  the  stars  above 

Had  crazed  him  with  excess  of  know¬ 
ledge  ; 

Some  heard  he  had  been  crost  in  love 
Before  he  came  away  from  college ; 


912 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Some  darkly  hinted  that  His  Grace 

Hid  nothing  great  or  small  without  him  ; 

Some  whisper’d  with  a  solemn  face 

That  there  was  “something  odd  about 
him !” 

I  found  him,  at  threescore  and  ten, 

A  single  man,  but  bent  quite  double ; 

Sickness  was  coming  on  him  then, 

To  take  him  from  a  world  of  trouble : 

He  prosed  of  slipping  down  the  hill, 
Discover’d  he  grew  older  daily : 

One  frosty  day  he  made  his  will, 

The  next  he  sent  for  Doctor  Bailey. 

And  so  he  lived,  and  so  he  died  ! — 

When  last  I  sat  beside  his  pillow, 

He  shook  my  hand,  and  “Ah !”  he  cried, 

“  Penelope  must  wear  the  willow. 

Tell  her  I  hugg’d  her  rosy  chain 

While  life  was  flickering  in  the  socket  ; 

And  say  that  when  I  call  again, 

I’ll  bring  a  license  in  my  pocket. 

“  I’ve  left  my  house  and  grounds  to  Fag, 

I  hope  his  master’s  shoes  will  suit  him ; 

And  I’ve  bequeathed  to  you  my  nag, 

To  feed  him  for  my  sake,  or  shoot  him. 

The  vicar’s  wife  will  take  old  Fox, 

She’ll  find  him  an  uncommon  mouser  ; 

And  let  her  husband  have  my  box, 

My  Bible,  and  my  Assmanshauser. 

“  Whether  I  ought  to  die  or  not, 

My  doctors  cannot  quite  determine ; 

It’s  only  clear  that  I  shall  rot, 

And  be  like  Priam  food  for  vermin. 

My  debts  are  paid  ;  but  Nature’s  debt 
Almost  escaped  my  recollection  : 

Tom  !  we  shall  meet  again ;  and  yet 
I  cannot  leave  you  my  direction.” 

WlNTHROF  MACKWORTH  PRAED. 

- »Oo  — 

An  Elegy  on  that  Glory  of 
her  Sex ,  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize. 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord 
Lament  for  Madame  Blaize, 

Who  never  wanted  a  good  word — 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 


The  needy  seldom  pass’d  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind  ; 

She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor — 

Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please 
With  manners  wondrous  winning; 
And  never  follow’d  wicked  ways — • 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size, 

She  never  slumber’d  in  her  pew — 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver 
By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 

The  king  himself  has  follow’d  her — 
When  she  has  walk’d  before. 

But  now,  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 

Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all, 

The  doctors  found  when  she  was  dead — 
Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament  in  sorrow  sore, 

For  Kent  street  well  may  say, 

That  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more. 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

- K>» - 

Old  Grimes. 

Old  Grimes  is  dead ;  that  good  old  man * 
We  ne’er  shall  see  him  more  : 

He  used  to  wear  a  long  black  coat, 

All  button’d  down  before. 

His  heart  was  open  as  the  day, 

His  feelings  all  were  true ; 

His  hair  was  some  inclined  to  gray, 

He  wore  it  in  a  queue. 

Whene’er  he  heard  the  voice  of  pain, 

His  breast  with  pity  burn’d  ; 

The  large,  round  head  upon  his  cane 
From  ivory  was  turn’d. 

Kind  words  he  ever  had  for  all ; 

He  knew  no  base  design  : 

His  eyes  were  dark  and  rather  small, 

His  nose  was  aquiline. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


913 


He  lived  at  peace  with  all  mankind, 

In  friendship  he  was  true  : 

His  coat  had  pocket-lioles  behind, 

His  pantaloons  were  blue. 

Unharm’d,  the  sin  which  earth  pollutes 
He  pass’d  securely  o’er  ; 

And  never  wore  a  pair  of  boots 
For  thirty  years  or  more. 

But  good  old  Grimes  is  now  at  rest, 

Nor  fears  misfortune’s  frown; 

He  wore  a  double-breasted  vest ; 

The  stripes  ran  up  and  down. 

He  modest  merit  sought  to  find, 

And  pay  it  its  desert ; 

He  had  no  malice  in  his  mind, 

No  ruffles  on  his  shirt. 

His  neighbors  he  did  not  abuse, 

Was  sociable  and  gay  ; 

He  wore  large  buckles  on  his  shoes, 

And  changed  them  every  day. 

4 

His  knowledge,  hid  from  public  gaze, 
He  did  not  bring  to  view — 

Nor  make  a  noise  town-meeting  days, 
As  many  people  do. 

His  worldly  goods  he  never  threw 
In  trust  to  Fortune’s  chances ; 

But  lived  (as  all  his  brothers  do) 

In  easy  circumstances. 

Thus,  undisturb’d  by  anxious  cares, 

His  peaceful  moments  ran  ; 

And  everybody  said  he  was 
A  fine  old  gentleman. 

Albert  G.  Greene. 

♦<>♦  ■■  -■ 

The  Vicar. 

Some  years  ago,  ere  time  and  taste 
Had  turn’d  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 

When  Darnel  Park  was  Darnel  Waste, 
And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy, 

The  man  who  lost  his  way  between 
St.  Mary’s  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket 

Was  always  shown  across  the  green, 
And  guided  to  the  parson’s  wicket. 

58 


Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lissom  lath  ; 

Fair  Margaret,  in  her  tidy  kirtle, 

Led  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path, 
Through  clean-clipp’d  rows  of  box  and 
myrtle ; 

And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 
Upon  the  parlor  steps  collected, 

Wagg’d  all  their  tails,  and  seem’d  to  say, 

“  Our  master  knows  you ;  you’re  ex¬ 
pected.” 

Up  rose  the  reverend  Doctor  Brown, 

Up  rose  the  doctor’s  ‘£  winsome  marrow 
The  lady  laid  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasp’d  his  ponderous 
Barrow. 

Whate’er  the  stranger’s  caste  or  creed, 
Pundit  or  papist,  saint  or  sinner, 

He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed, 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reach’d  his  journey’s  end, 

And  warm’d  himself  in  court  or  collegev 
He  had  not  gain’d  an  honest  friend, 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  know¬ 
ledge  ; 

If  he  departed  as  he  came, 

With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor, 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame, 
And  not  the  vicarage  nor  the  vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 
With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses; 
It  slipp’d  from  politics  to  puns, 

It  pass’d  from  Mahomet  to  Moses, 
Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 
The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 
For  dressing  eels  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine, 

Of  loud  dissent  the  mortal  terror, 

And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line, 

He  ’stablish’d  truth  or  startled  error, 
The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep, 

The  Deist  sigh’d  with  saving  sorrow. 
And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep, 

And  dream’d  of  tasting  pork  to-morrow. 

His  sermons  never  said  or  show’d 

That  earth  is  foul,  that  heaven  is  gracious, 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road, 

From  Jerome  or  from  Athanasius; 


914 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired 
The  hand  and  head  that  penn’d  and 
plann’d  them, 

For  all  who  understood  admired, 

And  some  who  did  not  understand 
them. 

He  wrote  too,  in  a  quiet  way, 

Small  treatises,  and  smaller  verses, 

And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay, 

And  hints  to  noble  lords  and  nurses ; 
True  histories  of  last  year’s  ghost ; 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban, 

And  trifles  for  the  “  Morning  Post,” 

And  nothings  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 
Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking; 

He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear, 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking ; 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad, 

He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning, 
That  if  a  man’s  belief  is  bad, 

It  will  not  be  improved  by  burning. 

And  he  was  kind,  and  loved  to  sit 
In  the  low  hut  or  garnish’d  cottage, 

And  praise  the  farmer’s  homely  wit, 

And  share  the  widow’s  homelier  pot¬ 
tage. 

At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild, 

And  when  his  hand  unbarr’d  the  shutter, 
The  clammy  lips  of  fever  smiled 

The  welcome  which  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 
Of  Julius  Csesar  or  of  Venus ; 

From  him  I  learnt  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat’s  cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Quce  genus. 

I  used  to  singe  his  powder’d  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in, 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig 
When  he  began  to  quote  Augustine. 

Alack,  the  change  !  In  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  bovhood  trifled, 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climb’d,  the  beds  I  rifled! 
The  church  is  larger  than  before, 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry ; 

It  holds  three  hundred  people  more, 

And  pews  are  fitted  up  for  gentry. 


Sit  in  the  vicar’s  seat ;  you’ll  hear 
The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 
Whose  hand  is  white,  whose  tone  is 
clear, 

Whose  phrase  is  very  Ciceronian. 

Where  is  the  old  man  laid  ?  Look  down 
And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you — 

“ Hie  jacet  Gvlielmvs  Brown, 

Vir  nulla  non  donandus  lauru.” 

Winthrop  Mack  worth  Pkaed. 

- - •<>« - 

The  Vicar  of  Bray. 

In  good  King  Charles’s  golden  days, 

When  loyalty  no  harm  meant, 

A  zealous  high-churchman  was  I, 

And  so  I  got  preferment. 

To  teach  my  flock  I  never  miss’d: 

Kings  were  by  God  appointed, 

And  lost  are  those  that  dare  resist 
Or  touch  the  Lord’s  anointed. 

And  this  is  law  that  I’ll  maintain 
Until  my  dying  day,  sir, 

That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign, 

Still  I’ll  be  the  vicar  of  Brav,  sir. 

When  royal  James  possess’d  the  crown 
And  popery  grew'  in  fashion, 

The  penal  laws  I  hooted  dowrn, 

And  read  the  declaration  ; 

The  Church  of  Rome  I  found  wmuld  fit 
Full  well  my  constitution; 

And  I  had  been  a  Jesuit, 

But  for  the  revolution. 

And  this  is  law  that  I’ll  maintain 
Until  my  dying  day,  sir, 

That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign, 

Still  I’ll  be  the  vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

When  William  wras  our  king  declared, 

To  ease  the  nation’s  grievance ; 

With  this  new  wind  about  I  steer’d, 

And  swore  to  him  allegiance ; 

Old  principles  I  did  revoke, 

Set  conscience  at  a  distance ; 

Passive  obedience  wras  a  joke, 

A  jest  wras  non-resistance. 

And  this  is  law  that  I’ll  maintain 
Until  my  dying  day,  sir, 

That  wfliatsoever  king  shall  reign, 

Still  I’ll  be  the  vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


915 


When  royal  Anne  became  our  queen, 
The  Church  of  England’s  glory, 
Another  face  of  things  was  seen, 

And  I  became  a  Tory; 

Occasional  conformists  base, 

I  blamed  their  moderation  ; 

And  thought  the  Church  in  danger  was 
By  such  prevarication. 

And  this  is  law  that  I’ll  maintain 
Until  my  dying  day,  sir, 

That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign, 
Still  I’ll  be  the  vicar  of  Bray,  sir, 

When  George  in  pudding-time  came  o’er, 
And  moderate  men  look’d  big,  sir, 

My  principles  I  changed  once  more, 

And  so  became  a  Whig,  sir; 

And  thus  preferment  I  procured 
From  our  new  Faith’s  defender, 

And  almost  every  day  abjured 
The  pope  and  the  Pretender. 

And  this  is  law  that  I’ll  maintain 
Until  my  dying  day,  sir, 

That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign, 
Still  I’ll  be  the  vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

Th’  illustrious  house  of  Hanover 
And  Protestant  succession, 

To  these  I  do  allegiance  swear — 

While  they  can  keep  possession: 

For  in  my  faith  and  loyalty 
I  never  more  will  falter, 

And  George  my  lawful  king  shall  be — 
Until  the  times  do  alter. 

And  this  is  law  that  I’ll  maintain 
Until  my  dying  day,  sir, 

That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign, 
Still  I’ll  be  the  vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

Author  Unknown. 

- - 

St.  Anthony’s  Sermon  to  the 
Fishes. 

St.  Anthony  at  church 
Was  left  in  the  lurch, 

So  he  went  to  the  ditches 
And  preached  to  the  fishes; 

They  wriggled  their  tails, 

In  the  sun  glanced  their  scales. 

The  carps,  with  their  spawn, 

Are  all  hither  drawn  ; 


Have  open’d  their  jaws, 

Eager  for  each  clause. 

No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  carps  so  edified. 

Sharp-snouted  pikes, 

Who  keep  fighting  like  tikes, 

Now  swam  up  harmonious 
To  hear  St.  Antonius. 

No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  pikes  so  edified. 

And  that  very  odd  fish, 

Who  loves  fast  days,  the  cod-fish, — 
The  stock-fish,  I  mean, — 

At  the  sermon  was  seen. 

No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  cods  so  edified. 

Good  eels  and  sturgeon, 

Which  aldermen  gorge  on, 

Went  out  of  their  way 
To  hear  preaching  that  day. 

No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  eels  so  edified. 

Crabs  and  turtles  also, 

Who  always  move  slow, 

Made  haste  from  the  bottom, 

As  if  the  devil  had  got  ’em. 

No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  crabs  so  edified. 

Fish  great  and  fish  small, 

Lords,  lackeys,  and  all, 

Each  look’d  at  the  preacher 
Like  a  reasonable  creature : 

At  God’s  word, 

They  Anthony  heard. 

The  sermon  now  ended, 

Each  turned  and  descended ; 

The  pikes  went  on  stealing, 

The  eels  went  on  eeling  ; 

Much  delighted  were  they, 

But  preferr’d  the  old  way. 

The  crabs  are  backsliders, 

The  stock-fish  thick-siders, 

The  carps  are  sharp-set, 

All  the  sermon  forget ; 

Much  delighted  were  they, 

But  preferr’d  the  old  way. 

Author  Unknown 


916 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  Jester’s  Sermon. 

The  Jester  shook  his  hood  and  bells,  and 
leap’d  upon  a  chair, 

The  pages  laugh’d,  the  women  scream’d, 
and  toss’d  their  scented  hair ; 

The  falcon  whistled,  staghounds  bay’d, 
the  lapdog  bark’d  without, 

The  scullion  dropp’d  the  pitcher  brown, 
the  cook  rail’d  at  the  lout; 

The  steward,  counting  out  his  gold,  let 
pouch  and  money  fall, 

And  why  ?  because  the  Jester  rose  to  say 
grace  in  the  hall ! 

The  page  play’d  with  the  heron’s  plume, 
the  steward  with  his  chain, 

The  butler  drumm’d  upon  the  board,  and 
laugh’d  with  might  and  main  ; 

The  grooms  beat  on  their  metal  cans,  and 
roar’d  till  they  were  red, 

But  still  the  Jester  shut  his  eyes  and 
roll’d  his  witty  head  ; 

And  when  they  grew  a  little  still,  read 
half  a  yard  of  text, 

And,  waving  hand,  struck  on  the  desk, 
then  frown’d  like  one  perplex’d. 

“  Dear  sinners  all,”  the  Fool  began,  “man’s 
life  is  but  a  jest, 

A  dream,  a  shadow,  bubble,  air,  a  vapor 
at  the  best. 

In  a  thousand  pounds  of  law  I  find  not  a 
single  ounce  of  love  ; 

A  blind  man  kill’d  the  parson’s  cow  in 
shooting  at  the  dove  ; 

The  fool  that  eats  till  he  is  sick  must  fast 
till  he  is  well ; 

The  wooer  who  can  flatter  most  will  bear 
away  the  belle. 

“  Let  no  man  halloo  he  is  safe  till  he  is 
through  the  wood  ; 

He  who  will  not  when  he  may,  must 
tarry  when  he  should ; 

He  who  laughs  at  crooked  men  should 
need  walk  very  straight ; 

Oh,  he  who  once  has  won  a  name  may  lie 
abed  till  eight ! 

Make  haste  to  purchase  house  and  land, 
be  very  slow  to  wed ; 

True  coral  needs  no  painter’s  brush,  nor 
need  be  daub’d  with  red. 


“The  friar;  preaching,  cursed  the  thief  (the 
pudding  in  his  sleeve), 

To  fish  for  sprats  with  golden  hooks  is 
foolish,  by  your  leave, — 

To  travel  well — an  ass’s  ears,  ape’s  face, 
hog’s  mouth,  and  ostrich  legs, 

He  does  not  care  a  pin  for  thieves  who 
limps  about  and  begs. 

Be  always  first  man  at  a  feast  and  last  man 
at  a  fray  ; 

The  short  way  round,  in  spite  of  all,  is 
still  the  longest  wray. 

When  the  hungry  curate  licks  the  knife, 
there’s  not  much  for  the  clerk  ; 
When  the  pilot,  turning  pale  and  sick, 
looks  up, — the  storm  grows  dark.” 

Then  loud  they  laugh’d,  the  fat  cook’s 
tears  ran  down  into  the  pan : 

The  steward  shook,  that  he  was  forced 
to  drop  the  brimming  can; 

And  then  again  the  women  scream’d,  and 
every  staghound  bay’d, — 

And  why?  because  the  motley  Fool  so  wise 
a  sermon  made. 

George  Walter  Thornbury. 

- *0* - 

I  am  a  Friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray, 

And  down  in  the  valleys  I  take  my  way ; 

I  pull  not  blackberry,  haw,  or  hip — 

Good  store  of  venison  fills  my  scrip ; 

My  long  bead-roll  I  merrily  chant ; 
Where’er  I  walk  no  money  I  want  ; 

And  why  I’m  so  plump  the  reason  I  tell — 
Who  leads  a  good  life  is  sure  to  live  well. 
What  baron  or  squire, 

Or  knight  of  the  shire, 

Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar? 

After  supper,  of  heaven  I  dream, 

But  that  is  a  pullet  and  clouted  cream ; 
Myself,  by  denial,  I  mortify — 

With  a  dainty  bit  of  a  warden  pie; 

I’m  clothed  in  sackcloth  for  my  sin — 
With  old  sack  wine  I’m  lined  within  ; 

A  chirping  cup  is  my  matin  song, 

And  the  vesper’sbell  is  my  bowl,  ding  dong 
What  baron  or  squire, 

Or  knight  of  the  shire, 

Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  ? 

John  O’Keefe. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL 


917 


The  Devius  Thoughts. 

From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 
A-walking  the  Devil  is  gone, 

To  visit  his  snug  little  farm  the  Earth, 
And  see  how  his  stock  goes  on. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale, 

And  he  went  over  the  plain, 

And  backward  and  forward  he  switch’d 
his  long  tail, 

As  a  gentleman  switches  his  cane. 

And  how  then  was  the  Devil  drest  ? 

Oh  !  he  was  in  his  Sunday’s  best : 

His  jacket  was  red  and  his  breeches  were 
blue, 

And  there  was  a  hole  where  the  tail  came 
through. 

He  saw  a  Lawyer  killing  a  viper 

On  a  dunghill  hard  by  his  own  stable  ; 
And  the  Devil  smiled,  for  it  put  him  in  mind 
Of  Cain  and  his  brother,  Abel. 

He  saw  an  Apothecary  on  a  white  horse 
Ride  by  on  his  vocations, 

And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 
Death  in  the  Revelations. 

He  saw  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach  -house, 
A  cottage  of  gentility  ; 

And  the  Devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 
Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 

He  peep’d  into  a  rich  bookseller’s  shop ; 

Quoth  he,  “  We  are  both  of  one  college! 
For  I  sate  myself  like  a  cormorant,  once, 
Hard  by  the  tree  of  knowledge.” 

Down  the  river  did  glide,  with  wind  and 
tide, 

A  pig  with  vast  celerity, 

And  the  Devil  look’d  wise  as  he  saw  how, 
the  while, 

It  cut  its  own  throat.  “There!”  quoth  he 
with  a  smile, 

“  Goes  England’s  commercial  prosper¬ 
ity.” 

As  he  went  through  Coldbath  Fields  he 
saw 

A  solitary  cell  ; 

And  the  Devil  was  pleased,  for  it  gave  him 
a  hint 

For  improving  his  prisons  in  Hell.  ' 


He  saw  a  Turnkey  in  a  trice 
Fetter  a  troublesome  blade  ; 

“  Nimbly,”  quoth  he,  “  do  the  fingers 
move 

If  a  man  be  but  used  to  his  trade.” 

He  saw  the  same  Turnkey  unfetter  a  man 
With  but  little  expedition  ; 

Which  put  him  in  mind  of  the  long 
debate 

On  the  Slave-trade  abolition. 

He  saw  an  old  acquaintance 

As  he  pass’d  by  a  Methodist  meeting  ; 
She  holds  a  consecrated  key, 

And  the  Devil  nods  her  a  greeting. 

She  turn’d  up  her  nose,  and  said, 

“  Avaunt ! — my  name’s  Religion  !” 

And  she  look’d  to  Mr. - , 

And  leer’d  like  a  love-sick  pigeon. 

He  saw  a  certain  minister, 

A  minister  to  his  mind, 

Go  up  into  a  certain  House, 

With  a  majority  behind  ; 

The  Devil  quoted  Genesis, 

Like  a  very  learned  clerk, 

How  “  Noah  and  his  creeping  things 
Went  up  into  the  Ark.” 

He  took  from  the  poor, 

And  he  gave  to  the  rich, 

And  he  shook  hands  with  a  Scotchman, 
For  he  was  not  afraid  of  the - . 

****** 

General - ’s  burning  face 

He  saw  with  consternation, 

And  back  to  Hell  his  way  did  he  take — 
For  the  Devil  thought  by  a  slight  mistake 

It  was  a  general  conflagration. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


Jolly  Good  ale  and  Old. 

I  cannot  eat  but  little  meat — 

My  stomach  is  not  good  ; 

But  sure  I  think  that  I  can  drink 
With  him  that  wears  a  hood. 
Though  1  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care ; 

I  am  nothing  a-cold, 

I  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 


918 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare ; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold ; 

But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old ! 

I  love  no  roast  but  a  nut-brown  toast, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fire ; 

And  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead — 

Much  bread  I  nought  desire. 

No  frost,  no  snow,  no  wind,  I  trow, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wold — 

I  am  so  wrapt,  and  thorowly  lapt 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare ; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold  ; 

But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old ! 

And  Tyb,  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 
Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek, 

Full  oft  drinks  she,  till  you  may  see 
The  tears  run  down  her  cheek ; 

Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl, 

Even  as  a  malt-worm  shold  ; 

And  saitli  “  Sweetheart,  I  took  my  part 
Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old.” 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold ; 

But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old  ! 

Now  let  them  drink  till  they  nod  and  wink, 
Even  as  good  fellows  should  do  ; 

They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 
Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to  ; 

And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scour’d  bowls, 
Or  have  them  lustily  trowl’d, 

God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 
Whether  they  be  young  or  old  ! 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare ; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold ; 

But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old ! 

John  Still. 

- *0+ - 

The  Jovial  Beggar. 

There  was  a  jovial  beggar, 

He  had  a  wooden  leg, 

Lame  from  his  cradle, 

And  forced  for  to  beg. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go, 

Will  go,  will  go, 

And  a-begging  we  will  go. 


A  bag  for  his  oatmeal, 

Another  for  his  salt, 

And  a  long  pair  of  crutches, 

To  show  that  he  can  halt. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go 
Will  go,  will  go, 

And  a-begging  we  will  go. 

A  bag  for  his  wheat, 

Another  for  his  rye, 

And  a  little  bottle  bv  his  side, 

To  drink  when  lie’s  a-dry. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go, 
Will  go,  will  go, 

And  a-begging  we  will  go. 

Seven  years  I  begg’d 

For  my  old  master  Wilde, 

He  taught  me  how  to  beg 
When  I  was  but  a  child. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go, 
Will  go,  will  go, 

And  a-begging  we  will  go. 

I  begg’d  for  my  master, 

And  got  him  store  of  pelf, 

But,  Goodness  now  be  praised, 

I’m  begging  for  myself. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go, 
Will  go,  will  go, 

And  a-begging  we  will  go. 

In  a  hollow  tree 

I  live,  and  pay  no  rent, 

Providence  provides  for  me, 

And  I  am  wrell  content. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go, 
Will  go,  will  go, 

And  a-begging  we  will  go. 

Of  all  the  occupations, 

A  beggar’s  is  the  best, 

For  whenever  he’s  a- weary, 

He  can  lay  him  down  to  rest. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go, 
Will  go,  will  go, 

And  a-begging  we  will  go. 

I  fear  no  plots  against  me, 

I  live  in  open  cell ; 

Then  who  would  be  a  king,  lads, 
When  the  beggar  lives  so  well  ? 
And  a-begging  we  will  go, 
Will  go,  will  go, 

And  a-begging  wre  will  go. 

Authok  Unknown. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


919 


A  Farewell  to  Tobacco. 

May  the  Babylonish  curse 
Straight  confound  my  stammering  verse, 
If  I  can  a  passage  see 
In  this  word-perplexity, 

Or  a  lit  expression  find, 

Or  a  language  to  my  mind 
(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant), 

To  take  leave  of  thee,  Great  Plant ! 

Or  in  any  terms  relate 

Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate : 

For  I  hate,  yet  love  thee  so, 

That  whichever  thing  I  show, 

The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 
A  constrain’d  hyperbole, 

And  the  passion  to  proceed 
More  from  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine, 

Bacchus’  black  servant,  negro  fine ; 
Sorcerer,  that  mak’st  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion, 

And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake, 

More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
’Gainst  women  :  thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much  too  in  the  female  way, 

While  thou  suck’st  the  lab’ring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses,  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dost  bind  us 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us, 

And  ill-fortune,  that  would  thwart  us, 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us ; 

While  each  man,  through  thy  height’ning 
steam, 

Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem, 

And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 

A  Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  dost  show  us, 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And  for  those  allowed  features, 

Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 

Liken’st  us  to  fell  chimeras, 

Monsters  that,  who  see  us,  fear  us : 

Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 

Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.  But  what  art  thou, 


That  but  by  reflex  canst  show 
What  his  deitv  can  do, 

As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle? 

Some  few  vapors  thou  may’st  raise, 

The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze, 

But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart 
Canst  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  born, 

The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn, 

Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god’s  victories  than  before 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 

These,  as  stale,  we  disallow, 

Or  judge  of  thee  meant:  only  thou 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art; 

And  for  ivy  round  his  dart, 

The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A  finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne’er  presume 
Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 

None  so  sov’reign  to  the  brain : 

Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 

Framed  again  no  second  smell. 

Boses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys ; 

Or  for  greener  damsels  meant ; 

Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

Stinking’st  of  the  stinking  kind, 

Filth  of  the  mouth,  and  fog  of  the  mind, 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foison, 

Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison  ; 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 
Hemlock,  aconite - 

Nay,  rather, 

Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue ; 

Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you. 
’Twas  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee ; 

None  e’er  prosper’d  who  defamed  thee; 
Irony  all,  and  feign’d  abuse, 

Such  as  perplex’d  lovers  use 
At  a  need,  when  in  despair, 

To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 

Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike, 

They  borrow  language  of  dislike; 


320 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And,  instead  of  Dearest  Miss, 

Jewel,  Honey,  Sweetheart,  Bliss, 

And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 

Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 

Basilisk,  and  all  that’s  evil, 

Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 

Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamoor, 

Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more; 

Friendly  Trait’ress,  loving  Foe — 

Not  that  she  is  truly  so, 

But  no  other  way  they  know 
A  contentment  to  express, 

Borders  so  upon  excess, 

That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  pain  or  not. 

Or  as  men,  constrain’d  to  part 
With  what’s  nearest  to  their  heart, 

While  their  sorrow’s  at  the  height, 

Lose  discrimination  quite, 

And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall, 

To  appease  their  frantic  gall 
On  the  darling  thing  whatever 
Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 

Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 

Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I  must)  leave  thee. 
For  thy  sake,  Tobacco,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die, 

And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 

But  as  she,  who  once  hath  been 
A  king’s  consort,  is  a  queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state, 

Though  a  widow,  or  divorced, 

So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced, 

The  old  name  and  style  retain, 

A  right  Katherine  of  Spain  ; 

And  a  seat,  too,  ’mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Bovs ; 

Where,  though  I,  by  sour  physician, 

Am  debarr’d  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favors,  I  may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odors,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a  neighbor’s  wife; 

And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces ; 

And  in  thy  borders  take  delight, 

An  unconquer’d  Cauaanite. 

Charles  Lamb. 


The  Briefless  Barrister. 

An  Attorney  was  taking  a  turn, 

In  shabby  habiliments  dress’d  ; 

His  coat  it  was  shockingly  worn, 

And  the  rust  had  invested  his  vest. 

His  breeches  had  suffer’d  a  breach, 

His  linen  and  worsted  were  worse ; 

He  had  scarce  a  whole  crown  in  his  hat. 
And  not  half  a  crown  in  his  purse. 

And  thus  as  he  wander’d  along, 

A  cheerless  and  comfortless  elf, 

He  sought  for  relief  in  a  song, 

Or  complainingly  talk’d  to  himself : — 

“  Unfortunate  man  that  I  am  ! 

I’ve  never  a  client  but  grief : 

The  case  is,  I’ve  no  case  at  all, 

And  in  brief,  I’ve  ne’er  had  a  brief! 

“  I’ve  waited  and  waited  in  vain, 
Expecting  an  ‘  opening  ’  to  find, 

Where  an  honest  young  lawyer  might  gain 
Some  reward  for  toil  of  his  mind. 

“  ’Tis  not  that  I’m  wanting  in  law, 

Or  lack  an  intelligent  face, 

That  others  have  cases  to  plead, 

While  I  have  to  plead  for  a  case. 

“  Oh,  how  can  a  modest  young  man 

E’er  hope  for  the  smallest  progression — 

The  profession’s  already  so  full 
Of  lawyers  so  full  of  profession  !” 

While  thus  he  was  strolling  around, 

His  eye  accidentally  fell 

On  a  very  deep  hole  in  the  ground, 

And  he  sigh’d  to  himself,  “  It  is  well !” 

To  curb  his  emotions,  he  sat 

On  the  curbstone  the  space  of  a  minute. 

Then  cried,  “  Here’s  an  opening  at  last !” 
And  in  less  than  a  jiffy  was  in  it ! 

Next  morning  twelve  citizens  came 
(’Twas  the  coroner  bade  them  attend), 

To  the  end  that  it  might  be  determined 
How  the  man  had  determined  his  end! 

“  The  man  was  a  lawyer,  I  hear,” 

Quoth  the  foreman  who  sat  on  the  corse. 

“  A  lawyer  ?  Alas  !”  said  another, 
“Undoubtedly  died  of  remorse!” 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


921 


A  third  said,  “  He  knew  the  deceased, 

An  attorney  well  versed  in  the  laws, 

And  as  to  the  cause  of  his  death, 

’  Twas  no  doubt  for  the  want  of  a 
cause.” 


The  jury  decided  at  length, 

After  solemnly  weighing  the  matter, 

“  That  the  lawyer  was  drownc/ed,  because 
He  could  not  keep  his  head  above 
water !” 


John  G.  Saxe. 


■♦O#- 


Monody  on  the  Death  of  an 
Only  Client. 

Oh  !  take  away  my  wig  and  gown, 

Their  sight  is  mockery  now  to  me  : 

I  pace  my  chambers  up  and  down, 
Reiterating,  “Where  is  he?” 

Alas !  wild  Echo,  with  a  moan, 

Murmurs  above  my  feeble  head : 

In  the  wide  world  I  am  alone; 

Ha !  ha  !  my  only  client’s — dead  ! 


In  vain  the  robing-room  I  seek  ; 

The  very  waiters  scarcely  bow  ; 
Their  looks  contemptuously  speak, 
“  He’s  lost  his  only  client  now.” 


E’en  the  mild  usher,  who,  of  yore, 
Would  hasten  when  his  name  I  said, 
To  hand  in  motions,  comes  no  more; 
He  knows  my  only  client’s  dead. 


Ne’er  shall  I,  rising  up  in  court, 
Open  the  pleadings  of  a  suit : 

Ne’er  shall  the  judges  cut  me  short 
While  moving  them  for  a  compute. 

No  more  with  a  consenting  brief 
Shall  I  politely  bow  my  head  ; 
Where  shall  I  run  to  hide  my  grief? 
Alas!  my  only  client’s  dead. 


Imagination’s  magic  power 

Brings  back,  as  clear  as  clear  can  be, 
The  spot,  the  day,  the  very  hour, 

When  first  I  sign’d  my  maiden  plea. 

In  the  Exchequer’s  hindmost  row 

I  sat,  and  some  one  touch’d  my  head  ; 
He  tender’d  ten-and-six,  but  oh  ! 

That  only  client  now  is  dead. 


In  vain  I  try  to  sing — I’m  hoarse : 

In  vain  I  try  to  play  the  flute; 

A  phantom  seems  to  flit  across — 

It  is  the  ghost  of  a  compute. 

I  try  to  read, — but  all  in  vain  ; 

My  chamber  listlessly  I  tread  ; 

Be  still,  my  heart;  throb  less,  my  brain  ; 
Ho  !  ho  !  my  only  client’s  dead. 

I  think  I  hear  a  double  knock  : 

I  did — alas  !  it  is  a  dun. 

Tailor — avaunt !  my  sense  you  shock  ; 
He’s  dead  !  you  know  I  had  but  one. 

What’s  this  they  thrust  into  my  hand  ? 

A  bill  return’d  ! — ten  pounds  for  bread  ! 
My  butcher’s  got  a  large  demand  ; 

I’m  mad !  my  only  client’s  dead. 

London  Punch. 

- K>« - 

TO  Q.  H.  F. 

Suggested  by  a  Chapter  in  Theodore 
Martin’s  “  Horace.” 

“Horatius  Flaccus,  b.  c.  8,” 

There’s  not  a  doubt  about  the  date, — 
You’re  dead  and  buried  : 

As  you  remarked,  the  seasons  roll, 

And  ’cross  the  Styx  full  many  a  soul 
Has  Charon  ferried, 

Since,  mourned  of  men  and  Muses  nine 
They  laid  you  on  the  Esquiline. 


And  that  was  centuries  ago! 

You’d  think  we’d  learned  enough,  I  know, 
To  help  refine  us, 

Since  last  you  trod  the  Sacred  Street,, 

And  tacked  from  mortal  fear  to  meet 
The  bore  Crispinus ; 

Or,  by  your  cold  Digentia,  set 
The  web  of  winter  birding-net. 


Ours  is  so  far-advanced  an  age ! 
Sensation  tales,  a  classic  stage, 
Commodious  villas ! 

We  boast  high  art,  an  Albert  Hall, 
Australian  meats,  and  men  who  call 
Their  sires  gorillas ! 

We  have  a  thousand  things,  you  see, 
Not  dreamt  in  your  philosophy. 


922 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


And  yet,  how  strange !  our  “  world,”  to-day, 
Tried  in  the  scale,  would  scarce  outweigh 
Your  Roman  cronies; 

Walk  in  the  Park,  you’ll  seldom  fail 
To  find  a  Sybaris  on  the  rail 
By  Lydia’s  ponies  ; 

Or  hap  on  Barrus,  wigged  and  stayed, 
Ogling  some  unsuspecting  maid. 

The  great  Gargilius  then  behold ! 

His  “long-bow”  hunting  tales  of  old 
Are  now  but  duller ; 

Fair  Neobule,  too  !  Is  not 

One  Hebrus  here — from  Aldershot? 

Aha,  you  color ! 

Be  wise  !  There  old  Canidia  sits  ; 

No  doubt  she’s  tearing  you  to  bits. 

And  look,  dyspeptic,  brave,  and  kind, 
Comes  dear  Maecenas,  half  behind 
Terentia’s  skirting  ; 

Here’s  Pyrrha,  “  golden-haired  ”  at  will ; 
Prig  Damasippus,  preaching  still  ; 

Asterie  flirting, — 

Radiant,  of  course.  We’ll  make  her  black: 
Ask  her  when  Gyges’  ship  comes  back. 

So  with  the  rest.  Who  will  may  trace 
Behind  the  new  each  elder  face 
Defined  as  clearly ; 

Science  proceeds,  and  man  stands  still ; 
Our  “world”  to-day’s  as  good  or  ill, — 

As  cultured  (nearly), 

As  yours  was,  Horace  !  You  alone, 
Unmatched,  unmet,  we  have  not  known. 

Austin  Dobson. 

- +0+ - 

The  Modern  Belle. 

She  sits  in  a  fashionable  parlor, 

And  rocks  in  her  easv-chair  ; 

She  is  clad  in  silks  and  satins, 

And  jewels  are  in  her  hair; 

She  winks  and  giggles  and  simpers, 

And  simpers  and  giggles  and  winks; 
And  though  she  talks  but  little, 

’Tis  a  good  deal  more  than  she  thinks. 

She  lies  abed  in  the  morning 
Till  near  the  hour  of  noon, 

Then  comes  down  snapping  and  snarling 
Because  she  was  called  so  soon ; 

Her  hair  is  still  in  papers, 

Her  cheeks  still  fresh  with  paint, — 


I  Remains  of  her  last  night’s  blushes, 

Before  she  intended  to  faint. 

She  dotes  upon  men  unshaven, 

And  men  with  “flowing  hair;” 

She’s  eloquent  over  moustaches, 

They  give  such  a  foreign  air. 

She  talks  of  Italian  music, 

And  falls  in  love  with  the  moon ; 

And,  if  a  mouse  were  to  meet  her, 

She  would  sink  away  in  a  swoon. 

Her  feet  are  s'o  very  little, 

Her  hands  are  so  very  white, 

Her  jewels  so  very  heavy, 

And  her  head  so  very  light; 

Her  color  is  made  of  cosmetics 
(Though  this  she  will  never  own), 

Her  body  is  made  mostly  of  cotton, 

Her  heart  is  made  wholly  of  stone. 

She  falls  in  love  with  a  fellow 
Who  swells  with  a  foreign  air ; 

He  marries  her  for  her  money, 

She  marries  him  for  his  hair ! 

One  of  the  very  best  matches, — 

Both  are  well  mated  in  life ; 

She’s  got  a  fool  for  a  husband, 

He’s  got  a  fool  for  a  wife  I 

Stark. 

- •<>• - 

What  Mr.  Roblnson  Thinks. 

Guvexer  B.  is  a  sensible  man  ; 

He  stays  to  his  home  an’  looks  arter  his 
folks  ; 

He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can, 
An’  into  nobody’s  tater-patch  pokes  ; 

But  John  P. 

Robinson,  he 

Sez  he  wun’t  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

My  !  ain’t  it  terrible  !  Wut  shall  we  du  ? 
We  can’t  never  choose  him,  0’  course, — 
thet’s  flat ; 

Guess  we  shall  hev  to  come  round  (don’t 
you?) 

An’  go  in  fer  thunder  an’  guns,  an’  all 
that ; 

Fer  John  P. 

Robinson,  he 

Sez  he  wun’t  vote  fer  Guvener  R. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


923 


Gineral  C.  is  a  dreffle  smart  man : 

He’s  ben  on  all  sides  thet  give  places 
or  pelf ; 

But  consistency  still  wuz  a  part  of  his 
plan, — 

He’s  ben  true  to  one  party, — an’  thet  is 
himself ; — 

So  John  P. 

Robinson,  he 

Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war  ; 

He  don’t  vally  principle  more’n  an  old 
cud  ; 

Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creeturs  fer, 

But  glory  an’  gunpowder,  plunder  an’ 
blood  ? 

So  John  P. 

Robinson,  he 

Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

We  were  gittin’  on  nicely  up  here  to  our 
village, 

With  good  old  idees  o’  wut’s  right  an’ 
wut  ain’t, 

We  kind  o’  thought  Christ  went  agin  war 
j  an’  pillage, 

An’  thet  eppyletts  worn’t  the  best  mark 
of  a  saint  ; 

But  John  P. 

Robinson,  he 

Sez  this  kind  o’  thing’s  an  exploded 
idee. 

The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be 
took, 

An’  Presidunt  Polk,  you  know,  he  is 
our  country. 

An’  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sin  in  a 
book, 

Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an’  to  us  the  per 
contry  ; 

An’  John  P. 

Robinson,  he 

Sez  this  is  his  view  o’  the  thing  to  a  T. 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  argimunts 
lies  ; 

Sez  they’re  nothin’  on  airth  but  jest  fee, 
faw,  fum  : 

An’  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 

Is  half  on  it  ign’ance,  an’  t’other  half 
rum  ; 


But  John  P. 

Robinson,  he 

Sez  it  ain’t  no  sech  thing ;  an’,  of 
course,  so  must  we. 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  he  never  heerd  in  his 
life 

Thet  th’  apostles  rigg’d  out  in  their 
swaller-tail  coats, 

An’  march’d  round  in  front  of  a  drum  an’ 
a  fife, 

To  git  some  on  ’em  office,  an’  some  on 
’em  votes ; 

But  John  P. 

Robinson,  he 

Sez  they  didn’t  know  everythin’  down 
in  Judee. 

Wal,  it’s  a  marcy  we’ve  gut  folks  to  tell  us 
The  rights  and  the  wrongs  o’  these  mat¬ 
ters,  I  vow, — 

God  sends  country  lawyers,  an’  other  wise 
fellers, 

To  start  the  world’s  team  when  it  gits  in 
a  slough  ; 

Fer  John  P. 

Robinson,  he 

Sez  the  world’ll  go  right  ef  he  hollers 
out  Gee ! 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

- - 

Parody  on  Pope. 

Wthy  has  not  man  a  collar  and  a  log? 

For  this  plain  reason, — man  is  not  a  dog. 

Why  is  not  man  served  up  with  sauce  in 
dish? 

For  this  plain  reason, — man  is  not  a  fish. 

Sydney  Smith. 

- - 

The  Smack  in  School. 

A  district  school,  not  far  away, 

’Mid  Berkshire  hills,  one  winter’s  day, 
Was  humming  with  its  wonted  noise 
Of  threescore  mingled  girls  and  boys; 
Some  few  upon  their  tasks  intent, 

But  more  on  furtive  mischief  bent, 

The  while  the  master’s  downward  look 
Was  fastened  on  a  copy-book. 

When  suddenly,  behind  his  back, 

Rose  sharp  and  clear  a  rousing  smack ! 


924 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


As  ’twere  a  battery  of  bliss 
Let  off  in  one  tremendous  kiss. 

“  What’s  that?”  the  startled  master  cries  ; 
“  That,  thir,”  a  little  imp  replies, 

“  Wath  William  Willith,  if  you  pleathe, — 
I  thaw  him  kith  Thuthanna  Peathe !” 
With  frown  to  make  a  statue  thrill, 

The  master  thundered,  “Hither,  Will!” 
Like  wretch  o’ertaken  in  his  track, 

With  stolen  chattels  on  his  back, 

Will  hung  his  head  in  fear  and  shame, 
And  to  the  awful  presence  came, — 

A  great,  green,  bashful  simpleton, 

The  butt  of  all  good-natured  fun. 

With  smile  suppressed,  and  birch  up¬ 
raised, 

The  threatener  faltered, — “  I’m  amazed 
That  you,  my  biggest  pupil,  should 
Be  guilty  of  an  act  so  rude ! 

Before  the  whole  set  school  to  boot, — 
What  evil  genius  put  you  to’t?” 

“  ’Twas  she  herself,  sir,”  sobbed  the 
lad. 

“  I  did  not  mean  to  be  so  bad  ; 

But  when  Susanna  shook  her  curls, 

And  whispered,  I  was  ’fraid  of  girls 
And  dursn’t  kiss  a  baby’s  doll, 

I  couldn’t  stand  it,  sir,  at  all, 

But  up  and  kissed  her  on  the  spot ! 

I  know — boo-hoo — I  ought  to  not, 

But,  somehow,  from  her  looks  —  boo- 
hoo — 

I  thought  she  kind  o’  wished  me  to !” 

William  Pitt  Palmer. 

- •<>•— 

St.  Patrick  was  a  Gentleman. 

Oh,  St.  Patrick  was  a  gentleman, 

Who  come  of  decent  people ; 

He  built  a  church  in  Dublin  town, 

And  on  it  put  a  steeple. 

His  father  was  a  Gallagher; 

His  mother  was  a  Brady; 

His  aunt  was  an  O’Shaughnessy, 

His  uncle  an  O’Grady. 

So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick’s 
fist, 

For  he’s  a  saint  so  clever ; 

Oh,  he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a 
twist, 

And  bothered  them  for  ever  ! 


The  Wicklow  hills  are  very  high, 

And  so’s  the  Hill  of  Howth,  sir; 

But  there’s  a  hill  much  bigger  still, 

Much  higher  nor  them  both,  sir. 

’Twas  on  the  top  of  this  high  hill 
St.  Patrick  preached  his  sarmint, 

That  drove  the  frogs  into  the  bogs 
And  banished  all  the  varmint. 

So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick’s 
fist, 

For  he’s  a  saint  so  clever ; 

Oh,  he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a 
twist, 

And  bothered  them  for  ever ! 

There’s  not  a  mile  in  Ireland’s  isle 
Where  dirty  varmint  musters, 

But  there  he  put  his  dear  fore  foot 
And  murdered  them  in  clusters. 

The  toads  went  pop,  the  frogs  went  hop, 
Slap-dash  into  the  water ; 

And  the  snakes  committed  suicide 
To  save  themselves  from  slaughter. 

So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick’s 
fist, 

For  he’s  a  saint  so  clever; 

Oh,  he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a 
twist, 

And  bothered  them  for  ever ! 

Nine  hundred  thousand  reptiles  blue 
He  charmed  with  sweet  discourses, 

And  dined  on  them  at  Killalloe 
In  soups  and  second  courses. 

Where  blind-worms  crawling  in  the  grass 
Disgusted  all  the  nation, 

He  gave  them  a  rise,  which  opened  their 
eyes 

To  a  sense  of  their  situation. 

So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick’s 
fist, 

For  he’s  a  saint  so  clever ; 

Oh,  he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a 
twist, 

And  bothered  them  for  ever ! 

No  wonder  that  those  Irish  lads 
Should  be  so  gay  and  frisky, 

For  sure  St.  Pat  he  taught  them  that, 

As  well  as  making  whiskey ; 

No  wonder  that  the  saint  himself 
Should  understand  distilling, 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


925 


Since  his  mother  kept  a  shebeen  shop 
In  the  town  of  Enniskillen. 

So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick’s 
fist, 

For  he’s  a  saint  so  clever ; 

Oh,  he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a 
twist, 

And  bothered  them  for  ever ! 

Oh,  was  I  but  so  fortunate 
As  to  be  back  in  Munster, 

’Tis  I’d  be  bound  that  from  that  ground 
I  never  more  would  once  stir. 

For  there  St.  Patrick  planted  turf, 

And  plenty  of  the  praties, 

With  pigs  galore,  ma  gra,  ma  ’store, 

And  cabbages — and  ladies  ! 

Then  my  blessing  on  St.  Patrick’s 
fist, 

For  he’s  the  darling  saint,  O  ! 

Oh,  he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a 
twist ; 

He’s  a  beauty  without  paint,  O  ! 

Henry  Bennett. 

• - - 

Etiquette. 

The  “  Ballyshannon  ”  foundered  off  the 
coast  of  Cariboo, 

And  down  in  fathoms  many  went  the  cap¬ 
tain  and  the  crew ; 

Down  went  the  owners — greedy  men  whom 
hope  of  gain  allured: 

Oh,  dry  the  starting  tear,  for  they  were 
heavily  insured. 

Besides  the  captain  and  the  mate,  the  own¬ 
ers  and  the  crew, 

The  passengers  were  also  drowned,  except¬ 
ing  only  two : 

Young  Peter  Gray,  who  tasted  teas  for 
Baker,  Croop  &  Co., 

And  Somers,  who  from  Eastern  shores  im¬ 
ported  indigo. 

These  passengers,  by  reason  of  their  cling¬ 
ing  to  a  mast, 

Upon  a  desert  island  were  eventually  cast. 

They  hunted  for  their  meals,  as  Alexander 
Selkirk  used, 

But  they  couldn’t  chat  together — they  had 
not  been  introduced. 


For  Peter  Gray,  and  Somers  too,  though 
certainly  in  trade, 

Were  properly  particular  about  the  friends 
they  made ; 

And  somehow  thus  they  settled  it,  without 
a  word  of  mouth — 

That  Gray  should  take  the  northern  half, 
while  Somers  took  the  south. 

On  Peter’s  portion  oysters  grew — a  delicacy 
rare, 

But  oysters  were  a  delicacy  Peter  couldn’t 
bear. 

On  Somers’  side  was  turtle,  on  the  shingle 
lying  thick, 

Which  Somers  couldn’t  eat,  because  it  al¬ 
ways  made  him  sick. 

Gray  gnashed  his  teeth  with  envy  as  he 
saw  a  mighty  store 

Of  turtle  unmolested  on  his  fellow-crea- 
tiire’s  shore. 

The  oysters  at  his  feet  aside  impatiently  he 
shoved, 

For  turtle  and  his  mother  were  the  only 
things  he  loved. 

And  Somers  sighed  in  sorrow  as  he  settled 
in  the  south, 

For  the  thought  of  Peter’s  oysters  brought 
the  water  to  his  mouth. 

He  longed  to  lay  him  down  upon  the  shelly 
bed,  and  stuff : 

He  had  often  eaten  oysters,  but  had  never 
had  enough. 

How  they  wished  an  introduction  to  each 
other  they  had  had 

When  on  board  the  “  Ballyshannon  ” !  And 
it  drove  them  nearly  mad 

To  think  how  very  friendly  with  each  other 
they  might  get 

If  it  wasn’t  for  the  arbitrary  rule  of  eti¬ 
quette  ! 

One  day,  when  out  a-liunting  for  the  mvs 

ridiculus, 

Gray  overheard  his  fellow-man  soliloquiz¬ 
ing  thus : 

“  I  wonder  how  the  playmates  of  my  youth 
are  getting  on, 

McConnell,  S.  B.  Walters,  Paddy  Bvles,  and 
Robinson  ?” 


926 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


These  simple  words  made  Peter  as  delighted 
as  could  be, 

Old  chummies  at  the  Charter-house  were 
Robinson  and  he ! 

He  walked  straight  up  to  Somers,  then  he 
turned  extremely  red, 

Hesitated,  hummed  and  hawed  a  bit,  then 
cleared  his  throat,  and  said: 

“  I  beg  your  pardon — pray  forgive  me  if  I 
seem  too  bold, 

But  you  have  breathed  a  name  I  knew  fa¬ 
miliarly  of  old. 

You  spoke  aloud  of  Robinson — I  happened 
to  be  by. 

You  know  him?”  “  Yes,  extremely  well.” 
“Allow  me;  so  do  I.” 

It  was  enough  :  they  felt  they  could  more 
pleasantly  get  on, 

For  (ah,  the  magic  of  the  fact!)  they  each 
knew  Robinson  ! 

And  Mr.  Somers’  turtle  was  at  Peter’s  ser¬ 
vice  quite, 

And  Mr.  Somers  punished  Peter’s  oyster- 
beds  all  night. 

They  soon  became  like  brothers  from  com¬ 
munity  of  wrongs : 

They  wrote  each  other  little  odes  and  sang 
each  other  songs ; 

They  told  each  other  anecdotes  disparaging 
their  wives ; 

On  several  occasions,  too,  they  saved  each 
other’s  lives. 

They  felt  quite  melancholy  when  they  part¬ 
ed  for  the  night, 

And  got  up  in  the  morning  soon  as  ever  it 
was  light ; 

Each  other’s  pleasant  company  they  reck¬ 
oned  so  upon, 

And  all  because  it  happened  that  they  both 
knew  Robinson ! 

They  lived  for  many  years  on  that  inhos¬ 
pitable  shore, 

And  day  by  day  they  learned  to  love  each 
other  more  and  more. 

At  last,  to  their  astonishment,  on  getting 
up  one  day, 

They  saw  a  frigate  anchored  in  the  offing 
of  the  bay. 


To  Peter  an  idea  occurred:  “Suppose  we 
cross  the  main  ? 

So  good  an  opportunity  may  not  be  found 
again.” 

And  Somers  thought  a  minute,  then  ejac¬ 
ulated,  “  Done ! 

I  wonder  how  my  business  in  the  city’s  get- 
ting  on?” 

“But  stay,”  said  Mr.  Peter:  “when  in  Eng¬ 
land,  as  you  know, 

I  earned  a  living  tasting  teas  for  Baker, 
Croop  &  Co., 

I  may  be  superseded — my  employers  think 
me  dead !” 

“  Then  come  with  me,”  said  Somers,  “  and 
taste  indigo  instead.” 

But  all  their  plans  were  scattered  in  a  mo¬ 
ment  when  they  found 

The  vessel  was  a  convict  ship  from  Port¬ 
land,  outward  bound : 

When  a  boat  came  off  to  fetch  them,  though 
they  felt  it  very  kind, 

To  go  on  board  they  firmly  but  respectfully 
declined. 

As  both  the  happy  settlers  roared  with 
laughter  at  the  joke, 

They  recognized  a  gentlemanly  fellow  pull¬ 
ing  stroke : 

’Twas  Robinson — a  convict,  in  an  unbecom¬ 
ing  frock  ! 

Condemned  to  seven  years  for  misappropri¬ 
ating  stock ! 

They  laughed  no  more,  for  Somers  thought 
he  had  been  rather  rash 

In  knowing  one  whose  friend  had  misap¬ 
propriated  cash ; 

And  Peter  thought  a  foolish  tack  he  must 
have  gone  upon 

In  making  the  acquaintance  of  a  friend  of 
Robinson. 

At  first  they  didn’t  quarrel  very  openly, 
I’ve  heard ; 

They  nodded  when  they  met,  and  now  and 
then  exchanged  a  word : 

The  word  grew  rare,  and  rarer  still  the  nod¬ 
ding  of  the  head, 

And  when  they  meet  each  other  now,  they 
cut  each  other  dead. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


927 


To  allocate  the  island  they  agreed  by  word 
of  mouth, 

And  Peter  takes  the  north  again,  and  Som¬ 
ers  takes  the  south  ; 

And  Peter  has  the  oysters,  which  he  hates, 
in  layers  thick, 

And  Somers  has  the  turtle — turtle  always 
makes  him  sick. 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 

-  -  •<>« - 

The  Nantucket  Skipper. 

Many  a  long,  long  year  ago, 

Nantucket  skippers  had  a  plan 

Of  finding  out,  though  “  lying  low,” 

How  near  New  York  their  schooners  ran. 

They  greased  the  lead  before  it  fell, 

And  then  by  sounding  through  the  night, 

Knowing  the  soil  that  stuck  so  well, 

They  always  guessed  their  reckoning 
right. 

A  skipper  gray,  whose  eyes  were  dim, 
Could  tell,  by  tasting,  just  the  spot, 

And  so  below  he’d  “  douse  the  glim,” — 
After,  of  course,  his  “  something  hot.” 

Snug  in  his  berth,  at  eight  o’clock 
This  ancient  skipper  might  be  found ; 

No  matter  how  his  craft  would  rock, 

He  slept, — for  skippers’  naps  are  sound. 

The  watch  on  deck  would  now  and  then 
Run  down  and  wake  him,  with  the  lead; 

He’d  up  and  taste,  and  tell  the  men 
How  many  miles  they  went  ahead. 

One  night  ’twas  Jotham  Marden’s  watch, 

A  curious  wag, — the  peddler’s  son  ; 

And  so  he  mused  (the  wanton  wretch  !), 
“To-night  I’ll  have  a  grain  of  fun. 

“  We’re  all  a  set  of  stupid  fools, 

To  think  the  skipper  knows,  by  tasting, 

What  ground  he’s  on  ;  Nantucket  schools 
Don’t  teach  such  stuff,  with  all  their  bast¬ 
ing!” 

And  so  he  took  the  well-greased  lead, 

And  rubbed  it  o’er  a  box  of  earth 


That  stood  on  deck, — a  parsnip-bed, — 

And  then  he  sought  the  skipper’s  berth. 

“  Where  are  we  now,  sir?  Please  to  taste.” 

The  skipper  yawned,  put  out  his  tongue, 
Opened  his  eyes  in  wondrous  haste, 

And  then  upon  the  floor  he  sprung. 

The  skipper  stormed,  and  tore  his  hair, 
Hauled  on  his  boots,  and  roared  to  Mar- 
den, 

“  Nantucket’s  sunk,  and  here  we  are 

Right  over  old  Marm  Hackett’s  garden!” 

James  Thomas  Fields. 

- ♦<>• - 

The  Jolly  Old  Pedagogue. 

’Twas  a  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago, 
Tall  and  slender,  and  sallow  and  dry; 
His  form  was  bent,  and  his  gait  was  slow, 
His  long,  thin  hair  was  as  white  as  snow, 
But  a  wonderful  twinkle  shone  in  his 
eye; 

And  he  sang  every  night  as  he  went  to  bed, 
“Let  us  be  happy  down  here  below; 

The  living  should  live,  though  the  dead  be 
dead,” 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue*  long  ago. 

He  taught  his  scholars  the  rule  of  three, 
Writing,  and  reading,  and  history,  too; 
He  took  the  little  ones  up  on  his  knee, 

For  a  kind  old  heart  in  his  breast  had  he, 
And  the  wants  of  the  littlest  child  he 
knew:  # 

“Learn  while  you’re  young,”  he  often  said ; 
“There  is  much  to  enjoy  down  here  be' 
low ; 

Life  for  the  living,  and  rest  for  the  dead!” 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

With  the  stupidest  boys  he  was  kind  and 
cool, 

Speaking  only  in  gentlest  tones; 

The  rod  was  hardly  known  in  his  school ;  .  . . 
Whipping,  to  him,  was  a  barbarous  rule, 
And  too  hard  work  for  his  poor  old 
bones ; 

Besides,  it  was  painful,  he  sometimes  said  : 
“We  should  make  life  pleasant  down 
here  below; 


928 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


The  living  need  charity  more  than  the 
dead,” 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  lived  in  the  house  by  the  hawthorn  lane, 
With  roses  and  woodbine  over  the  door; 

His  rooms  were  quiet,  and  neat,  and  jdain, 

But  a  spirit  of  comfort  there  held  reign, 
And  made  him  forget  he  was  old  and 
poor; 

“  I  need  so  little,”  he  often  said ; 

“And  my  friends  and  relatives  here  be¬ 
low 

Won’t  litigate  over  me  when  I  am  dead,” 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 


After  the  sun  had  sunk  in  the  west, 

And  the  lingering  beams  of  golden  light 
Made  his  kindly  old  face  look  warm  and 


bright, 

While  the  odorous  night- wind  whispered 
“Rest!” 

Gently,  gently  he  bowed  his  head.  .  .  . 

There  were  angels  waiting  for  him,  I 
know. 

He  was  sure  of  happiness,  living  or 
dead 

This  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago! 

George  Arnold. 


But  the  pleasantest  times  that  he  had,  of 
all, 

Were  the  sociable  hours  he  used  to  pass, 

With  his  chair  tipped  back  to  a  neighbor’s 
wall, 

Making  an  unceremonious  call, 

Over  a  pipe  and  a  friendly  glass : 

This  was  the  finest  pleasure,  he  said, 

Of  the  many  he  tasted  here  below ; 

“Who  has  no  cronies  had  better  be  dead!” 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

Then  the  jolly  old  pedagogue’s  wrinkled 
face 

Melted  all  over  in  sunshiny  smiles; 

He  stirred  his  glass  with  an  old-school 
grace, 

Chuckled,  and  sipped,  and  prattled  apace, 
Till  the  house  grew  merry  from  cellar  to 
tiles : 

‘“I’m  a  i«retty  old  man,”  he  gently  said; 

“I  have  lingered  a  long  while  here  be¬ 
low  ; 

But  my  heart  is  fresh,  if  my  youth  is  fled!” 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  smoked  his  pipe  in  the  balmy  air 
Every  night  when  the  sun  went  down, 

While  the  soft  wind  played  in  his  silvery 
hair, 

Leaving  its  tenderest  kisses  there, 

Gn  the  jolly  old  pedagogue’s  jolly  old 
crown : 

And,  feeling  the  kisses,  he  smiled,  and  said, 
’Twas  a  glorious  world  down  here  below; 

“  Why  wait  for  happiness  till  we  are  dead?” 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 


COLOGNE. 

In  Koln,  a  town  of  monks  and  bones, 

And  pavements  fang’d  with  murderous 
stones, 

And  rags  and  hags  and  hideous  wenches— 
I  counted  two-and-seventy  stenches, 

All  well-defined  and  several  stinks  ! 

Ye  nymphs  that  reign  o’er  sewers  and 
sinks ! 

The  river  Rhine,  it  is  well  known, 

Doth  wash  your  city  of  Cologne ; 

But  tell  me,  nymphs  !  what  power  divine 

Shall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine? 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a 
Mad  Dog. 

1  Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song  ; 

And  if  you  find  it  wond’rous  short 
It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran 
Whene’er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes ; 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad 
When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 

Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 
And  curs  of  low  degree. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


929 


This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends : 
But  when  a  pique  began, 

The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 
Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 
The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seem’d  both  sore  and  sad 
To  every  Christian  eye  : 

And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 
They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

That  show’d  the  rogues  they  lied  : 

The  man  recover’d  of  the  bite, 

The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


The  Diverting  History  of  John 
Gilpin. 

Showing  how  he  went  farther  than  he 

INTENDED,  AND  CAME  SAFE  HOME  AGAIN. 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 
Of  credit  and  renown  ; 

A  trainband  captain  eke  was  he 
Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin’s  spouse  said  to  her  dear — 
“Tho’  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

“To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 

Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 
All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

“  My  sister  and  my  sister’s  child, 

Myself  and  children  three, 

Will  fill  the  chaise  ;  so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we.” 

He  soon  replied,  “  I  do  admire 
Of  womankind  but  one, 

And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear : 
Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

“  I  am  a  linendraper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know ; 

And  my  good  friend,  the  calender, 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go.  ” 

59 


Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  “That’s  well  said; 

And,  for  that  wine  is  dear, 

We  will  be  furnish’d  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear.” 

John  Gilpin  kiss’d  his  loving  wife  ; 

O’erjoy’d  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 
She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 
But  yet  was  not  allow’d 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 
Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stay’d, 
Where  they  did  all  get  in — 

Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 
To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the 
wheel — 

Were  never  folks  so  glad  ; 

The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse’s  side 
Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 

And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride — 

But  soon  came  down  again  : 

For  saddletree  scarce  reach’d  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 

When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 
Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came  ;  for  loss  of  time, 
Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 

Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew 
Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

’Twas  long  before  the  customers 
Were  suited  to  their  mind  ; 

When  Betty,  screaming,  came  down  stairs — 
“  The  wine  is  left  behind  !” 

“  Good  lack  !”  quoth  he — “  yet  bring  it  me, 
My  leathern  belt  likewise, 

In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 
When  I  do  exercise.” 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul !) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 

To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 


930 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 

Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 

To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 
Equipp’d  from  top  to  toe, 

His  long  red  cloak,  well  brush’d  and  neat, 
He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 
Upon  his  nimble  steed, 

Full  slowly  pacing  o’er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 
Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 

The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  gall’d  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  “  Fair  and  softly,”  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain ; 

That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 
Who  cannot  sit  upright, 

He  grasp’d  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 
And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 
Had  handled  been  before, 

What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 
Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  naught ; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig ; 

He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow — the  cloak  did  fly, 
Like  streamer  long  and  gay ; 

Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 
The  bottles  he  had  slimo; — 

A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  scream’d, 
Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 

And  every  soul  cried  out,  “  Well  done!” 
As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 


Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around — 

“  He  carries  weight !  he  rides  a  race  ! 

’Tis  for  a  thousand  pound  !” 

And  still  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

’Twas  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike-men 
Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 
His  reeking  head  full  low, 

The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 
Were  shatter’d  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 

Which  made  his  horse’s  flanks  to  smoke 
As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seem’d  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced  ; 

For  all  might  see  the  bottle-necks 
Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 
These  gambols  he  did  play, 

Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 
Of  Edmonton  so  gay  ; 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 
On  both  sides  of  the  way, 

Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 
From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 
To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

“  Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin !  here’s  the 
house,” 

They  all  at  once  did  cry ; 

“  The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired :” 
Said  Gilpin — “  So  am  I !” 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 
Inclined  to  tarry  there  ; 

For  why? — his  owner  had  a  house 
Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong; 

So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 
The  middle  of  my  song. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL . 


931 


Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will, 

Till  at  his  friend’s  the  calender’s 
His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 
His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 

Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him  : 

**  What  news  ?  what  news  ?  your  tidings 
tell ; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall —  4 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ?” 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke  ; 

And  thus  unto  the  calender 
In  merry  guise  he  spoke  : 

“  I  came  because  your  horse  would  come  ; 

And,  if  I  well  forbode, 

My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, 

They  are  upon  the  road.” 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 
His  friend  in  merry  pin, 

Return’d  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in  ; 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and 
wig 

A  wig  that  flow’d  behind, 

A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear — 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 
Thus  show’d  his  ready  wit — 

“  My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

“  But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 
That  hangs  upon  your  face  ; 

And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
Be  in  a  hungry  case.” 

Said  John,  “  It  is  my  wedding-day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware.” 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

“  I  am  in  haste  to  dine ; 

’Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here — 
You  shall  go  back  for  mine.” 


Ah,  luckless  speech  and  bootless  boast, 
For  which  he  paid  full  dear! 

For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 
Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 
Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 

And  gallop’d  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin’s  hat  and  wig: 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 

For  why? — they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 
Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pull’d  out  half  a  crown  ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said 
That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 

“  This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring 
back 

My  husband  safe  and  well.” 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 
John  coming  back  amain — 

Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 

And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  post-boy  at  his  heels, 

The  post-boy’s  horse  right  glad  to  miss 
The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 

With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 
They  raised  the  hue  and  cry  : 

“  Stop  thief!  stop  thief! — a  highwayman  !” 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute  ; 

And  all  and  each  that  pass’d  that  way 
Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike-gates  again 
Flew  open  in  short  space  : 

The  toll-men  thinking  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 


932 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OE  POETRY. 


And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 

Nor  stopp’d  till  where  he  had  got  up 
He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  Long  live  the  king! 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he  ; 

And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 
May  I  be  there  to  see ! 

William  Cowper. 

- k>« - 

The  Deacons  Masterpiece,  or 

THE  WONDERFUL  u  ONE-HOSS 
Shay.” 

A  Logical  Story. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one- 
lioss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way, 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it —  Ah,  but  stay, 
I’ll  tell  you  what  happen’d  without  delay, 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits, 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 

Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive, — 

Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock’s  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 

It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finish’d  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot, — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  cross-bar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace, — lurking 
still 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,— 
Above,  or  below,  or  within  or  without, — 
And  that’s  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
That  a  chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn’t  wear 
out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 

With  an  “  I  dew  vum,”  or  an  “  I  tell  yeou  ”) 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
’N’  the  keounty  V  all  the  kentrv  raoun’ ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn't  break 
daown ; 


“  Fur,”  said  the  Deacon,  “  ’t’s  mighty 
plain 

Thut  the  weakes’  place  mus’  stan’  the 
strain ; 

’N’  the  wayt’  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 

T’  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest.*’ 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village 
folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  couldn’t  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,— 
That  was  Tor  spokes  and  floor  and  sills  ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills ; 
The  cross-bars  were  ash,  from  the  straight- 
est  trees ; 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like 
cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 
The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  “  Settler’s 
ellum,” — 

Last  of  its  timber — they  couldn’t  sell  ’em, 
Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips  ; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue  ; 
Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  “  put  her  through.” — 
“  There  !”  said  the  Deacon,  “  naow  she’ll 
dew.” 

Do !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turn’d  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropp’d  away, 
Children  and  grandchildren — where  were 
they  ? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay, 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen  Hundred  ; — it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon’s  masterpiece  strong  and 
sound. 

Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten; 

“  Hahnsum  kerridge”  they  call’d  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ; — 
Running  as  usual ;  much  the  same. 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 

And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


933 


Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there’s  nothing  that  keeps  its 
youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 
(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large ; 

Take  it. — You’re  welcome. — No  extra 
charge.) 

First  of  November, — the  Earthquake- 
day,— 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss 
shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, — 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 

There  couldn’t  be, — for  the  Deacon’s  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  wasn’t  a  chance  for  one  to 
start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the 
thills, 

And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the 
sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor 
more, 

And  the  back  crossbar  as  strong  as  the 
fore, 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 

And  yet,  as  a  whole ,  it  is  past  a  doubt, 

In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 

First  of  November,  ’Fifty-five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tail’d,  ewe-neck’d  bay. 

“  Huddup  !”  said  the  parson. — Off’  went 
they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday’s  text, — 
Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopp’d  perplex’d 
At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet’n’-house  on  the  hill. 

— First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet’n’-house 
clock, — 

Tust  the  hour  of  the  earthquake  shock  ! 


What  do  you  think  the  parson  found 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you’re  not  a  dunce. 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. — - 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 

Logic  is  logic.  That’s  all  I  say. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


Plain  Language  from  Truthful 

James. 

Which  I  wish  to  remark, — 

And  my  language  is  plain, — 

That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 

The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name  ; 

And  I  shall  not  deny 

In  regard  to  the  same 
What  that  name  might  imply, 

But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  child¬ 
like, 

As  I  frequent  remark’d  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third, 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies  ; 

Which  it  might  be  inferr’d 
That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise ; 

Yet  he  play’d  it  that  day  upon  William 
And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ab  Sin  took  a  hand  : 

It  was  euchre.  The  same 
He  did  not  understand  ; 

But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  a  smile  that  was  child-like  and 
bland. 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stock’d 
In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 

And  my  feelings  were  shock’d 
At  the  state  of  Nye’s  sleeve, 

Which  was  stuff’d  full  of  aces  and  bowers 
And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 


034 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  the  hands  that  were  play’d 
By  that  heathen  Chinee, 

And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see, — 

Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 
Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  look’d  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me  ; 

And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  “  Can  this  be? 

We  are  ruin’d  by  Chinese  cheap  labor;” 
And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 
I  did  not  take  a  hand, 

But  the  floor  it  was  strew’d 
Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been 
hiding, 

In  the  game  he  “  did  not  understand.” 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty-four  packs, — 

Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts  ; 

And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were 
taper, 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers, —  that’s  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark, — 

And  my  language  is  plain,  — 

That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 

The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, — 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 

Francis  Bret  Harte. 

•o« - 

Mass  a  cre  of  the  Ma  cpherson. 

Fhairshon  swore  a  feud 
Against  the  clan  M’Tavish — 
March’d  into  their  land 
To  murder  and  to  rafish ; 

For  he  did  resolve 
To  extirpate  the  vipers, 

With  four-and-twentv  men, 

And  five-and-thirty  pipers. 

But  when  he  had  gone 
Half-way  down  Strath-Canaan, 

Of  his  fighting  tail 

Just  three  were  remainin’. 


They  were  all  he  had 

To  back  him  in  ta  battle ; 

All  the  rest  had  gone 
Off  to  drive  ta  cattle. 

Fery  coot !”  cried  Fhairshon — 

“  So  my  clan  disgraced  is ; 

Lads,  we’ll  need  to  fight 

Pefore  we  touch  the  peasties. 
Here’s  Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 
Coming  wi’  his  fassals — 

Gillies  seventy-three, 

And  sixty  Dhuinewassails  !” 

Coot  tay  to  you,  sir  ! 

Are  not  you  ta  Fhairshon  ? 

W7as  you  coming  here 
To  visit  any  person  ? 

You  are  a  plackguard,  sir! 

It  is  now  six  hundred 
Coot  long  years,  and  more, 

Since  my  glen  was  plunder’d.” 

Fat  is  tat  you  say  ? 

Dar  you  cock  your  peaver  ? 

I  will  teach  you,  sir, 

Fat  is  coot  pehavior  ! 

You  shall  not  exist 
For  another  day  more  ; 

I  wull  shot  you,  sir, 

Or  stap  you  with  my  claymore  V 

I  am  fery  glad 
To  learn  what  you  mention, 
Since  I  can  prevent 
Any  such  intention.” 

So  Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 
Gave  some  warlike  howls, 

Trew  his  skhian-dhu, 

An’  stuck  it  in  his  powels. 

In  this  fery  wTay 

Tied  ta  faliant  Fhairshon, 

Who  was  always  thought 
A  superior  person. 

Fhairshon  had  a  son, 

Who  married  Noah’s  daughter. 
And  nearly  spoil’d  ta  flood 
By  trinking  up  ta  water — 

Which  he  would  have  done, 

I  at  least  believe  it, 

Had  ta  mixture  peen 
Only  half  Glenlivet. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


935 


This  is  all  my  tale : 

Sirs,  I  hope  ’tis  new  t’ye  f 
Here’s  your  fery  good  healths, 

And  tamn  ta  whusky  tuty  ! 

William  Edmondstoune  Aytoun. 

- •<>« - 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and 
the  Knife-grinder. 

FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY. 

“  Needy  knife-grinder,  whither  are  you 
going? 

Rough  is  the  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of 
order — - 

Bleak  blows  the  blast,  your  hat  has  got  a 
hole  in’t, 

So  have  your  breeches  ! 

“Weary  knife-grinder,  little  think  the 
proud  ones, 

Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turn- 
pike- 

Road,  what  hard  work  ’tis  crying  all  day 
‘  Knives  and 

Scissors  to  grind,  oh  !’ 

“  Tell  me,  knife-grinder,  how  came  you  to 
grind  knives? 

Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 

Was  it  the  squire?  or  parson  of  the  parish? 

Or  the  attorney  ? 

“Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his 
game,  or 

Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining? 

Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your 
little 

All  in  a  lawsuit? 

“(Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man , 
by  Tom  Paine?) 

Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eye¬ 
lids, 

Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told 
your 

Pitiful  story.” 

KNIFE-GRINDER. 

“  Story !  God  bless  you,  I  have  none  to 
tell,  sir ; 

Only  last  night  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 

This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you 
see,  were 

Torn  in  a  scuffle. 


“  Constables  came  up,  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody;  they  took  me  before  the  justice; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish 
Stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

“  I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honor’s 
health  in 

A  pot  of  .  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  six¬ 
pence  ; 

But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 
With  politics,  sir.” 

FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY. 

“/  give  tliee  sixpence !  I  will  see  the 
damn’d  first — 

Wretch!  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can 
rouse  to  vengeance — 

Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 
Spiritless  outcast !” 

[Kicks  the  knife-grinder,  overturns  his  wheel,  and 
exit  in  a  transport  of  republican  enthusiasm  and 
universal  philanthropy.] 

George  Canning 

- - 

Song. 

Sung  by  Rogero  in  the  Burlesque  Play 
of  “The  Rover.” 

Whene’er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 
This  dungeon  that  I’m  rotting  in, 

I  think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U- 

— niversity  of  Gottingen — 

— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[Weeps,  and  pulls  out  a  blue  kerchief,  with  which  he 
wipes  his  eyes  ;  gazing  tenderly  at  it,  he  proceeds — ] 

Sweet  kerchief,  check’d  with  heavenly  blue, 
Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in !  — 
Alas  !  Matilda  then  was  true  ! 

At  least  I  thought  so  at  the  U- 

— niversity  of  Gottingen — 

— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[At  the  repetition  of  this  line  Rogero  clanks  his  chains 

in  cadence.] 

Barbs!  barbs!  alas!  how  swift  vou  flew 
Her  neat  post- wagon  trotting  in  ! 

Ye  bore  Matilda  from  mv  view ; 

Forlorn  I  languish’d  at  the  U- 

— niversity  of  Gottingen— 

— niversity  of  Gottingen. 


936 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


This  faded  form  !  this  pallid  hue ! 

This  blood  my  veins  is  clotting  in, 

My  years  are  many — they  were  few 
When  first  I  entered  at  the  U- 

— niversity  of  Gottingen — 

— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew, 

Sweet,  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen  ! 

Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  tu- 
— tor,  law  professor  at  the  U- 

— niversity  of  Gottingen — 

— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Sun,  moon,  and  thou,  vain  world,  adieu, 
That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in ; 
Here  doom’d  to  starve  on  water  gru- 
— el,  never  shall  I  see  the  U- 

— niversity  of  Gottingen — 

— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[During  the  last  stanza  Rogero  dashes  his  head  repeat¬ 
edly  against  the  walls  of  his  prison,  and,  finally,  so 
hard  as  to  produce  a  visible  contusion  ;  he  then 
throws  himself  on  the  floor  in  an  agony.  The 
curtain  drops,  the  music  still  continuing  to  play 
till  it  is  wholly  fallen.] 

Georgk  Canning. 

- *o* - 

♦ 

A  Tale  of  Drury  Lane. 

[To  be  spoken  by  Mr.  Kemble,  in  a  suit  of  the  Black 
Prince’s  Armor,  borrowed  from  the  Tower.] 

Survey  this  shield,  all  bossy  bright — 
These  cuisses  twin  behold  ! 

Look  on  my  form  in  armor  dight 
Of  steel  inlaid  with  gold  ; 

Mv  knees  are  stiff  in  iron  buckles, 

Stiff’  spikes  of  steel  protect  my  knuckles. 
These  once  belonged  to  sable  prince, 

Who  never  did  in  battle  wrince ; 

With  valor  tart  as  pungent  quince, 

He  slew  the  vaunting  Gaul. 

Rest  there  a  while,  my  bearded  lance, 
While  from  green  curtain  I  advance 
To  yon  footlights,  no  trivial  dance, 

And  tell  the  town  what  sad  mischance 
Did  Drury  Lane  befall. 

THE  NIGHT. 

On  fair  Augusta’s  towers  and  trees 
Flitter’d  the  silent  midnight  breeze, 
Curling  the  foliage  as  it  past, 

Which  from  the  moon-tipp’d  plumage  cast 


A  spangled  light,  like  dancing  spray, 

Then  reassumed  its  still  array  ; 

When,  as  night’s  lamp  unclouded  hung, 
And  down  its  full  effulgence  flung, 

It  shed  such  soft  and  balmy  power 
That  cot  and  castle,  hall  and  bower, 

And  spire  and  dome,  and  turret  height, 
Appear’d  to  slumber  in  the  light. 

From  Henry’s  Chapel,  Rufus’  Hall, 

To  Savoy,  Temple,  and  St.  Paul, 

From  Knightsbridge,  Pancras,  Camden 
Town, 

To  Redriff,  Shadwell,  Horsleydown, 

No  voice  was  heard,  no  eye  unclosed, 

But  all  in  deepest  sleep  reposed. 

They  might  have  thought,  who  gazed 
around 

Amid  a  silence  so  profound, 

It  made  the  senses  thrill, 

That  ’twas  no  place  inhabited, 

But  some  vast  city  of  the  dead-- 
All  was  so  hush’d  and  still. 

THE  BURNING. 

As  Chaos,  which,  by  heavenly  doom, 

Had  slept  in  everlasting  gloom, 

Started  with  terror  and  surprise 
When  light  first  flash’d  upon  her  eyes — 

So  London’s  sons  in  night-cap  woke, 

In  bed-gown  woke  her  dames  ; 

For  shouts  were  heard  ’mid  fire  and 
smoke, 

And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke — 

“  The  playhouse  is  in  flames  !” 

And  lo  !  where  Catharine  street  extends, 

A  fiery  tail  its  lustre  lends 
To  every  window-pane  ; 

Blushes  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 

And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort, 

And  Covent  Garden  kennels  sport 
A  bright  ensanguined  drain  ; 

Meux’s  newT  brewhouse  show’s  the  light, 
Rovdand  Hill’s  chapel,  and  the  height 
Where  patent  shot  they  sell. 

The  Tennis-Court,  so  fair  and  tall, 
Partakes  the  ray  with  Surgeons’  Hall, 

The  ticket-porters’  house  of  call, 

Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  Wall, 
Wright’s  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  wdthal. 
And  Richardson’s  Hotel. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  far  and  wide, 
i  Across  red  Thames’s  gleaming  tide, 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


937 


To  distant  fields  the  blaze  was  borne, 

And  daisy  white  and  hoary  thorn 
In  borrow’d  lustre  seemed  to  sham 
The  rose  of  red  sweet  Wil-li-am. 

To  those  who  on  the  hills  around 
Beheld  the  flames  from  Drury’s  mound, 

As  from  a  lofty  altar  rise, 

It  seem’d  that  nations  did  conspire 
To  offer  to  the  god  of  fire 

Some  vast  stupendous  sacrifice  ! 

The  summon’d  firemen  woke  at  call, 

And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all : 
Starting  from  short  and  broken  snooze, 
Each  sought  his  pond’rous  hobnail’d  shoes, 
But  first  his  worsted  hosen  plied, 

Plush  breeches  next,  in  crimson  dyed, 

His  nether  bulk  embraced  ; 

Then  jacket  thick,  of  red  or  blue, 

Whose  massy  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew, 

In  tin  or  copper  traced. 

The  engines  thunder’d  through  the  street, 
Fire-hook,  pipe,  bucket,  all  complete, 

And  torches  glared,  and  clattering  feet 
Along  the  pavement  paced. 

And  one,  the  leader  of  the  band, 

From  Charing  Cross  along  the  Strand, 
Like  stag  by  beagles  hunted  hard, 

Ran  till  he  stopp’d  at  Vin’gar  Yard. 

The  burning  badge  his  shoulder  bore, 

The  belt  and  oil-skin  hat  he  wore, 

The  cane  he  had,  his  men  to  bang, 

Show’d  foreman  of  the  British  gang — 

His  name  was  Higginbottom.  Now 
’Tis  meet  that  I  should  tell  you  how 
The  others  came  in  view : 

The  Hand-in-Hand  the  race  begun, 

Then  came  the  Phoenix  and  the  Sun, 

Th’  Exchange,  where  old  insurers  run, 
The  Eagle,  where  the  new ; 

With  these  came  Rumford,  Bumford,  Cole, 
Robins  from  Hockley-in-the-Hole, 

Lawson  and  Dawson,  cheek  by  jowl, 
Crump  from  St.  Giles’s  Pound  ; 
Whitford  and  Mitford  join’d  the  train, 
Huggins  and  Muggins  from  Chick  Lane, 
And  Clutterbuck,  who  got  a  sprain 
Before  the  plug  was  found. 

Hobson  and  Jobson  did  not  sleep, 

But  ah  !  no  trophy  could  they  reap, 

For  both  were  in  the  Donjon  Keep 
Of  Bridewell’s  gloomy  mound  ! 


E’en  Higginbottom  now  was  posed, 

For  sadder  scene  was  ne’er  disclosed. 
Without,  within,  in  hideous  show, 
Devouring  flames  resistless  glow, 

And  blazing  rafters  downward  go, 

And  never  halloo  “  Heads  below  !” 

Nor  notice  give  at  all. 

The  firemen,  terrified,  are  slow 
To  bid  the  pumping  torrent  flow, 

For  fear  the  roof  would  fall. 

Back,  Robins,  back  !  Crump,  stand  aloof f 
Whitford,  keep  near  the  walls  ! 

Huggins,  regard  your  own  behoof, 

For  lo  !  the  blazing,  rocking  roof 
Down,  down,  in  thunder  falls  ! 

An  awful  pause  succeeds  the  stroke, 

And  o’er  the  ruins  volumed  smoke, 

Rolling  around  its  pitchy  shroud, 
Conceal’d  them  from  th’  astonish’d  crowd 
At  length  the  mist  a  while  was  clear’d, 
When,  lo  !  amid  the  wreck  uprear’d, 
Gradually  a  moving  head  appear’d, 

And  Eagle  firemen  knew 
’Twas  Joseph  Muggins,  name  revered, 

The  foreman  of  their  crew. 

Loud  shouted  all  in  signs  of  woe, 

“  A  Muggins  !  to  the  rescue,  ho  !” 

And  pour’d  the  hissing  tide  : 

Meanwhile  the  Muggins  fought  amain, 
And  strove  and  struggled  all  in  vain, 

For,  rallying  but  to  fall  again, 

He  totter’d,  sunk,  and  died ! 

Did  none  attempt,  before  he  fell, 

To  succor  one  they  loved  so  well  ? 

Yes,  Higginbottom  did  aspire 
(His  fireman’s  soul  was  all  on  fire) 

His  brother  chief  to  save  ; 

But  ah  !  his  reckless  generous  ire 
Served  but  to  share  his  grave  ! 

’Mid  blazing  beams  and  scalding  streams, 
Through  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless 
broke, 

Where  Muggins  broke  before. 

But  sulphury  stench  and  boiling  drench, 
Destroying  sight,  o’erwhelm’d  him  quite, 
He  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 

Still  o’er  his  head,  while  Fate  he  braved, 
His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  waved  ; 

“  Whitford  and  Mitford,  ply  your  pumps, 
You,  Clutterbuck,  come,  stir  your  stumps 


938 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps  ? 

A  fireman  and  afraid  of  bumps  ! — 

What  are  they  fear’d  on  ?  fools !  ’od  rot 

’em!” 

Were  the  last  words  of  Higginbottom. 

THE  REVIVAL. 

Peace  to  his  soul !  new  prospects  bloom, 
And  toil  rebuilds  what  fires  consume  ! 

Eat  we,  and  drink  we,  be  our  ditty, 

“  Joy  to  the  managing  committee  !” 

Eat  we  and  drink  we,  join  to  rum 
Roast  beef  and  pudding  of  the  plum  ; 
Forth  from  thy  nook,  John  Horner, 
come, 

With  bread  of  ginger  brown  thy  thumb, 
For  this  is  Drury’s  gay  day  : 

Roll,  roll  thy  hoop,  and  twirl  thy  tops, 
And  buy,  to  glad  thy  smiling  chops, 

Crisp  parliament  with  lollypops, 

And  fingers  of  the  Lady. 

Didst  mark  how  toil’d  the  busy  train 
From  morn  to  eve,  till  Drury  Lane 
Reap’d  like  a  roebuck  from  the  plain  ? 
Ropes  rose  and  sunk,  and  rose  again, 

And  nimble  workmen  trod  ; 

To  realize  bold  Wyatt’s  plan 
Rush’d  many  a  howling  Irishman  ; 

Loud  clatter’d  many  a  porter-can, 

And  many  a  ragamuffin  clan, 

With  trowel  and  with  hod. 

Drury  revives  !  her  rounded  pate 
Is  blue,  is  heavenly  blue,  with  slate ; 

She  “wings  the  midway  air,”  elate 
As  magpie,  crow,  or  chough  ; 

White  paint  her  modish  visage  smears, 
Yellow  and  pointed  are  her  ears. 

No  pendent  portico  appears 
Dangling  beneath,  for  Whitbread’s  shears 
Have  cut  the  bauble  off. 

Yes,  she  exalts  her  stately  head  ; 

And,  but  that  solid  bulk  outspread 
Opposed  you  on  your  onward  tread, 

And  posts  and  pillars  warranted 
That  all  was  true  that  Wyatt  said, 

You  might  have  deem’d  her  walls  so  thick 
Were  not  composed  of  stone  or  brick, 

But  all  a  phantom,  all  a  trick, 

Of  brain  disturb’d  and  fancy-sick, 

So  high  she  soars,  so  vast,  so  quick  ! 

Horace  Smith. 


The  Theatre. 

Interior  of  a  Theatre  described. — Pit  gradually  fills. — 
The  Check-taker.— Pit  full.— The  Orchestra  tuned.— 
One  Fiddle  rather  dilatory. — Is  reproved,  and  re¬ 
pents.— Evolutions  of  a  Play-bill.— Its  final  Settle¬ 
ment  on  the  Spikes.— The  Gods  taken  to  task— and 
why. —  Motley  Group  of  Play-goers.  — Holywell 
street,  St.  Pancras. — Emanuel  Jennings  binds  his 
Son  apprentice— not  in  London— and  why.— Episode 
of  the  Hat. 

’Tis  sweet  to  view,  from  half-past  five  to 
six, 

Our  long  wax-candles,  with  short  cotton 
wicks, 

Touch’d  by  the  lamplighter’s  Promethean 
art, 

Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter 
start ; 

To  see  red  Phoebus  through  the  gallery- 
pane 

Tinge  with  his  beams  the  beams  of  Drury 
Lane ; 

While  gradual  parties  fill  our  widen’d 
pit, 

And  gape,  and  gaze,  and  wonder,  ere  they 
sit. 

At  first,  while  vacant  seats  give  choice 
and  ease, 

Distant  or  near,  they  settle  where  they 
please ; 

But  when  the  multitude  contracts  the 
span, 

And  seats  are  rare,  they  settle  where  they 
can. 

Now  the  full  benches  to  late  comers 
doom 

No  room  for  standing,  miscall’d  standiwy- 
room. 

Hark  !  the  check-taker  moody  silence 
breaks, 

And  bawling  “  Pit  full !”  gives  the  checks 
he  takes  ; 

Yet  onward  still  the  gathering  numbers 
cram, 

Contending  crowders  shout  the  frequent 
damn, 

And  all  is  bustle,  squeeze,  row,  jabbering, 
and  jam. 

See,  to  their  desks  Apollo’s  sons  re¬ 
pair — 

Swift  rides  the  rosin  o’er  the  horse’s  hair ! 


+<>•- 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


939 


In  unison  their  various  tones  to  tune, 
Murmurs  the  hautboy,  growls  the  coarse 
bassoon ; 

In  soft  vibration  sighs  the  whispering 
lute, 

Tang  goes  the  harpsichord,  too-too  the 
flute, 

Brays  the  loud  trumpet,  squeaks  the  fiddle 
sharp, 

Winds  the  French  horn,  and  twangs  the 
tingling  harp  ; 

Till,  like  great  Jove,  the  leader,  fingering  in, 
Attunes  to  order  the  chaotic  din. 

Now  all  seems  hush’d — but,  no,  one  fiddle 
will 

Give,  half  ashamed,  a  tiny  flourish  still. 
Foil’d  in  his  clash,  the  leader  of  the  clan 
Reproves  with  frowns  the  dilatory  man  : 
Then  on  his  candlestick  thrice  taps  his  bow, 
Nods  a  new  signal,  and  away  they  go. 

Perchance,  while  pit  and  gallery  cry 
“  Hats  off !” 

And  awed  Consumption  checks  his  chided 
cough, 

Some  giggling  daughter  of  the  Queen  of 
Love 

Drops,  ’reft  of  pin,  her  play-bill  from 
above : 

Like  Icarus,  while  laughing  galleries  clap, 
Soars,  ducks,  and  dives  in  air  the  printed 
scrap  ; 

But,  wiser  far  than  he,  combustion  fears, 
And,  as  it  flies,  eludes  the  chandeliers  ; 
Till,  sinking  gradual,  with  repeated  twirl, 
It  settles,  curling,  on  a  fiddler’s  curl  ; 

Who  from  his  powder’d  pate  the  intruder 
strikes, 

And,  for  mere  malice,  sticks  it  on  the 
spikes. 

Say,  why  these  Babel  strains  from  Babel 
tongues  ? 

Who’s  that  calls  “  Silence !”  with  such 
leathern  lungs  ? 

He  who,  in  quest  of  quiet,  “  Silence !” 
hoots, 

Is  apt  to  make  the  hubbub  he  imputes. 

What  various  swains  our  motley  walls 
contain  ! 

Fashion  from  Moorfields,  honor  from  Chick 
Lane ; 


Bankers  from  Paper  Buildings  here  re¬ 
sort, 

Bankrupts  from  Golden  Square  and  Riches 
court ; 

From  the  Haymarket  canting  rogues  in 
grain, 

Gulls  from  the  Poultry,  sots  from  Water 
Lane  ; 

The  lottery  cormorant,  the  auction  shark, 

The  full-price  master,  and  the  half-price 
clerk  ; 

Boys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery- 
door, 

With  pence  twice  five — they  want  but  two¬ 
pence  more ; 

Till  some  Samaritan  the  twopence  spares, 

And  sends  them  jumping  up  the  gallery- 
stairs. 

Critics  we  boast  who  ne’er  their  malice 
balk, 

But  talk  their  minds  :  we  wish  they’d  mind 
their  talk  : 

Big-worded  bullies,  who  by  quarrels  live — 

Who  give  the  lie,  and  tell  the  lie  they 
give; 

Jews  from  St.  Mary’s  Axe,  for  jobs  so 
wary 

That  for  old  clothes  they’d  even  ax  St. 
Mary  ; 

And  bucks  with  pockets  empty  as  their 
pate, 

Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait ; 

Who  oft,  when  we  our  house  lock  up, 
carouse 

With  tippling  tipstaves  in  a  lock-up 
house. 

Yet  here,  as  elsewhere,  Chance  can  joy 
bestow, 

Where  scowling  fortune  seem’d  to  threaten 
woe. 

John  Richard  William  Alexander 
Dwyer 

Was  footman  to  Justinian  Stubbs,  Es¬ 
quire  ; 

But  when  John  Dwyer  ’listed  in  the 
Blues, 

Emanuel  Jennings  polish’d  Stubbs’s  shoes. 

Emanuel  Jennings  brought  his  youngest 
boy 

■Up  as  a  corn-cutter — a  safe  employ  ; 


940 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


In  Holywell  street,  St.  Pancras,  he  was 
bred 

(At  number  twenty-seven,  it  is  said), 

Facing  the  pump,  and  near  the  Granby’s 
Head : 

He  would  have  bound  him  to  some  shop 
in  town, 

But  with  a  premium  he  could  not  come 
down. 

Pat  was  the  urchin’s  name — a  red-hair’d 
youth. 

Fonder  of  purl  and  skittle-grounds  than 
truth. 

Silence,  ye  gods !  to  keep  your  tongue 
in  awe, 

The  Muse  shall  tell  an  accident  she  saw. 

Pat  Jennings  in  the  upper  gallery  sat, 

But,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his 
hat : 

Down  from  the  gallery  the  beaver  flew, 

And  spurn’d  the  one  to  settle  in  the  two. 

How  shall  he  act  ?  Pay  at  the  gallery- 
door 

Two  shillings  for  what  cost,  when  new, 
but  four  ? 

Or  till  half-price,  to  save  his  shilling, 
wait, 

And  gain  his  hat  again  at  half-past  eight  ? 

Now,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a  thief, 

John  Mullins  whispers,  “Take  my  hand¬ 
kerchief.” 

“  Thank  you,”  cries  Pat ;  “  but  one  won’t 
make  a  line.” 

“  Take  mine,”  cries  Wilson ;  and  cries 
Stokes,  “  Take  mine.” 

A  motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  ties, 

Where  Spitalfields  with  real  India  vies. 

Like  Iris’  bow,  down  darts  the  painted 
clew, 

Starr’d,  striped,  and  spotted,  yellow,  red, 
and  blue, 

Old  calico,  torn  silk  and  muslin  new. 

George  Green  below,  with  palpitating 
hand 

Loops  the  last  ’kerchief  to  the  beaver’s 
band — 

Up  soars  the  prize  !  The  youth  with  joy 
unfeign’d, 

Regain’d  the  felt,  and  felt  the  prize  re¬ 
gain’d  ; 


While  to  the  applauding  galleries  grateful 
Pat 

Made  a  low  bow,  and  touch’d  the  ran¬ 
som’d  hat. 

James  Smith. 

- tO» —  » 

The  Baby’s  DFbut. 

[Spoken  in  the  character  of  Nancy  Lake,  a  girl  of 
eight  years  of  age,  who  is  drawn  upon  the  stage  in 
a  child’s  chaise  by  Samuel  Hughes,  her  uncle’s  por¬ 
ter.] 

My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May, 

And  I  was  eight  on  New  Year’s  day; 

So  in  Kate  Wilson’s  shop 
Papa  (he’s  my  papa  and  Jack’s) 

Bought  me,  last  week,  a  doll  of  wax, 
And  brother  Jack  a  top. 

Jack’s  in  the  pouts,  and  this  it  is — ■ 

He  thinks  mine  came  to  more  than  his  ; 

So  to  my  drawer  he  goes, 

Takes  out  the  doll,  and,  oh,  my  stars ! 

He  pokes  her  head  between  the  bars, 
And  melts  off  half  her  nose  ! 

Quite  cross,  a  bit  of  string  I  beg, 

And  tie  it  to  his  peg-top’s  peg, 

And  ban'g,  with  might  and  main, 

Its  head  against  the  parlor-door : 

Off  flies  the  head,  and  hits  the  floor, 

And  breaks  a  window-pane. 

This  made  him  cry  with  rage  and  spite ; 
Well,  let  him  cry,  it  serves  him  right. 

A  pretty  thing,  forsooth  ! 

If  he’s  to  melt,  all  scalding  hot, 

Half  my  doll’s  nose,  and  I  am  not 
To  draw  his  peg-top’s  tooth  ! 

Aunt  Hannah  heard  the  window  break, 
And  cried,  “  O  naughty  Nancy  Lake, 
Thus  to  distress  your  aunt ! 

No  Drury  Lane  for  you  to-day  !” 

And  while  papa  said,  “  Pooh,  she  may  !” 
Mamma  said,  “  No,  she  sha’n’t !” 

Well,  after  many  a  sad  reproach, 

They  got  into  a  hackney-coach, 

And  trotted  down  the  street. 

I  saw  them  go :  one  horse  was  blind, 

The  tails  of  both  hung  down  behind, 
Their  shoes  were  on  their  feet. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


941 


The  chaise  in  which  poor  brother  Bill 
Used  to  be  drawn  to  Pentonville, 

Stood  in  the  lumber-room  : 

I  wiped  the  dust  from  off  the  top, 

While  Mollie  mopp’d  it  with  a  mop, 

And  brush’d  it  with  a  broom. 

My  uncle’s  porter,  Samuel  Hughes, 

Came  in  at  six  to  black  the  shoes 
(I  always  talk  to  Sam) : 

So  what  does  he,  but  takes,  and  drags 
Me  in  the  chaise  along  the  flags, 

And  leaves  me  where  I  am  ? 

My  father’s  walls  are  made  of  brick, 

But  not  so  tall  and  not  so  thick 
As  these  ;  and,  goodness  me ! 

My  father’s  beams  are  made  of  wood, 
But  never,  never  half  so  good 
As  those  that  now  I  see. 

What  a  large  floor !  ’tis  like  a  town  ! 

The  carpet,  when  they  lay  it  down, 
Won’t  hide  it,  I’ll  be  bound  ; 

And  there’s  a  row  of  lamps  ! — my  eye  ! 
How  they  do  blaze !  I  wonder  why 
They  keep  them  on  the  ground? 

At  first  I  caught  hold  of  the  wing, 

And  kept  away  ;  but  Mr.  Thing¬ 
umbob,  the  prompter-man, 

Gave  with  his  hand  mv  chaise  a  shove, 
And  said,  “  Go  on,  my  pretty  love; 
Speak  to  ’em,  little  Nan. 

“  You’ve  only  got  to  curtsy,  whisp¬ 
er,  hold  your  chin  up,  laugh  and  lisp, 
And  then  you’re  sure  to  take : 

I’ve  known  the  day  when  brats,  not 
quite 

Thirteen,  got  fifty  pounds  a  night ; 

Then  why  not  Nancy  Lake  ?” 

But  while  I’m  speaking,  where’s  papa? 
And  where’s  my  aunt  ?  and  where’s 
mamma  ? 

Where’s  Jack?  Oh  there  they  sit! 
They  smile,  they  nod ;  I’ll  go  my  ways, 
And  order  round  poor  Billy’s  chaise, 

To  join  them  in  the  pit. 

And  now,  good  gentlefolks,  I  go 
To  join  mamma,  and  see  the  show  ; 


So,  bidding  you  adieu, 

I  curtsy  like  a  pretty  miss, 

And  if  you’ll  blow  to  me  a  kiss, 

I’ll  blow  a  kiss  to  you. 

[Blows  a  kiss,  and  exit.] 
James  Smith. 

- KX - 

The  Execution. 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  got  up  one  day ; 

It  was  half  after  two  ;  he  had  nothing  to 
do, 

So  his  lordship  rang  for  his  cabriolet. 

Tiger  Tim  was  clean  of  limb, 

His  boots  were  polish’d,  his  jacket  was 
trim ; 

With  a  very  smart  tie  in  his  smart  cravat, 
And  a  smart  cockade  on  the  top  of  his 
hat  ; 

Tallest  of  boys,  or  shortest  of  men, 

He  stood  in  his  stockings  just  four  foot 
ten, 

And  he  ask’d,  as  he  held  the  door  on  the 
swing, 

“  Pray,  did  your  lordship  please  to  ring  ?” 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  he  raised  his  head, 
And  thus  to  Tiger  Tim  he  said  : 

“Malibran’s  dead,  Duvernay’s  fled, 
Taglioni  has  not  yet  arrived  in  her  stead ; 
Tiger  Tim,  come  tell  me  true, 

What  may  a  nobleman  find  to  do  ?” 

Tim  look’d  up,  and  Tim  look’d  down, 

He  paused,  and  he  put  on  a  thoughtful 
frown, 

And  he  held  up  his  hat,  and  he  peep’d  in 
the  crown  ; 

He  bit  his  lip,  and  he  scratch’d  his  head, 
He  let  go  the  handle,  and  thus  he  said, 

As  the  door,  released,  behind  him  bang’d : 
“  An’t  please  you,  my  lord,  there’s  a  man 
to  be  bang’d.” 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  jump’d  up  at  the 
news : 

“Run  to  M’Fuze  and  Lieutenant  Tre- 
gooze, 

And  run  to  Sir  Carnaby  Jenks  of  the 
Blues. 

Rope-dancers  a  score  I’ve  seen  before — 
Madame  Sacclii,  Antonio,  and  Master 
Blackmore ; 


942 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  to  see  a  man  swing  at  the  end  of  a 
string, 

With  his  neck  in  a  noose,  will  be  quite  a 
new  thing. 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  stepp’d  into  his  cab — 

Lark  rifle  green,  with  a  lining  of  drab ; 

Through  street  and  through  square, 

His  high-trotting  mare, 

Like  one  of  Lucrow’s,  goes  pawing  the 
air. 

Adown  Piccadilly  and  Waterloo  Place 

Went  the  liigh-trotting  mare  at  a  very 
quick  pace  ; 

She  produced  some  alarm,  but  did  no 
great  harm, 

Save  frightening  a  nurse  with  a  child  on 
her  arm, 

Spattering  with  clay  two  urchins  at 
play, 

Knocking  down — very  much  to  the  sweep¬ 
er’s  dismay — 

An  old  woman  who  wouldn’t  get  out  of 
the  way, 

And  upsetting  a  stall  near  Exeter  Hall, 

Which  made  all  the  pious  church-mission 
folks  squall. 

But  eastward  afar,  through  Temple  Bar, 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  directs  his  car, 

Never  heeding  their  squalls, 

Or  their  calls,  or  their  bawls ; 

He  passes  by  Waithman’s  emporium  for 
shawls, 

And,  merely  just  catching  a  glimpse  of 
St.  Paul’s, 

Turns  down  the  Old  Bailey, 

Where  in  front  of  the  jail  he 

Pulls  up  at  the  door  of  the  gin-shop,  and 

gayly 

Cries,  “  What  must  I  fork  out  to-night,  my 
trump, 

For  the  whole  first  floor  of  the  Magpie  and 
Stump  ?” 


The  clock  strikes  twelve — it  is  dark  mid¬ 
night — 

Yet  the  Magpie  and  Stump  is  one  blaze  of 
light. 

The  parties  are  met,  the  tables  are  set, 
There  is  “punch,”  “cold  without,”  “hot 
with,”  heavy  wet, 


Ale-glasses  and  jugs,  and  rummers  and 
mugs, 

And  sand  on  the  floor,  without  carpets  or 
rugs, 

Cold  fowl  and  cigars,  pickled  onions  in 
jars, 

Welsh  rabbits  and  kidneys — rare  work  for 
the  jaws — 

And  very  large  lobsters,  with  very  large 
claws ; 

And  there  is  M’Fuze  and  Lieutenant 
Tregooze, 

And  there  is  Sir  Carnaby  Jenks  of  the 
Blues, 

All  come  to  see  a  man  “  die  in  his  shoes.” 

The  clock  strikes  one.  Supper  is  done, 

And  Sir  Carnaby  Jenks  is  full  of  his 
fun, 

Singing  “  Jolly  companions  every  one.” 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  is  drinking  gin- 
toddy, 

And  laughing  at  everything  and  every¬ 
body. 

The  clock  strikes  two,  and  the  clock 
strikes  three; 

“  Who  so  merry,  so  merry  as  we  ?” 

Save  Captain  M’Fuze,  who  is  taking  a 
snooze, 

While  Sir  Carnaby  Jenks  is  busy  at  work 

Blacking  his  nose  with  a  piece  of  burnt 
cork. 

The  clock  strikes  four:  round  the  debt¬ 
ors’  door 

Are  gather’d  a  couple  of  thousand  or 
more ; 

As  many  await  at  the  press-yard  gate, 

Till  slowly  its  folding  doors  open,  and 
straight 

The  mob  divides,  and  between  their  ranks 

A  wagon  comes  loaded  with  posts  and 
with  planks. 

The  clock  strikes  five.  The  sheriffs  ar¬ 
rive, 

And  the  crowd  is  so  great  that  the  street 
seems  alive ; 

But  Sir  Carnaby  Jenks  blinks  and 
winks,  ' 

A  candle  bums  down  in  the  socket,  and 
stinks. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


943 


Lieutenant  Tregooze  is  dreaming  of  Jews, 
And  acceptances  all  the  bill-brokers  re¬ 
fuse  ; 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  has  drunk  all  his 
toddy, 

And  just  as  the  dawn  is  beginning  to  peep 
The  whole  of  the  party  are  fast  asleep. 

Sweetly,  oh  sweetly  the  morning  breaks, 
With  roseate  streaks, 

Like  the  first  faint  blush  on  a  maiden’s 
cheeks ; 

Seem’d  as  that  mild  and  clear  blue  sky 
Smiled  upon  all  things  far  and  high, 

On  all — save  the  wretch  condemn’d  to  die  ! 
Alack  !  that  ever  so  fair  a  sun 
As  that  which  its  course  has  now  begun, 
Should  rise  on  such  a  scene  of  misery ! 
Should  gild  with  rays  so  light  and  free 
That  dismal,  dark-frowning  gallows-tree  ! 

And  hark  ! — a  sound  comes  big  with  fate : 
The  clock  from  St.  Sepulchre’s  tower 
strikes — eight ! 

List  to  that  low  funereal  bell ; 

It  is  tolling,  alas  !  a  living  man’s  knell ! 
And  see  !  from  forth  that  opening  door 
They  come — he  steps  that  threshold  o’er 
Who  never  shall  tread  upon  threshold 
more ! 

God !  tis  a  fearsome  thing  to  see 
That  pale  wan  man’s  mute  agony, — 

The  glare  of  that  wild,  despairing  eye, 
Now  bent  on  the  crowd,  now  turn’d  to  the 
sky 

As  though  ’twere  scanning,  in  doubt  and 
in  fear, 

The  path  of  the  spirit’s  unknown  career. 
Those  pinion’d  arms,  those  hands  that 
ne’er 

Shall  be  lifted  again — not  even  in  prayer ; 
That  heaving  chest !  Enough  ;  ’tis  done  ! 
The  bolt  has  fallen,  the  spirit  is  gone, 

For  weal  or  for  woe  is  known  but  to  One  I 
Oh,  ’twas  a  fearsome  sight !  Ah  me  ! 

A  deed  to  shudder  at, — not  to  see. 

Again  that  clock  !  ’tis  time,  ’tis  time  ! 

The  hour  is  past;  with  its  earliest  chime 
The  cord  is  sever’d,  the  lifeless  clay 
By  “ dungeon  villains”  is  borne  away; 
Nine! — ’twas  the  last  concluding  stroke, 
And  then  my  Lord  Tomnoddy  awoke. 


And  Tregooze  and  Sir  Carnaby  Jenks 
arose, 

And  Captain  M‘Fuze,  with  the  black  on 
his  nose, 

And  they  stared  at  each  other,  as  much  as 
to  say, 

“  Hollo  !  hollo  !  Here’s  a  rum  go  f 

Why,  captain! — my  lord! — Here’s  the 
devil  to  pay ; 

The  fellow’s  been  cut  down  and  taken 
away ! 

What’s  to  be  done?  We’ve  miss’d  all 
the  fun. 

Why,  they’ll  laugh  at  and  quiz  us  all  over 
the  town, 

We  are  all  of  us  done  so  uncommonly 
brown !” 

What  was  to  be  done?  ’Twas  perfectly 
plain 

That  they  could  not  well  hang  the  man 
over  again  ; 

What  was  to  be  done?  The  man  was 
dead. 

Naught  could  be  done — naught  could  be 
said, 

So  my  Lord  Tomnoddy  went  home  to  bed  ! 

Richard  Harris  Barham. 

- K>« - 

The  Birth  of  St.  Patrick. 

On  the  eighth  day  of  March  it  was,  some 
people  say, 

That  Saint  Pathrick  at  midnight  he  first 
saw  the  day  ; 

While  others  declare  ’twas  the  ninth  he 
was  born, 

And  ’twas  all  a  mistake  between  midnight 
and  morn ; 

For  mistakes  will  occur  in  a  hurry  and 
shock, 

And  some  blamed  the  babby — and  some 
blamed  the  clock — 

Till  with  all  their  cross-questions  sure  no 
one  could  know 

If  the  child  was  too  fast,  or  the  clock  was 
too  slow. 

Now  the  first  faction-fight  in  owld  Ireland, 
they  say, 

Was  all  on  account  of  Saint  Pathrick’s 
birthday : 


944 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Some  fought  for  the  eighth — for  the  ninth 
more  would  die, 

And  who  wouldn’t  see  right,  sure  they 
blacken’d  his  eye  ! 

At  last,  both  the  factions  so  positive 
grew, 

That  each  kept  a  birthday,  so  Pat  then 
had  two, 

Till  Father  Mulcahy,  who  show’d  them 
their  sins, 

Said,  “No  one  could  have  two  birthdays, 
but  a  twins.” 

Says  he,  “  Boys,  don’t  be  fightin’  for  eight 
or  for  nine, 

Don’t  be  always  dividin’ — but  sometimes 
combine ; 

Combine  eight  with  nine,  and  seventeen  is 
the  mark, 

So  let  that  be  his  birthday,” — “  Amen,” 
says  the  clerk. 

“  If  he  wasn’t  a  twins,  sure  our  hist’ry  will 
show 

That,  at  least,  he’s  worthy  any  two  saints 
that  we  know !” 

Then  they  all  got  blind  dhrunk — which 
complated  their  bliss, 

And  we  keep  up  the  practice  from  that 
day  to  this. 

Samuel  Lover. 

- •<>« - 

The  Society  upon  the  Stan- 
islow. 

I  reside  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name 
is  Truthful  James; 

I  am  not  up  to  small  deceit,  or  any  sinful 
games ; 

And  I’ll  tell  in  simple  language  what  I 
know  about  the  row 

That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the  Stan- 
islow. 

But  first  I  would  remark,  that  it  is  not  a 
proper  plan 

For  any  scientific  gent  to  whale  his  fellow- 
man, 

And,  if  a  member  don’t  agree  with  his 
peculiar  whim, 

To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to  “  put  a 
head  ”  on  him. 


Now  nothing  could  be  finer  or  more  beau¬ 
tiful  to  see 

Than  the  first  six  months’  proceedings  of 
that  same  society, 

Till  Brown  of  Calaveras  brought  a  lot  of 
fossil  bones 

That  he  found  within  a  tunnel  near  the 
tenement  of  Jones. 

Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  re¬ 
constructed  there, 

From  those  same  bones,  an  animal  that 
was  extremely  rare ; 

And  Jones  then  ask’d  the  chair  for  a  sus¬ 
pension  of  the  rules 

Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones 
was  one  of  his  lost  mules. 

Then  Brown  he  smiled  a  bitfer  smile,  and 
said  he  was  at  fault. 

It  seemed  he  had  been  trespassing  on 
Jones’s  family  vault : 

He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet 
Mr.  Brown, 

And  on  several  occasions  he  had  clean’d 
out  the  town. 

Now  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific 
gent 

To  say  another  is  an  ass, — at  least,  to  all 
intent ; 

Nor  should  the  individual  who  happens  to 
be  meant 

Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him  to  any 
great  extent. 

Then  Abner  Dean  of  Angel’s  raised  a 
point  of  order — when 

A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in 
the  abdomen, 

And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and 
curl’d  up  on  the  floor, 

And  the  subsequent  proceedings  interested 
him  no  more. 

For,  in  less  time  than  I  write  it,  every 
member  did  engage 

In  a  warfare  with  the  remnants  of  a  palaeo¬ 
zoic  age ; 

And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in 
their  anger  was  a  sin, 

Till  the  skull  of  an  old  Mammoth  caved 
the  head  of  Thompson  in. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


945 


And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say  of  these  im¬ 
proper  games, 

For  I  live  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my 
name  is  Truthful  James  ; 

And  I’ve  told  in  simple  language  what  I 
know  about  the  row 

That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the  Stan- 
islow. 

Francis  Bret  Harte. 

- *o« - 

Monsieur  To  ns  on. 

There  lived,  as  Fame  reports,  in  days  of 
yore, 

At  least  some  fifty  years  ago  or  more, 

A  pleasant  wag  on  town,  yclep’d  Tom 
King; 

A  fellow  that  was  clever  at  a  joke, 

Expert  in  all  the  arts,  to  tease  and  smoke, — 
In  short,  for  strokes  of  humor  quite 
the  thing. 

To  many  a  jovial  club  this  King  was 
known, 

With  whom  his  active  wit  unrivall’d 
shone — 

Choice  Spirit,  grave  Free-Mason,  Buck, 
and  Blood, 

Would  crowd,  his  stories  and  bon-mots  to 
hear, 

And  none  a  disappointment  e’er  could 
fear, 

His  humor  flow’d  in  such  a  copious 
flood. 

To  him  a  frolic  was  a  high  delight — 

A  frolic  he  would  hunt  for  day  and  night, 
Careless  how  Prudence  on  the  sport 
might  frown. 

If  e’er  a  pleasant  mischief  sprang  to  view, 

At  once  o’er  ditch  and  hedge  away  he  flew, 
Nor  left  the  game  till  he  had  run  it  down. 

One  night  our  hero,  rambling  with  a 
friend, 

Near  famed  St.  Giles’s  chanced  his  course 
to  bend, 

Just  by  that  spot  the  Seven  Dials 
hight,— 

Twas  silence  all  around,  and  clear  the 
coast, 

The  watch,  as  usual,  dozing  on  his  post, 
And  scarce  a  lamp  display’d  a  twink¬ 
ling  light. 

60 


Around  this  place  there  lived  the  num- 
’rous  clans 

Of  honest,  plodding,  foreign  artisans, 

Known  at  that  time  by  th’  name  of 
Refugees — 

The  rod  of  persecution  from  their  home 

Compell’d  th’  inoffensive  race  to  roam, 

And  here  they  lighted  like  a  swarm  of 
bees. 

Well !  our  two  friends  were  saunt’ring 
thro’  the  street, 

In  hopes  some  food  for  humor  soon  to 
meet, 

When  in  a  window  high  a  light  they 
view, 

And,  though  a  dim  and  melancholy  ray, 

It  seem’d  the  prologue  to  some  merry 

play, 

So  toward  the  gloomy  dome  our  hero 
drew. 

Straight  at  the  door  he  gave  a  thund’ring 
knock 

(The  time,  we  may  suppose,  near  two 
o’clock) — 

“  I’ll  ask,”  says  King,  “  if  Thompson 
lodges  here.” 

“Thompson!”  cries  t’other,  “who  the 
devil’s  he  ?” 

“  I  know  not,”  King  replies,  “  but  want  to 
see 

What  kind  of  animal  will  now  ap¬ 
pear.” 

After  some  time  a  little  Frenchman 
came — 

One  hand  display’d  a  rushlight’s  trem¬ 
bling  flame, 

And  from  the  other  dangled  his  ca¬ 
lotte  ; 

An  old  striped  woollen  night-cap  graced 
his  head, 

A  tatter’d  waistcoat  o’er  one  shoulder 
spread  ; 

Scarce  half  awake,  he  heaved  a  yawning 
note. 

Though  thus  untimely  roused,  he  cour¬ 
teous  smiled, 

And  soon  address’d  our  wag  in  accents 
mild, 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY.  • 


946 


Bending  his  head  obsequious  to  his 
knee, — 

“  Pray,  sare,  vat  vant  you,  dat  you  come 
so  late — 

I  beg  your  pardon,  sare,  to  make  you 
vait — 

Pray  tell  me,  sare,  vat  your  commands 
vit  me  V’ 

“  Sir,”  answer’d  King,  “  I  merely  thought 
to  know, 

As  by  your  house  I  chanced  this  night  to 

go  — 

But  really  I  disturb’d  your  sleep  I  fear, — 

I  say,  I  thought  that  you  perhaps  could 
tell, 

Among  the  folks  who  in  this  street  may 
dwell, 

If  there’s  a  Mr.  Thompson  lodges  here?” 

The  shiv’ring  Frenchman,  though  not 
pleased  to  find 

The  business  of  this  unimportant  kind, 

Too  simple  to  suspect  ’twas  meant  in 
jeer, 

Shrugg’d  out  a  sigh,  that  thus  his  rest 
should  break, 

Then,  with  unalter’d  courtesy,  he  spake — 

“  No,  sare,  no  Monsieur  Tonson  lodges 
here.” 

% 

Our  wag  begg’d  pardon,  and  toward  home 
he  sped, 

While  the  poor  Frenchman  crawl’d  again 
to  bed ; 

But  King  resolved  not  thus  to  drop  the 
jest— 

Bo  the  next  night,  with  more  of  whim  than 
grace, 

Again  he  made  a  visit  to  the  place, 

To  break  once  more  the  poor  old  French¬ 
man’s  rest. 

He  knock’d — but  waited  longer  than 
before, 

No  footstep  seem’d  approaching  to  the 
door, 

Our  Frenchman  lay  in  such  a  sleep  pro¬ 
found — 

King  with  the  knocker  thunder’d  then 
again, 

Firm  on  his  post  determined  to  remain, 

And  oft,  indeed,  he  made  the  door  re¬ 
sound. 


At  last  King  hears  him  o’er  the  passage 
creep — 

Wond’ring  what  fiend  again  disturb’d  his 
sleep — 

The  wag  salutes  him  with  a  civil  leer ; 

Thus  drawling  out,  to  heighten  the  sur¬ 
prise, 

While  the  poor  Frenchman  rubb’d  his 
heavy  eyes, 

“  Is  there — a  Mr.  Thompson — lodging 
here?  ” 

The  Frenchman  falter’d,  with  a  kind  of 
fright — 

“  Yy,  sare,  I’m  sure,  I  toll  you,  sare,  last 
night” 

(And  here  he  labor’d  with  a  sigh  sincere) 

“No  Monsieur  Tonson  in  de  vorld  I 
know — 

No  Monsieur  Tonson  here — I  toll  you  so — 

Indeed,  sare,  dere  no  Monsieur  Ton- 
son  here.” 

Some  more  excuses  tender’d,  off  King  goes, 

And  the  poor  Frenchman  sought  once 
more  repose. 

Our  wag  next  night  pursued  his  old 
career — 

’Twas  long,  indeed,  before  the  man  came 
nigh, 

And  then  he  utter’d  in  a  piteous  cry, 

“  Sare,  ’pon  my  soul,  no  Monsieur  Ton- 
son  here.” 

Our  sportive  wight  his  usual  visit  paid, 

And  the  next  night  came  forth  a  prattling 
maid, 

Whose  tongue,  indeed,  than  any  jack 
went  faster — 

Anxious  she  strove  his  errand  to  inquire ; 

He  said,  ’twas  vain  her  pretty  tongue  to  tire, 

He  should  not  stir  till  he  had  seen  her 
master. 

The  damsel  then  began,  in  doleful  state, 

The  Frenchman’s  broken  slumbers  to  re¬ 
late, 

And  begg’d  he’d  call  at  proper  time  of 
dav, — 

King  told  her  she  must  fetch  her  master 
down, 

A  chaise  was  ready,  he  was  leaving  town, 

But  first  had  much  of  deep  concern  to 
say. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


947 


Thus  urged,  she  went  the  snoring  man  to 
call, 

And  long,  indeed,  was  she  obliged  to  bawl 
Ere  she  could  rouse  the  torpid  lump  of 
clay. 

At  last  he  wakes — he  rises — and  he 
swears — 

But  scarcely  had  he  totter’d  down  the 
stairs, 

When  King  attacks  him  in  his  usual 
way. 

The  Frenchman  now  perceived  ’twas  all  in 
vain 

To  this  tormentor  mildly  to  complain, 

And  straight  in  rage  began  his  crest  to 
rear, — 

“  Sare,  vat  de  devil  make  you  treat  me  so  ? — 
Bare,  I  inform  you,  sare,  tree  nights  ago, 
Begar,  I  swear,  no  Monsieur  Tonson 
here.” 

True  as  the  night  King  went  and  heard  a 
strife 

Between  the  harass’d  Frenchman  and  his 
wife, 

Which  should  descend  to  chase  the  fiend 
away ; 

At  length  to  join  their  forces  they  agree, 
And  straight  impetuously  they  turn  the  key, 
Prepared  with  mutual  fury  for  the  fray. 

Our  hero,  with  the  firmness  of  a  rock, 
Collected  to  receive  the  mighty  shock, 
UttTing  his  old  inquiry,  calmly  stood, — 
The  name  of  Thompson  raised  the  storm  so 
high, 

He  deem’d  it  then  the  safest  plan  to  fly, 
With  “Well,  I’ll  call  when  you’re  in 
gentler  mood.” 

In  short  our  hero,  with  the  same  intent, 
Full  many  a  night  to  plague  the  French¬ 
man  went, 

So  fond  of  mischief  was  the  wicked  wit ; 
They  threw  out  water — for  the  watch  they 
call, 

But  King,  expecting,  still  escapes  from  all — 
,  Monsieur  at  last  was  forced  his  house  to 
quit. 

It  happen’d  that  our  wag,  about  this  time, 
On  some  fair  prospect  sought  the  Eastern 
clime ; 


Six  ling’ring  years  were  there  his  tedious 
lot : 

At  length,  content  amid  his  ripening  store, 

He  treads  again  on  Britain’s  happy  shore, 

And  his  long  absence  is  at  once  forgot. 

To  London  with  impatient  hope  he  flies, 

And  the  same  night,  as  former  freaks 
arise, 

He  fain  must  stroll  the  well-known 
haunt  to  trace. 

“  Ah !  here’s  the  scene  of  frequent  mirth,” 
he  said  ; 

“My  poor  old  Frenchman,  I  suppose,  is 
dead — 

Egad,  I’ll  knock,  and  see  who  holds  his 
place.” 

With  rapid  strokes  he  makes  the  mansion 
roar, 

And  while  he  eager  eyes  the  op’ning  door, 

Lo  !  who  obeys  the  knocker’s  rattling 
peal  ? 

Why,  e’en  our  little  Frenchman  ;  strange 
to  say, 

He  took  his  old  abode  that  very  day — 

Capricious  turn  of  sportive  Fortune’s 
wheel ! 

Without  one  thought  of  the  relentless 
foe, 

Who,  fiend-like,  haunted  him  so  long 
ago, 

Just  in  his  former  trim  he  now  ap¬ 
pears  ; 

The  waistcoat  and  the  night-cap  seem’d 
the  same, 

With  rushlight,  as  before  he  creeping 
came, 

And  King’s  detested  voice  astonish’d 
hears. 

As  if  some  hideous  spectre  struck  his 
sight, 

His  senses  seem’d  bewilder’d  with  affright; 

His  face,  indeed,  bespoke  a  heart  full 
sore — 

Then  starting,  he  exclaim’d  in  rueful 
strain, 

“  Begar !  here’s  Monsieur  Tonson  come 
again  !” 

Away  he  ran —  and  ne’er  was  heard  of 
more. 


John  Taylor. 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


948 


NONGTONGPA  w. 

John  Bull  for  pastime  took  a  prance, 
Borne  time  ago,  to  peep  at  France ; 

To  talk  of  sciences  and  arts, 

And  knowledge  gain’d  in  foreign  parts. 
Monsieur,  obsequious,  heard  him  speak, 
And  answer’d  John  in  heathen  Greek  : 

To  all  he  ask’d  ’bout  all  he  saw, 

’Twas,  “  Monsieur ,  je  vous  ?i’ entends  pas.” 

John  to  the  Palais  Boval  come, 

Its  splendor  almost  struck  him  dumb  : 

“  I  sav,  whose  house  is  that  there  here  ?” 

“  House  !  Je  vous  n’ entends  pas,  mon¬ 
sieur.” 

“  What,  Nongtongpaw  again  !”  cries  John, 
“  This  fellow  is  some  mighty  Don  : 

No  doubt  he’s  plenty  for  the  maw, 

I’ll  breakfast  with  this  Nongtongpaw.” 

John  saw  Versailles  from  Marie’s  height, 
And  cried,  astonish’d  at  the  sight, 

“  Whose  fine  estate  is  that  there  here  ?” 
“State  !  Je  vous  n’  entends  pas,  monsieur .” 

“  His  ?  What !  the  land  and  houses  too  ? 
The  fellow’s  richer  than  a  Jew  : 

On  everything  he  lays  his  claw  ; 

I’d  like  to  dine  with  Nongtongpaw.” 

Next  tripping  came  a  courtly  fair, 

John  cried,  enchanted  with  her  air, 

“  What  lovely  wench  is  that  there  here  ?” 
“  Ventch !  Je  vous  J  entends  pas,  mon¬ 
sieur. ” 

“  What !  he  again  ?  Upon  my  life  ! 

A  palace,  lands,  and  then  a  wife 
Sir  Joshua  might  delight  to  draw  ; 

I’d  like  to  sup  with  Nongtongpaw. 

“  But  hold  !  whose  funeral’s  that  ?”  cries 
John. 

“  Je  vous  n’ entends  pas.” — “What !  is  he 
gone  ? 

Wealth,  fame,  and  beauty  could  not  save 
Poor  Nongtongpaw,  then,  from  the  grave? 
His  race  is  run,  his  game  is  up  ; — 

I’d  with  him  breakfast,  dine,  and  sup  ; 

But  since  he  chooses  to  withdraw, 
Good-night  t’ye,  Mounseer  Nongtongpaw.” 

Charles  Dibdin. 

- •<>• - 


Epitaph  on  the  Tombstone  Erec¬ 
ted  over  the  Marquis  of  An¬ 
gles  e  as  Leg ,  LOST  AT  THE  BAT¬ 
TLE  of  Waterloo. 

Here  rests,  and  let  no  saucy  knave 
Presume  to  sneer  and  laugh, 

To  learn  that  mouldering  in  the  grave 
Is  laid  a  British  Calf. 

For  he  who  writes  these  lines  is  sure, 

That  those  who  read  the  whole, 

Will  find  such  laugh  was  premature, 

For  here,  too,  lies  a  sole. 

And  here  five  little  ones  repose, 

Twin  born  with  other  five, 

Unheeded  bv  their  brother  toes, 

Who  all  are  now  alive. 

A  leg  and  foot,  to  speak  more  plain, 

Bests  here  of  one  commanding  ; 

Who,  though  his  wits  he  might  retain, 
Lost  half  his  understanding. 

And  when  the  guns,  with  thunder  fraught, 
Pour’d  bullets  thick  as  hail, 

Could  only  in  this  way  be  taught 
To  give  the  foe  leg-bail. 

And  now  in  England,  just  as  gay 
As  in  the  battle  brave, 

Goes  to  a  rout,  review,  or  play, 

With  one  foot  in  the  grave. 

Fortune  in  vain  here  show’d  her  spite, 

For  he  will  still  be  found, 

Should  England’s  sons  engage  in  fight, 
Resolved  to  stand  his  ground. 

But  Fortune’s  pardon  I  must  beg  ; 

She  meant  not  to  disarm, 

For  when  she  lopp’d  the  hero’s  leg, 

She  did  not  seek  his  harm. 

And  but  indulged  a  harmless  whim ; 

Since  he  could  walk  with  one, 

She  saw  two  legs  were  lost  on  him, 

Who  never  meant  to  run. 

George  Canning. 

■-  -■■♦<>♦  — 

Malbro  uck. 

Malbrouck,  the  prince  of  commanders, 
Is  gone  to  the  war  in  Flanders  ; 

His  fame  is  like  Alexander’s; 

But  when  will  he  come  home? 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


949 


Perhaps  at  Trinity  feast ;  or 
Perhaps  he  may  come  at  Easter. 

Egad !  he  had  better  make  haste,  or 
We  fear  he  may  never  come. 

For  Trinity  feast  is  over, 

And  has  brought  no  news  from  Dover; 
And  Easter  is  past,  moreover, 

And  Malbrouck  still  delays. 

Milady  in  her  watch-tower 
Spends  many  a  pensive  hour, 

Not  knowing  why  or  how  her 
Dear  lord  from  England  stays. 

While  sitting  quite  forlorn  in 
That  tower,  she  spies  returning 
A  page  clad  in  deep  mourning, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow. 

“  O  page,  prythee,  come  faster  ! 

What  news  do  you  bring  of  your  master  ? 
I  fear  there  is  some  disaster — 

Your  looks  are  so  full  of  woe.” 

“  The  news  I  bring,  fair  lady,” 

With  sorrowful  accent  said  he, 

“Is  one  you  are  not  ready 
So  soon,  alas !  to  hear. 

“  But  since  to  speak  I’m  hurried,” 

Added  this  page  quite  flurried, 

“  Malbrouck  is  dead  and  buried  !” 

— And  here  he  shed  a  tear. 

“  He’s  dead  !  he’s  dead  as  a  herring ! 

For  I  beheld  his  herring, 

And  four  officers  transferring 
His  corpse  away  from  the  field. 

“  One  officer  carried  his  sabre  ; 

And  he  carried  it  not  without  labor, 
Much  envying  his  next  neighbor, 

Who  only  bore  a  shield. 

“  The  third  was  helmet-bearer — 

That  helmet  which  on  its  wearer 
Fill’d  all  who  saw  with  terror, 

And  cover’d  a  hero’s  brains. 

“  Now,  having  got  so  far,  I 
Find  that — by  the  Lord  Harry  ! — 

The  fourth  is  left  nothing  to  carry ; — 

So  there  the  thing  remains.” 

Fkancis  Mahony  (“Father  Prout.)” 

(From  the  French.) 


The  March  to  Moscow. 

The  Emperor  Nap  he  would  set  off 
On  a  summer  excursion  to  Moscow; 
The  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  blue, 
Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow ! 

Four  hundred  thousand  men  and  more 
Must  go  with  him  to  Moscow  : 

There  were  Marshals  bv  the  dozen, 
And  Dukes  by  the  score ; 

Princes  a  few,  and  Kings  one  or  two; 
While  the  fields  are  so  green,  and  the  sky 
so  blue. 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow  ! 

There  was  Junot  and  Augereau, 
Heigh-ho  for  Moscow ! 
Dombrowsky  and  Poniatowsky, 
Marshal  Ney,  lack-a-day ! 

General  Rapp  and  the  Emperor  Nap : 
Nothing  would  do, 

While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky 
so  blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

Nothing  would  do 
For  the  whole  of  this  crew, 

But  they  must  be  marching  to  Moscow. 

The  Emperor  Nap  he  talk’d  so  big 
That  he  frighten’d  Mr.  Roscoe. 

John  Bull,  he  cries,  if  you’ll  be  wise, 
Ask  the  Emperor  Nap  if  he  will  please 
To  grant  you  peace  upon  your  knees, 
Because  he  is  going  to  Moscow ! 
He’ll  make  all  the  Poles  come  out  of 
their  holes, 

And  beat  the  Russians,  and  eat  the 
Prussians ; 

For  the  fields  are  green,  and  the  sky  is  blue. 
Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

And  he’ll  certainly  march  to  Moscow  ! 

And  Counsellor  Brougham  was  all  in  a 
fume 

At  the  thought  of  the  march  to  Moscow : 
The  Russians,  he  said,  they  were  un¬ 
done, 

And  the  great  Fee-Faw-Fum 
Would  presently  come, 

With  a  hop,  step,  and  jump,  unto 
London ; 


950 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


For,  as  for  his  conquering  Russia, 

However  some  persons  might  scoff 
it, 

Do  it  he  could,  and  do  it  he  would, 
.4«id  from  doing  it  nothing  would  come 
but  good, 

And  nothing  could  call  him  off  it, 

Mr.  Jeffrey  said  so,  who  must  certainly 
know, 

For  he  was  the  Edinburgh  Prophet. 

They  all  of  them  knew  Mr.  Jeffrey’s 
Review, 

Which  with  Holy  Writ  ought  to  be 
reckon’d : 

It  was,  through  thick  and  thin,  to  its 
party  true ; 

Its  back  was  buff,  and  its  sides  were 
blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

It  served  them  for  Law  and  for  Gos¬ 
pel  too. 

But  the  Russians  stoutly  they  turn’d 
to 

Upon  the  road  to  Moscow. 

Nap  had  to  fight  his  way  all 
through ; 

They  could  fight,  though  they  could  not 
parlez-vous ; 

But  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was 
blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

And  so  he  got  to  Moscow. 

He  found  the  place  too  warm  for  him, 

For  they  set  fire  to  Moscow. 

To  get  there  had  cost  him  much  ado, 

And  then  no  better  course  he  knew, 
While  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky 
was  blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

But  to  march  back  again  from  Moscow. 

The  Russians  they  stuck  close  .to  him 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow. 

There  was  Tormazow  and  Jemalow, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  ow ; 

Milarodovitch  and  Jaladovitch, 

And  Karatsclikowitch, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  itch  ; 

Schamscheff,  Soucliosaneff ; 

And  Schepaleff, 

A  ud  all  the  others  that  end  in  eff ; 


Wasiltchikoff,  Kostomaroff, 

And  Tchoglokoff, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  off ; 

Rajeffskv,  and  Novereffsky, 

And  Rieffsky, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  eflskv.- 
•  *  * 

Oscharoffskv  and  Rostoffsky, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  offskv ; 

And  Platoff  he  play’d  them  off. 

And  Shouvaloff  he  shovell’d  them  off, 
And  Markoff  he  mark’d  them  off, 

And  Krosnoff  he  cross’d  them  off, 

And  Touclikoff  he  touch’d  them  off, 

And  Boroskoff  he  bored  them  off, 
And  Kutousoff  he  cut  them  off, 

And  Parenzoff  he  pared  them  off, 
And  Worronzoff  he  worried  them  off. 

And  Doctoroff  he  doctor’d  them  off, 
And  Rodionoffhe  flogg’d  them  off, 
And,  last  of  all,  an  Admiral 
came, 

A  terrible  man  with  a  terrible 
name, 

A  name  which  you  all  know  by  sight  very  * 
well, 

But  which  no  one  can  speak,  and  no  one 
can  spell. 

They  stuck  close  to  Nap  with  all  their 
might ; 

They  were  on  the  left  and  on  the 
right, 

Behind  and  before,  and  by  day  and  by 
night ; 

He  would  rather  parlez-vous  than 
fight ; 

But  he  look’d  white,  and  he  look'd  blue. 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

When  parlez-vous  no  more  would 
do ; 

For  they  remember’d  Moscow. 

And  then  came  on  the  frost  and 
snow, 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow. 

The  wind  and  the  weather  he  found,  in 
that  hour, 

Cared  nothing  for  him,  nor  for  all  his 
power — 

For  him  who,  while  Europe  crouch'd  under 
his  rod, 

Put  his  trust  in  his  Fortune,  and  not  iu 
his  God. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


951 


Worse  and  worse  every  day  the  ele¬ 
ments  grew, 

The  fields  were  so  white,  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Sacrebleu  !  Yentrebleu ! 

What  a  horrible  journey  from 
Moscow ! 

What  then  thought  the  Emperor 
Nap 

Upon  the  road  from  Moscow? 

Why,  I  ween  he  thought  it  small 
delight 

To  fight  all  day,  and  to  freeze  all 
night ; 

And  he  was  besides  in  a  very  great 
fright, 

For  a  whole  skin  he  liked  to  be  in ; 

And  so,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do, 
When  the  fields  were  so  white,  and  the  sky 
so  blue 

Morbleu  !  Parbleu  ! 

He  stole  away, — I  tell  you  true, — 

Upon  the  road  from  Moscow. 

Mis  myself,  quoth  he,  I  must  mind  most; 
So  the  Devil  may  take  the  hindmost. 

Too  cold  upon  the  road  was  he ; 

Too  hot  had  he  been  at  Moscow  ; 

But  colder  and  hotter  he  may  be, 

For  the  grave  is  colder  than  Muscovy  ; 

And  a  place  there  is  to  he  kept  in  view, 
Where  the  fire  is  red,  and  the  brimstone 
blue, 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

Which  he  must  go  to, 

If  the  Pope  say  true, 

If  he  does  not  in  time  look  about 
him ; 

Where  his  namesake  almost 
He  may  have  for  his  host ; 

He  has  reckon’d  too  long  without 
him  ; 

If  that  host  get  him  in  Purgatory, 
He  won’t  leave  him  there  alone  with  his 
glory  ; 

But  there  he  must  stay  for  a  very  long 
day, 

For  from  thence  there  is  no  stealing 
away, 

As  there  was  on  the  road  from  Mos¬ 
cow. 

Robert  Southey. 


The  Lawyer’s  Invocation  to 
Spring. 

Whereas,  on  certain  boughs  and  sprays. 
Now  divers  birds  are  heard  to  sing, 

And  sundry  flowers  their  heads  upraise, 
Hail  to  the  coming  on  of  Spring ! 

The  songs  of  those  said  birds  arouse 
The  memory  of  our  youthful  hours, 

As  green  as  those  said  sprays  and  boughs, 
As  fresh  and  sweet  as  those  said  flowers. 

The  birds  aforesaid— happy  pairs! — 

Love,  ’mid  the  aforesaid  boughs,  in¬ 
shrines 

In  freehold  nests  ;  themselves,  their  heirs, 
Administrators,  and  assigns. 

O  busiest  term  of  Cupid’s  court, 

Where  tender  plaintiffs  actions  bring,— 
Season  of  frolic  and  of  sport, 

Hail,  as  aforesaid,  coming  Spring! 

Henry  P.  Howard  Brownell. 

- - 

The  Art  of  Book-keeping. 

How  hard,  when  those  who  do  not  wish 
To  lend,  thus  lose,  their  books, 

Are  snared  by  anglers — folks  that  fish 
With  literary  hooks — 

Who  call  and  take  some  favorite  tome, 

But  never  read  it  through  , 

They  thus  complete  their  set  at  home 
By  making  one  at  you. 

I,  of  my  “  Spenser  ”  quite  bereft, 

Last  winter  sore  was  shaken  ; 

Of  “  Lamb  ”  I’ve  but  a  quarter  left, 

Nor  could  I  save  my  “  Bacon 
And  then  I  saw  my  “  Crabbe  ”  at  last, 
Like  Hamlet,  backward  go, 

And,  as  the  tide  was  ebbing  fast, 

Of  course  I  lost  my  “  Rowe.” 

My  “  Mallet  ”  served  to  knock  me  down. 

Which  makes  me  thus  a  talker, 

And  once,  when  I  was  out  of  town, 

My  “  Johnson  ”  proved  a  “  Walker.” 
While  studying  o’er  the  fire  one  day 
My  “  Hobbes  ”  amidst  the  smoke, 

They  bore  my  “  Col  man  ”  clean  away. 

And  carried  off'  my  “  Coke.” 


952 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


They  pick’d  my  “  Locke,”  to  me  far  more 
Than  Bramah’s  patent  worth, 

And  now  my  losses  I  deplore, 

Without  a  “  Home  ”  on  earth. 

If  once  a  book  you  let  them  lift, 

Another  they  conceal, 

For  though  I  caught  them  stealing  “  Swift,” 
As  swiftly  went  my  “  Steele.” 

Hope  ”  is  not  now  upon  my  shelf, 

Where  late  he  stood  elated, 

But,  what  is  strange,  my  “  Pope  ”  himself 
Is  excommunicated. 

My  little  “Suckling”  in  the  grave 
Is  sunk  to  swell  the  ravage, 

And  what  was  Crusoe’s  fate  to  save, 

Twas  mine  to  lose — a  “  Savage.” 

Even  “  Glover’s  ”  works  I  cannot  put 
My  frozen  hands  upon, 

Though  ever  since  I  lost  my  “  Foote  ” 

My  “  Bunyan  ”  has  been  gone. 

My  “  Hoyle  ”  with  “  Cotton  ”  went  op¬ 
press’d, 

My  “  Taylor,”  too,  must  fail, 

To  save  my  “  Goldsmith  ”  from  arrest, 

In  vain  I  offer’d  “  Bayle.” 

I  “  Prior  ”  sought,  but  could  not  see 
The  “  Hood  ”  so  late  in  front, 

And  when  I  turn’d  to  hunt  for  “  Lee,” 

Oh,  where  was  my  “  Leigh  Hunt  ”  ? 

I  tried  to  laugh,  old  Care  to  tickle, 

Yet  could  not  “  Tickell  ”  touch, 

And  then,  alack  !  I  miss’d  my  “  Mickle,” 
And  surely  mickle’s  much. 

’Tis  quite  enough  my  griefs  to  feed, 

My  sorrows  to  excuse, 

To  think  I  cannot  read  my  “  Reid,” 

Nor  even  use  my  “  Hughes.” 

My  classics  would  not  quiet  lie, — 

A  thing  so  fondly  hoped  ; 

Like  Dr.  Primrose,  I  may  cry, 

My  “  Livy  ”  has  eloped. 

My  life  is  ebbing  fast  away; 

I  suffer  from  these  shocks ; 

And  though  I  fix’d  a  lock  on  “  Gray,” 
There’s  gray  upon  my  locks. 

I’m  far  from  “  Young,”  am  growing  pale, 

I  see  my  “  Butler  ”  fly, 

And  when  they  ask  about  my  ail, 

’Tis  “  Burton  ”  I  reply. 


They  still  have  made  me  slight  returns, 
And  thus  my  griefs  divide ; 

For  oh,  they  cured  me  of  my  “  Burns,” 
And  eased  my  “  Akenside.” 

But  all  I  think  I  shall  not  say, 

Nor  let  my  anger  burn, 

For,  as  they  never  found  me  “  Gay,” 

They  have  not  left  me  “  Sterne.” 

Thomas  Hood. 

- »o«.  ■ 

Epicurean  Reminiscences  of  a 
Sentimentalist. 

“  My  Tables  !  Meat  it  is,  1  set  it  down !  ” — Hamlet. 

I  think  it  was  Spring — but  not  certain  I 
am — 

When  my  passion  began  first  to  work ; 
But  I  know  we  were  certainly  looking  for 
lamb, 

And  the  season  was  over  for  pork. 

’Twas  at  Christmas,  I  think,  when  I  met 
with  Miss  Chase, 

Yes — for  Morris  had  ask’d  me  to  dine — 
And  I  thought  I  had  never  beheld  such  a 
face, 

Or  so  noble  a  turkey  and  chine. 

Placed  close  by  her  side,  it  made  others 
quite  wild 

With  sheer  envy,  to  witness  my  luck ; 
How  she  blush’d  as  I  gave  her  some  turtle, 
and  smiled 

As  I  afterward  offer’d  some  duck. 

I  look’d  and  I  languish’d,  alas  !  to  my  cost, 
Through  three  courses  of  dishes  and 
meats ; 

Getting  deeper  in  love — but  my  heart  was 
quite  lost 

When  it  came  to  the  trifle  and  sweets. 

With  a  rent-roll  that  told  of  my  houses 
and  land, 

To  her  parents  I  told  my  designs — 

And  then  to  herself  I  presented  my  hand, 
With  a  very  fine  pottle  of  pines  ! 

I  ask’d  her  to  have  me  for  weal  or  for 
woe, 

And  she  did  not  object  in  the  least; — 

I  can’t  tell  the  date — but  we  married  1 
know 

Just  in  time  to  have  game  at  the  feast. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


953 


We  went  to - ,  it  certainly  was  the  sea¬ 

side  ; 

For  the  next,  the  most  blessed  of  morns, 

I  remember  how  fondly  I  gazed  at  my 
bride 

Sitting  down  to  a  plateful  of  prawns. 

Oh  never  may  memory  lose  sight  of  that 
year, 

But  still  hallow  the  time  as  it  ought ! 

That  season  the  “  grass  ”  was  remarkably 
dear, 

And  the  peas  at  a  guinea  a  quart. 

So  happy,  like  hours,  all  our  days  seem’d 
to  haste, 

A  fond  pair,  such  as  poets  have  drawn, 

So  united  in  heart — so  congenial  in  taste — 

We  were  both  of  us  partial  to  brawn  ! 

A  long  life  I  look’d  for  of  bliss  with  my 
bride, 

But  then  Death — I  ne’er  dreamt  about 
that ! 

Oh  there’s  nothing  is  certain  in  life,  as  I 
cried 

When  my  turbot  eloped  with  the  cat. 

My  dearest  took  ill  at  the  turn  of  the  year, 

But  the  cause  no  physician  could  nab ; 

But  something,  it  seemed  like  consumption, 
I  fear — 

It  was  just  after  supping  on  crab. 

In  vain  she  was  doctor’d,  in  vain  she  was 
dosed, 

Still  her  strength  and  her  appetite  pined ; 

She  lost  relish  for  what  she  had  relish’d 
the  most, 

Even  salmon  she  deeply  declined  ! 

For  months  still  I  linger’d  in  hope  and  in 
doubt, 

While  her  form  it  grew  wasted  and  thin  ; 

But  the  last  dying  spark  of  existence  went 
out, 

As  the  oysters  were  just  coming  in  ! 

She  died,  and  she  left  me  the  saddest  of 
men, 

To  indulge  in  a  widower’s  moan  ; 

Oh !  I  felt  all  the  power  of  solitude  then, 

As  I  ate  my  first  “  natives  ”  alone ! 


But  when  I  beheld  Virtue’s  friends  in  their 
cloaks, 

And  with  sorrowful  crape  on  their  hats, 
Oh  my  grief  pour’d  a  flood !  and  the  out-of- 
door  folks 

Were  all  crying — I  think  it  was  sprats ! 

Thomas  Hood. 

- - 

Address  to  the  Toothache. 

Written  when  the  Author  was  griev¬ 
ously  Tormented  by  that  Disorder. 

My  curse  upon  thy  venom’ d  stang, 

That  shoots  my  tortured  gums  alang  ; 

And  thro’  my  lugs  gies  mony  a  twang, 

Wi’  gnawing  vengeance ; 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi’  bitter  pang, 

Like  racking  engines ! 

When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  colic  squeezes, 

Our  neighbors’  sympathy  may  ease  us, 

Wi’  pitying  moan  ; 

But  thee — thou  hell  o’  a’  diseases, 

Aye  mocks  our  groan  ! 

Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle ! 

I  kick  the  wee  stools  o’er  the  mickle, 

As  round  the  fire  the  giglets  keckle, 

To  see  me  loup  ; 

While,  raving  mad,  I  wish  a  heckle 

Were  in  their  doup. 

O’  a’  the  num’rous  human  dools, 

Ill  har’sts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools, 

Or  worthy  friends  raked  i’  the  mools, 

Sad  sight  to  see  ! 

The  tricks  o’  knaves,  or  fash  o’  fools, 

Thou  bear’st  the  gree. 

Where’er  that  place  be  priests  ca’  hell, 
Whence  a’  the  tones  o’  mis’ry  yell, 

And  ranked  plagues  their  numbers  tell, 

In  dreadfu’  raw, 

Thou,  Toothache,  surely  bear’st  the  bell, 

Among  them  a’ ; 

O  thou  grim  mischief-making  chiel, 

That  gars  the  notes  of  discord  squeal, 

’Till  daft  mankind  aft  dance  a  reel 

In  gore  a  shoe-thick  ! — 
Gie  a’  the  faes  o’  Scotland’s  weal 

A  towmond’s  Toothache! 

Robert  Burns. 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY . 


»54 


Unfortunate  Miss  Bailey 

(An  Experiment.) 

When  lie  whispers,  “O  Miss  Bailey, 

Thou  art  brightest  of  the  throng  ” — 

She  makes  murmur,  softly-gayly — 

“  Alfred,  I  have  loved  thee  long,” 

Then  he  drops  upon  his  knees,  a 
Proof  his  heart  is  soft  as  wax : 

She’s — I  don’t  know  who,  but  he’s  a 
Captain  bold  from  Halifax. 

Though  so  loving,  such  another 
Artless  bride  was  never  seen, 

Coachee  thinks  that  she’s  his  mother 
— Till  they  get  to  Gretna  Green. 

There  they  stand,  by  him  attended, 

Hear  the  sable  smith  rehearse 
That  which  links  them,  when  ’tis  ended, 
Tight  for  better — or  for  worse. 

Now  her  heart  rejoices — ugly 
Troubles  need  disturb  her  less — 

Now  the  Happy  Pair  are  snugly 
Seated  in  the  night  express. 

So  they  go  with  fond  emotion, 

So  they  journey  through  the  night — 
London  is  their  land  of  Goshen — 

See,  its  suburbs  are  in  sight ! 

Hark !  the  sound  of  life  is  swelling, 
Pacing  up,  and  racing  down, 

Soon  they  reach  her  simple  dwelling — 
Burley  Street,  by  Somers  Town. 

What  is  there  to  so  astound  them  ? 

She  cries  “  Oh  !”  for  he  cries  “  Hah  !” 
When  five  brats  emerge — confound  them  ! — 
Shouting  out,  “  Mamma  ! — Papa  !” 

While  at  this  he  wonders  blindly, 

Nor  their  meaning  can  divine, 

Proud  she  turns  them  round,  and  kindly, 

“  All  of  these  are  mine  and  thine !” 

***** 

Here  he  pines  and  grows  dyspeptic, 

Losing  heart,  he  loses  pith — 

Hints  that  Bishop  Tait’s  a  sceptic — 
Swears  that  Moses  was  a  myth. 


Sees  no  evidence  in  Paley — 

Takes  to  drinking  ratifia; 

Shies  the  muffins  at  Miss  Bailey 
While  she’s  pouring  out  the  tea. 

One  day,  knocking  up  his  quarters, 

Poor  Miss  Bailey  found  him  dead, 
Hanging  in  his  knotted  garters, 

Which  she  knitted  ere  they  wed. 

Frederick  Locker 

- K>« - 

Captain  Reece. 

Of  all  the  ships  upon  the  blue, 

No  ship  contain’d  a  better  crew 
Than  that  of  worthy  Captain  Reece, 
Commanding  of  The  Mantelpiece. 

He  was  adored  bv  all  his  men, 

For  worthy  Captain  Reece,  R.  N., 

Did  all  that  lay  within  him  to 
Promote  the  comfort  of  his  crew. 

If  ever  they  were  dull  or  sad, 

Their  captain  danced  to  them  like  mad, 
Or  told,  to  make  the  time  pass  by, 

Droll  legends  of  his  infancy. 

A  feather  bed  had  every  man, 

Warm  slippers  and  hot-water  can, 
Brown  Windsor  from  the  captain’s  store, 
A  valet,  too,  to  every  four. 

Did  they  with  thirst  in  summer  burn, 
Lo,  seltzogenes  at  every  turn, 

And  on  all  very  sultrv  davs 
Cream  ices  handed  round  on  trays. 

Then  currant  wine  and  ginger  pops 
Stood  handily  on  all  the  “  tops 
And,  also,  with  amusement  rife, 

A  “  Zoetrope,  or  Wheel  of  Life.” 

New  volumes  came- across  the  sea 
From  Mister  Mudie’s  libraree; 

The  Times  and  Saturday  Review 
Beguiled  the  leisure  of  the  crew. 

Kind-hearted  Captain  Reece,  R.  N., 
Was  quite  devoted  to  his  men ; 

In  point  of  fact,  good  Captain  Reece 
Beatified  The  Mantelpiece. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


955 


One  summer  eve,  at  half-past  ten, 

He  said  (addressing  all  his  men) : 

“  Come,  tell  me,  please,  what  I  can  do 
To  please  and  gratify  my  crew. 

“  By  any  reasonable  plan 
I’ll  make  you  happy  if  I  can ; 

My  own  convenience  count  as  nil; 

It  is  my  duty,  and  I  will.” 

Then  up  and  answer’d  William  Lee 
(The  kindly  captain’s  coxswain  he, 

A  nervous,  shy,  low-spoken  man) ; 

He  cleared  his  throat,  and  thus  began  : 

“  You  have  a  daughter,  Captain  Reece, 
Ten  female  cousins  and  a  niece, 

A  ma,  if  what  I’m  told  is  true, 

Six  sisters,  and  an  aunt  or  two. 

“Now,  somehow,  sir,  it  seems  to  me, 

More  friendly-like  we  all  should  be, 

If  you  united  of  ’em  to 
Unmarried  members  of  the  crew. 

“  If  you’d  ameliorate  our  life, 

Let  each  select  from  them  a  wife ; 

And  as  for  nervous  me,  old  pal, 

Give  me  your  own  enchanting  gal !” 

Good  Captain  Reece,  that  worthy  man, 
Debated  on  his  coxswain’s  plan : 

“  I  quite  agree,”  he  said,  “  O  Bill ; 

It  is  my  duty,  and  I  will. 

“  My  daughter,  that  enchanting  gurl, 

Has  just  been  promised  to  an  earl, 

And  all  my  other  familee 
To  peers  of  various  degree. 

“  But  what  are  dukes  and  viscounts  to 
The  happiness  of  all  my  crew  ? 

The  word  I  gave  you  I’ll  fulfil ; 

It  is  my  duty,  and  I  will. 

“  As  you  desire  it  shall  befall, 

I’ll  settle  thousands  on  you  all, 

And  I  shall  be,  despite  my  hoard, 

The  only  bachelor  on  board.” 

The  boatswain  of  The  Mantelpiece, 

He  blush’d  and  spoke  to  Captain  Reece : 
“  I  beg  your  honor’s  leave,”  he  said, 

“  If  you  would  wish  to  go  and  wed, 


“  I  have  a  widow’d  mother  who 
Would  be  the  very  thing  for  you — 

She  long  has  loved  you  from  afar, 

She  washes  for  you,  Captain  R.” 

The  captain  saw  the  dame  that  day — 
Address’d  her  in  his  playful  way — 
“And  did  it  want  a  wedding-ring? 

It  was  a  tempting  ickle  sing ! 

“Well,  well,  the  chaplain  I  will  seek, 
We’ll  all  be  married  this  day  week 
At  yonder  church  upon  the  hill ; 

It  is  my  duty,  and  I  will !” 

The  sisters,  cousins,  aunts,  and  niece. 
And  widow’d  ma  of  Captain  Reece, 
Attended  there  as  thev  were  bid  ; 

It  was  their  duty,  and  they  did. 

William  S.  Gilbert. 

- •<>* - 

Mr.  Mo lo ny’s  Account  of  the 

Ball 

Given  to  the  Nepaulese  Ambassador  by 
the  Peninsular  and  Oriental  Com¬ 
pany. 

Oh  will  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news? 

Bedad,  I  cannot  pass  it  o’er : 

I’ll  tell  you  all  about  the  ball 
To  the  Naypaulase  ambassador. 

Begor !  this  fete  all  balls  does  bate 
At  which  I’ve  worn  a  pump,  and  I 
Must  here  relate  the  splendthor  great 
Of  tli’  Oriental  Company. 

These  men  of  sinse  dispoised  expinse, 

To  fete  these  black  Achilleses. 

“  We’ll  show  the  blacks,”  says  they,  “Al- 
mack’s, 

And  take  the  rooms  at  Willis’s.” 

With  flags  and  shawls,  for  these  Nepauls, 
They  hung  the  rooms  of  Willis  up, 

And  deck’d  the  walls,  and  stairs,  and  halls, 
With  roses  and  with  lilies  up. 

And  Jullien’s  band  it  tuck  its  stand 
So  sweetly  in  the  middle  there, 

And  soft  bassoons  play’d  heavenly  cliunes, 
And  violins  did  fiddle  there. 

And  when  the  coort  was  tired  of  spoort, 
I’d  lave  you,  boys,  to  think  there  was 
A  n ate  buffet  before  them  set, 

Where  lashins  of  good  dhrink  there  was  ! 


956 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


At  ten,  before  the  ball-room  door 
His  moighty  Excellency  was ; 

He  smoiled  and  bow’d  to  all  the  crowd — 
So  gorgeous  and  immense  he  was. 

His  dusky  shuit,  sublime  and  mute, 

Into  the  doorway  follow’d  him ; 

And  oh  the  noise  of  the  blackguard  boys, 
As  they  liurrood  and  hollow’d  him  ! 

The  noble  Chair  stud  at  the  stair, 

And  bade  the  dhrums  to  thump;  and  he 

Did  thus  evince  to  that  Black  Prince 
The  welcome  of  his  Company. 

Oh  fair  the. girls,  and  rich  the  curls, 

And  bright  the  oyes  you  saw  there,  was ; 

And  fixed  each  oye,  ye  there  could  spoi, 
On  Gineral  Jung  Bahawther  was! 

This  Gineral  great  then  tuck  his  sate, 

With  all  the  other  ginerals 

(Bedad,  his  troat,  his  belt,  his  coat, 

All  bleezed  with  precious  minerals) ; 

And  as  he  there,  with  princely  air, 
Recloinin’  on  his  cushion  was, 

All  round  about  his  royal  chair 
The  squeezin’  and  the  pushin’  was. 

0  Pat,  such  girls,  such  jukes  and  earls, 
Such  fashion  and  nobilitee ! 

Just  think  of  Tim,  and  fancy  him 
Amidst  the  hoigh  gentilitee  ! 

There  was  Lord  De  L’Huys,  and  the  Porty- 
geese 

Ministher  and  his  lady  there ; 

And  I  reckonized,  with  much  surprise, 

Our  messmate,  Bob  O’Grady,  there. 

There  was  Baroness  Brunow,  that  look’d 
like  Juno, 

And  Baroness  Rehausen  there, 

And  Countess  Roullier,  that  looked  peculiar 
Well  in  her  robes  of  gauze,  in  there. 

There  was  Lord  Crowhurst  (I  knew  him  first 
When  only  Mr.  Pips  he  was), 

And  Mick  O’Toole,  the  great  big  fool, 

That  after  supper  tipsy  was. 

There  was  Lord  Fingall  and  his  ladies  all, 
And  Lords  Killeen  and  Dufferin, 

And  Paddy  Fife,  with  his  fat  wife — 

I  wondther  how  he  could  stuff  her  in. 

There  was  Lord  Belfast,  that  by  me  past, 
And  seem’d  to  ask  how  should  /  go 
there ; 


And  the  widow  Macrae,  and  Lord  A. 
Hay, 

And  the  marchioness  of  Sligo  there. 

Yes,  jukes  and  earls,  and  diamonds  and 
pearls, 

And  pretty  girls,  was  spoorting  there ; 

And  some  beside  (the  rogues!)  I  spied 
Behind  the  windies,  coorting  there. 

Oh,  there’s  one  I  know,  bedad,  would  show 
As  beautiful  as  any  there ; 

And  I’d  like  to  hear  the  pipers  blow, 

And  shake  a  fut  with  Fanny  there  ! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

- - 

Mr.  Barney  Maguire’s  Account 
of  the  Coronation. 

Och  !  the  Coronation !  what  celebration 
For  emulation  can  with  it  compare? 

When  to  Westminster  the  Royal  Spinster, 
And  the  Duke  of  Leinster,  all  in  order 
did  repair! 

’Twas  there  you’d  see  the  new  Polishemen 
Making  a  skrimmage  at  half-after  four, 

And  the  Lords  and  Ladies,  and  the  Miss 
O’Gradys, 

All  standing  round  before  the  Abbey  door. 

Their  pillows  scorning,  that  self-same  morn¬ 
ing 

Themselves  adorning,  all  by  the  candle¬ 
light, 

With  roses  and  lilies  and  daffy-down  dillies, 
And  gould,  and  jewels,  and  rich  di’monds 
bright. 

And  then  approaches  five  hundred  coaches, 
With  Giniral  Dullbeak.  Och !  ’twas 
mighty  fine 

To  see  how  asy  bould  Corporal  Casey, 
With  his  sword  drawn,  prancing,  made 
them  kape  the  line. 

Then  the  Guns’  alarums,  and  the  King  of 
Arums, 

All  in  his  Garters  and  his  Clarence  shoes, 

Opening  the  massy  doors  to  the  bould  Am- 
bassydors, 

The  Prince  of  Potboys  and  great  haythen 
Jews ; 

’Twould  have  made  you  crazy  to  see  Ester- 
hazy 

All  joo’ls  from  his  jasey  to  his  di’mond 
boots, 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


957 


With  Alderman  Harmer  and  that  swate 
charmer, 

The  famale  heiress,  Miss  Anja-ly  Coutts. 

And  Wellington,  walking  with  his  swoord 
drawn,  talking 

To  Hill  and  Hardinge,  haroes  of  great 
fame : 

And  Sir  De  Lacy  and  the  Duke  Dalmasey 

(They  call’d  him  So  wit  afore  he  changed 
his  name), 

Themselves  presading  Lord  Melbourne, 
lading 

The  Queen,  the  darling,  to  her  royal  chair, 

And  that  fine  ould  fellow,  the  Duke  of  Pell- 
Mello, 

The  Queen  of  JPortingal’s  Chargy-de-fair. 

Then  the  noble  Prussians,  likewise  the  Rus¬ 
sians, 

In  fine  laced  jackets  with  their  goulden 
cuffs, 

And  the  Bavarians,  and  the  proud  Hunga¬ 
rians, 

And  Everythingarians  all  in  furs  and 
muffs. 

Then  Misthur  Spaker,  with  Misthur  Pays 
the  Quaker, 

All  in  the  Gallery  you  might  persave ; 

But  Lord  Brougham  was  missing,  and  gone 
a-fisbing, 

Ounly  crass  Lord  Essex  would  not  give 
him  lave. 

There  was  Baron  Alten  himself  exalting, 

And  Prince  Yon  Schwartzenburg,  and 
many  more, 

Och !  I’d  be  bother’d  and  entirely  smoth¬ 
er’d 

To  tell  the  half  of  ’em  was  to  the  fore ; 

With  the  swate  Peeresses,  in  their  crowns 
and  dresses, 

And  Aldermanesses,  and  the  Boord  of 
W orks ; 

But  Mehemet  Ali  said,  quite  gintaly, 

“  I’d  be  proud  to  see  the  likes  among  the 
Turks !” 

Then  the  Queen,  Heaven  bless  her !  och ! 
they  did  dress  her 

In  her  purple  garaments  and  her  goulden 
crown ; 


Like  V enus  or  Hebe,  or  the  Queen  of  Sheby, 

With  eight  young  ladies  lioulding  up  her 
gown. 

1  Sure  ’twas  grand  to  see  her,  also  for  to  lie-ar 

The  big  drums  bating  and  the  trumpets 
blow, 

:  And  Sir  George  Smart !  oh !  he  play’d  a 
Consarto, 

With  his  four-and-twenty  fiddlers  all  on 
a  row. 

Then  the  Lord  Archbishop  held  a  goulden 
dish  up 

F or  to  resave  her  bounty  and  great  wealth, 

Saying,  “  Plase  your  Glory,  great  Queen 
Vic-tory ! 

Ye’ll  give  the  Clargy  lave  to  dhrink  your 
health !” 

Then  his  Riverence,  retrating,  discoorsed 
the  mating ; 

“  Boys,  here’s  your  Queen !  deny  it  if  you 
can ! 

And  if  any  bould  traitour  or  infarior  cray- 
thur 

Sneezes  at  that,  I’d  like  to  see  the  man  !” 

Then  the  Nobles  kneeling  to  the  Pow’rs 
appealing, 

“  Heaven  send  your  Majesty  a  glorious 
reign  !” 

And  Sir  Claudius  Hunter  he  did  confront 
her, 

All  in  his  scarlet  gown  and  goulden  chain. 

The  great  Lord  May’r,  too,  sat  in  his  chair, 
too, 

But  mighty  sarious,  looking  fit  to  cry, 

For  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  all  in  his  hurry, 

Throwing  the  thirteens,  hit  him  in  his 
eye. 

Then  there  was  preaching,  and  good  store 
of  speeching, 

With  Dukes  and  Marquises  on  bended 
knee : 

And  they  did  splash  her  with  raal  Macas- 
shur, 

And  the  Queen  said,  “  Ah !  then  thank 
ye  all  for  me !” 

Then  the  trumpets  braying  and  the  organ 
playing, 

And  sweet  trombones  with  their  silver 
tones ; 


058 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


But  Lord  Rolle  was  rolling ; — ’twas  mighty 
consoling 

To  think  that  his  Lordship  did  not  break 
his  bones ! 

Then  the  crames  and  custard,  and  the  beef 
and  mustard, 

All  on  the  tombstones  like  a  poultherer’s 
shop ; 

With  lobsters  and  white-bait,  and  other 
swatemeats, 

And  wine,  and  nagus,  and  Imperial  Pop  ! 

There  was  cakes  and  apples  in  all  the 
Chapels, 

With  fine  polonies,  and  rich  mellow 
pears, — 

Och !  the  Count  Yon  StrogonofF,  sure  he 
got  prog  enough, 

The  sly  ould  Divil,  undernathe  the  stairs. 

Then  the  cannons  thunder’d,  and  the  people 
wonder’d, 

Crying,  “  God  save  Victoria,  our  Royal 
Queen  !” 

— Och  !  if  myself  should  live  to  be  a  hun¬ 
dred, 

Sure  it’s  the  proudest  day  that  I’ll  have 
seen ! 

And  now  I’ve  ended,  what  I  pretended, 
This  narration  splendid  in  swate  poe- 
thry, 

Ye  dear  bewitcher,  just  hand  the  pitcher, 
Faith,  it’s  myself  that’s  getting  mighty 
dhry ! 

Richard  Harris  Barham. 

- KX - 

A  Virtuoso. 

Be  seated,  pray.  “A  grave  appeal”? 

The  sufferers  by  the  war,  of  course ; 

Ah,  what  a  sight  for  us  who  feel, — 

This  monstrous  mtlodrame  of  Force! 

We,  sir,  we  connoisseurs,  should  know 
On  whom  its  heaviest  burden  falls  ; 

Collections  shattered  at  a  blow, 

Museums  turned  to  hospitals  ! 

“And  worse,”  you  say ;  “  the  wide  distress !” 
Alas,  ’tis  true  distress  exists, 

Though,  let  me  add,  our  worthy  Press 
Have  no  mean  skill  as  colorists ; — 

Speaking  of  color,  next  your  seat 

There  hangs  a  sketch  from  Vernet’s  hand; 


f  Some  Moscow  fancy,  incomplete, 

Yet  not  indifferently  planned; 

Note  specially  the  gray  old  Guard, 

Who  tears  his  tattered  coat  to  wrap 
A  closer  bandage  round  the  scarred 
And  frozen  comrade  in  his  lap ; — 

But,  as  regards  the  present  war, — 

Now,  don’t  you  think  our  pride  of  pence 
Goes— may  I  say  it? — somewhat  far 
For  objects  of  benevolence? 

You  hesitate.  For  my  part,  I — 

Though  ranking  Paris  next  to  Rome, 
v'Esthetically — still  reply 

That  “Charity  begins  at  home.” 

The  words  remind  me.  Did  you  catch 
My  so-named  “Hunt”?  The  girl’s  a  gem ; 
And  look  how  those  lean  rascals  snatch 
The  pile  of  scraps  she  brings  to  them  ! 

“But  your  appeal’s  for  home,”  you  say, 
“For  home,  and  English  poor  !”  Indeed 
I  thought  Philanthropy  to-day 

Was  blind  to  mere  domestic  need — 
However  sore — yet  though  one  grants 
That  home  should  have  the  foremost 
claims, 

At  least  these  Continental  wants 
Assume  intelligible  names  ; 

While  here  with  us — Ah  !  who  could  hope 
To  verify  the  varied  pleas, 

Or  from  his  private  means  to  cope 
With  all  our  shrill  necessities  ? 
Impossible  !  One  might  as  well 
Attempt  comparison  of  creeds  ; 

Or  fill  that  huge  Malayan  shell 

With  these  half-dozen  Indian  beads, 

Moreover,  add  that  everv  one 
So  well  exalts  his  pet  distress, 

’Tis — Give  to  all,  or  give  to  none, 

If  you’d  avoid  invidiousness. 

Your  case,  I  feel,  is  sad  as  A’s, 

The  same  applies  to  B’s  and  C’s ; 

By  my  selection  I  should  raise 
An  alphabet  of  rivalries ; 

And  life  is  short, — I  see  you  look 
At  yonder  dish,  a  priceless  bit  ; 

You’ll  find  it  etched  in  Jacquemart’s  book, 
They  say  that  Raphael  painted  it ; — 
And  life  is  short,  you  understand ; 

So,  If  I  onlv  hold  vou  out 

7  v 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


959 


An  open  though  an  empty  hand, 

Why,  you’ll  forgive  me,  I’ve  no  doubt. 

Nay,  do  not  rise.  You  seem  amused; 

One  can  but  be  consistent,  sir ! 

’Twas  on  these  grounds  I  just  refused 
Some  gushing  lady-almoner, — 

Believe  me,  on  these  very  grounds. 

Good-bye,  then.  Ah,  a  rarity  ! 

That  cost  me  quite  three  hundred  pounds, 
That  Diirer  figure, — “  Charity.” 

Austin  Dobson. 

- •<>• - 

A  Recipe  for  a  Salad. 

To  make  this  condiment,  your  poet  begs 
The  pounded  yellow  of  two  hard-boil’d 
eggs; 

Two  boil’d  potatoes,  pass’d  through  kitchen 
sieve, 

Smoothness  and  softness  to  the  salad  give  ; 
Let  onion  atoms  lurk  within  the  bowl, 
And,  half  suspected,  animate  the  whole  ; 
Of  mordant  mustard  add  a  single  spoon, 
Distrust  the  condiment  that  bites  so  soon  ; 
But  deem  it  not,  thou  man  of  herbs,  a  fault 
To  add  a  double  quantity  of  salt ; 

Four  times  the  spoon  with  oil  from  Lucca 
crown, 

And  twice  with  vinegar  procured  from 
town  ; 

And,  lastly,  o’er  the  flavor’d  compound 
toss 

A  magic  soup§on  of  anchovy  sauce. 

Oh,  green  and  glorious!  oh,  herbaceous 
treat ! 

’T would  tempt  a  dying  anchorite  to  eat : 
Back  to  the  world  he’d  turn  his  fleeting 
soul, 

And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad-bowl ! 
Serenely  full,  the  epicure  would  say, 

“  Fate  cannot  harm  me,  I  have  dined  to¬ 
day  !” 

Sydney  Smith. 

- - 

Epigram. 

Sly  Beelzebub  took  all  occasions 
To  try  Job’s  constancy  and  patience. 

He  took  his  honor,  took  his  health, 

He  took  his  children,  took  his  wealth, 

His  servants,  oxen,  horses,  cows — 

But  cunning  Satan  did  not  take  his  spouse. 


But  Heaven,  that  brings  out  good  from  evil, 
And  loves  to  disappoint  the  devil, 

Had  predetermined  to  restore 
Tvjofold  all  he  had  before ;  4 
His  servants,  horses,  oxen,  cows — 
Short-sighted  devil,  not  to  take  his  spouse! 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 
- *<>« - 

A  Nocturnal  Sketch. 

Even  is  come ;  and  from  the  dark  Park, 
hark, 

The  signal  of  the  setting  sun — one  gun  ! 
And  six  is  sounding  from  the  chime,  prime 
time 

To  go  and  see  the  Drury-Lane  Dane  slain. 
Or  hear  Othello’s  jealous  doubt  spout  out, 
Or  Macbeth  raving  at  that  shade-made 
blade, 

Denying  to  his  frantic  clutch  much  touch  ; — 
Or  else  to  see  Ducrow  with  wide  stride  ride 
Four  horses  as  no  other  man  can  span ; 

Or  in  the  small  Olympic  Pit,  sit  split 
Laughing  at  Liston,  while  you  quiz  his  phiz. 

Anon  Night  comes,  and  with  her  wings 
brings  things 

Such  as,  with  his  poetic  tongue,  Young 
sung  ; 

The  gas  up-blazes  with  its  bright  white 
light. 

And  paralytic  watchmen  prowl,  howl, 
growl, 

About  the  streets  and  take  up  Pall-Mall  Sal, 
Who,  hasting  to  her  nightly  jobs,  robs  fobs. 
Now  thieves  to  enter  for  your  cash,  smash, 
crash, 

Past  drowsy  Charley,  in  a  deep  sleep,  creep, 
But  frightened  by  Policeman  B.  3,  flee, 
And,  while  they’re  going,  whisper  low, 
“No  go !” 

Now  puss,  while  folks  are  in  their  beds, 
treads  leads, 

And  sleepers  waking  grumble,  “  Drat  that 
cat!” 

Who  in  the  gutter  caterwauls,  squalls, 
mauls 

Some  feline  foe,  and  screams  in  shrill  ill- 
will. 

Now  Bulls  of  Bashan,  of  a  prize  size,  rise 
In  childish  dreams,  and  with  a  roar  gore 
poor 


960 


FIRESIDE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  POETRY. 


Georgy,  or  Charley,  or  Billy,  willy-nilly ; — 

But  Nursemaid  in  a  nightmare  rest,  chest- 
pressed, 

Dreameth  of  qpe  of  her  old  flames,  James 
Games, 

And  that  she  hears — what  faith  is  man’s  ! — 
Ann’s  banns 

And  his,  from  Reverend  Mr.  Rice,  twice, 
thrice : 

White  ribbons  flourish,  and  a  stout  shout 
out, 

That  upward  goes,  shows  Rose  knows  those 
bows’  woes ! 

Thomas  Hood. 

- K>« - 

The  Siege  of  Belgrade. 

An  Austrian  army,  awfully  arrayed, 

Boldly  by  battery  besieged  Belgrade. 

Cossack  commanders  cannonading  come, 

Dealing  destruction’s  devastating  doom. 

Every  endeavor  engineers  essay, 

For  fame,  for  fortune  fighting, — furious 
fray ! 

Generals  ’gainst  generals  grapple  —  gra¬ 
cious  God  ! 

How  honors  Heaven  heroic  hardihood ! 

Infuriate,  indiscriminate  in  ill, 

Kindred  kill  kinsmen,  kinsmen  kindred 
kill. 

Labor  low  levels  longest,  loftiest  lines ; 

Men  march  mid  mounds,  mid  moles,  mid 
murderous  mines ; 

Now  noxious,  noisy  numbers  nothing, 
naught 

Of  outward  obstacles,  opposing  ought  ; 

Poor  patriots,  partly  purchased,  partly 
pressed, 

Quite  quaking,  quickly  “Quarter!  Quar¬ 
ter  !”  quest. 

Reason  returns,  religious  right  redounds, 

Suwarrow  stops  such  sanguinary  sounds. 

Truce  to  thee,  Turkey !  Triumph  to  thy 
train, 

Unwise,  unjust,  unmerciful  Ukraine! 

Vanish,  vain  victory  !  vanish,  victory  vain  ! 

Why  wish  we  warfare?  Wherefore  wel¬ 
come  were 

Xerxes,  Ximenes,  Xanthus,  Xavier? 

Yield,  yield,  ye  youths !  ye  yeomen,  yield 
your  yell ! 

Zeus’s,  Zarpater’s,  Zoroaster’s  zeal, 

Attracting  all,  arms  against  acts  appeal! 

Author  Unknown. 


Bachelor’s  Hall . 

Bachelor’s  Hall  !  what  a  quare-lookin’ 
place  it  is ! 

Kape  me  from  sich  all  the  days  of  my 
life! 

Sure,  but  I  think  what  a  burnin’  disgrace 
it  is 

Niver  at  all  to  be  gettin’  a  wife. 

See  the  old  bachelor, gloomy  and  sad  enough, 

Placing  his  taykettle  over  the  fire ; 

Soon  it  tips  over — St.  Patrick !  he’s  mad 
enough 

(If  he  were  present)  to  fight  wid  the 
squire. 

Then,  like  a  hog  in  a  mortar-bed  wallowing, 

Awkward  enough,  see  him  knading  his 
dough ; 

Troth!  if  the  bread  he  could  ate  widout 
swallowing, 

How  it  would  favor  his  palate,  you  know ! 

His  dishcloth  is  missing :  the  pigs  are  de¬ 
vouring  it ; 

In  the  pursuit  he  has  battered  his  shin ; 

A  plate  wanted  washing :  Grimalkin  is 
scouring  it; 

Thunder  and  turf!  what  a  pickle  he’s  in! 

His  meal  being  over,  the  table’s  left  set¬ 
ting  so ; 

Dishes,  take  care  of  yourselves,  if  you 
can ! 

But  hunger  returns  ;  then  he’s  fuming  and 
fretting  so ! 

Och  !  let  him  alone  for  a  baste  of  a  man. 

Pots,  dishes,  pans,  and  such  grasy  com¬ 
modities, 

Ashes  and  prata-skins,  kiver  the  floor ; 

His  cupboard’s  a  storehouse  of  comical 
oddities 

Sich  as  had  niver  been  neighbors  before. 

Late  in  the  night,  then,  he  goes  to  bed 
shiverin’ : 

Niver  the  bit  is  the  bed  made  at  all ; 

He  crapes,  like  a  tarrapin,  under  the  kiv- 
erin’ — 

Bad  luck  to  the  picter  of  Bachelor’s  Hall. 

John  Finley. 


NOTES 


Explanatory  and  Corroborative. 


. 


Notes 

EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


Page  7.-— Home,  Sweet  Home  ! — The  following 
additional  verses  to  the  song  of  “  Home,  Sweet 
Home  !”  Mr.  Payne  affixed  to  the  sheet  music,  and 
presented  them  to  Mrs.  Bates  in  London,  a  rela¬ 
tive  of  his,  and  the  wife  of  a  rich  banker  : 

To  us,  in  despite  of  the  absence  of  years, 

How  sweet  the  remembrance  of  home  still  appears  ! 
From  allurements  abroad,  which  but  flatter  the 
eye, 

The  unsatisfied  heart  turns,  and  says  with  a  sigh, 
“  Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home  ! 
There’s  no  place  like  home ! 

There’s  no  place  like  home!” 

Your  exile  is  blest  with  all  fate  can  bestow ; 

But  mine  has  been  checkered  with  many  a  woe! 
Yet,  tho’  different  our  fortunes,  our  thoughts  are 
the  same, 

And  both,  as  we  think  of  Columbia,  exclaim, 

“  Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home! 
There’s  no  place  like  home  ! 

There’s  no  place  like  home  !” 

— Life  and  Writings  of  John  Howard  Payne, 
4to,  Albany,  1875. 

Page  3. — The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night. — 
The  house  of  William  Burns  was  the  scene  of 
this  fine,  devout,  and  tranquil  drama,  and  William 
himself  was  the  saint,  the  father,  and  the  hus¬ 
band  who  gives  life  and  sentiment  to  the  whole. 
“  Robert  had  frequently  remarked  to  me,”  says 
Gilbert  Burns,  “  that  he  thought  there  was  some¬ 
thing  peculiarly  venerable  in  the  phrase,  ‘  Let  us 
worship  God  !’  used  by  a  decent,  sober  head  of  a 
family,  introducing  family  worship.”  To  this 
sentiment  of  the  author  the  world  is  indebted  for 
the  “  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night.”  He  owed  some 
little,  however,  of  the  inspiration  to  Fcrgusson’s 
“  Farmer’s  Ingle,”  a  poem  of  great  merit. 

— Burns’s  Poetical  Works,  8vo  ed.,  Philada. 

Page  7.  —  Matrimonial  Happiness.  —  Lapraik 
was  a  very  worthy  facetious  old  fellow,  late  of 
Dalfrain  near  Muirkirk,  which  little  property  he 
was  obliged  to  sell  in  consequence  of  some  con¬ 
nection  as  security  for  some  persons  concerned  in 
that  villainous  bubble,  “  The  Ayr  Bank.”  He  has 

often  told  me  that  he  composed  this  song  one  day 

61 


when  his  wife  had  been  fretting  over  their  mis¬ 
fortunes. — Robert  Burns. 

Page  10. — The  Mariner’s  Wife. — This  most 
felicitous  song  is  better  known  as  “  There’s  nae 
Luck  about  the  House.”  It  first  appeared  on  the 
streets  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  and 
was  included  in  Herd’s  Collection,  1776.  The 
authorship  is  a  matter  of  doubt.  A  copy  of  it, 
like  a  first  draught,  was  found  among  the  papers 
of  William  Julius  Mickle,  and  the  song  has  hence 
been  believed  to  be  his,  notwithstanding  that  he 
did  not  include  it  in  his  own  works.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  has  been  some  plausible  argument  to 
show  that  it  must  have  been  the  work  of  a  Mrs. 
Jane  Adams,  who  kept  a  school  at  Crawford’s 
Dyke,  near  Greenock  ;  it  is  not,  however,  included 
in  her  volume  of  Miscellany  Poems,  published  as 
early  as  1734.  Jane  Adams  gave  Shakespearian 
readings  to  her  pupils,  and  so  admired  Richard¬ 
son’s  Clarissa  Harlowe  that  she  walked  to  London 
to  see  the  author.  Toward  the  close  of  her  life  she 
became  a  wandering  beggar,  died  in  the  poor- 
house  of  Glasgow  on  April  3,  1765,  and  was 
“  buried  at  the  house  expense.” — Notes  and  Que¬ 
ries,  Third  Series,  vol.  x. 

Notwithstanding  the  weighty  authority  of  Notes 
and  Queries,  I  am  inclined  to  ascribe  its  authorship 
to  Jean  Adam  (not  Jane  Adams).  Mickle  never 
lived  near  a  seaport,  and  never  wrote  anything 
as  good  as  this  poem.  The  remarkable  statement 
that  the  poem  does  not  appear  in  any  of  the  pub¬ 
lished  works  of  either  claimant  is,  as  far  as  it 
goes,  an  argument  in  favor  of  Miss  Adam.  She 
was  poor,  and  probably  published  but  one  edition 
of  her  poems,  which  had  a  sale  so  small  that  the 
industrious  Allibone  does  not  mention  her  name 
in  his  Dictionary  of  Authors,  while  the  scholarly 
translator  of  the  Lusiad  published  many  volumes 
of  poems,  some  of  which  ran  into  several  editions; 
and  tho  fact  that  he  never  included  “  The  Mari¬ 
ner’s  Wife  ”  in  any  of  them  should  determine  the 
question  of  its  authorship  in  her  favor. 

Page  11. — The  Exile  to  his  Wife. — Joseph 
Brennan  (b.  1829,  d.  1857)  was  a  native  of  tho 
north  of  Ireland.  Ho  joined  tho  Young  Iroland 

party  in  1848,  and  was  one  of  tho  conductors  of 

961 


962 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


the  Irish  Felon.  He  was  imprisoned  for  nine 
months  in  Dublin,  afterward  edited  the  Irishman, 
and  in  October,  1849,  being  implicated  in  an  in¬ 
surrectionary  movement  in  Tipperary,  fled  to 
America.  He  was  for  three  years  connected  with 
the  New  Orleans  Delta,  and  died  in  that  city  in 
May,  1857. — Single  Famous  Poems. 

Page  21. — Lady  Anne  Bothwell’s  Lament. — 
The  subject  of  this  pathetic  ballad  the  editor 
once  thought  might  possibly  relate  to  the  Earl 
of  Bothwell,  and  his  desertion  of  his  wife,  Lady 
Jean  Gordon,  to  make  room  for  his  marriage 
with  the  Queen  of  Scots.  But  this  opinion  he 
now  believes  to  be  groundless;  indeed,  Earl  Both- 
welFs  age,  who  was  upward  of  sixty  at  the  time 
of  that  marriage,  renders  it  unlikely  that  he 
should  be  the  object  of  so  warm  a  passion  as 
this  elegy  supposes.  He  has  been  since  informed 
that  it  entirely  refers  to  a  private  story.  A  young 
lady  of  the  name  of  Bothwell — or  rather  Boswell — 
having  been,  together  with  her  child,  deserted  by 
her  husband  or  lover,  composed  these  affecting 
lines  herself. — Percy's  lleliques. 

Page  22. — The  Angels’  Whisper. — A  super-  ! 
stition  of  great  beauty  prevails  in  Ireland,  that 
when  a  child  smiles  in  its  sleep  it  is  “  talking 
with  the  angels.” — Lover’s  Lyrics  of  Ireland. 

Page  27. — Golden  Tressed  Adelaide. — The 
gifted  child  of  the  poet,  Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 

Page  34 • — The  Mitherless  Bairn. — An  In¬ 
verary  correspondent  writes :  “  Thom  gave  me 
the  following  narrative  as  to  the  origin  of  ‘  The 
Mitherless  Bairn;’  I  quote  his  own  words:  ‘When 
I  was  livin’  in  Aberdeen,  I  was  limping  roun’  the 
house  to  my  garret,  when  I  heard  the  greetin’  o’ 
a  wean.  A  lassie  was  thumpin’  a  bairn,  when 
out  cam’  a  big  dame,  bellowin’,  “Ye  hussie !  will 
ye  lick  a  mitherless  bairn  ?”  I  hobbled  up  the 
stair  and  wrote  the  sang  afore  sleepin’.’  ” 

Page  41. — The  Children  in  the  Wood. — The 
subject  of  this  very  popular  ballad  (which  has 
been  set  in  so  favorable  a  light  by  The  Spectator, 
No.  85)  seems  to  be  taken  from  an  old  play,  en¬ 
titled  “Two  Lamentable  Tragedies;  the  one  of  the 
murder  of  Maister  Beech,  a  chandler  in  Thames- 
streete,  etc.  The  other  of  a  young  child  murthered 
in  a  wood  by  two  ruffins,  with  the  consent  of  his 
unkle.  By  llob.  Yarrington,  1601,  4to.”  Our 
ballad-maker  has  strictly  followed  the  play  in 
the  description  of  the  father’s  and  mother’s  dying 
charge;  in  the  uncle’s  promise  to  take  care  of 
their  issue;  his  hiring  two  ruffians  to  destroy  his 
wards,  under  pretence  of  sending  them  to  school ; 
their  choosing  a  wood  to  perpetrate  the  murder 
in ;  one  of  the  ruffians  relenting  and  a  battle 
ensuing,  etc.  In  other  respects  he  has  departed 


from  the  play.  In  the  latter  the  scene  is  laid  in 
Padua;  there  is  but  one  child,  which  is  murdered 
by  a  sudden  stab  of  the  unrelenting  ruffian;  he 
is  slain  himself  by  his  less  bloody  companion, 
but  ere  he  dies  he  gives  the  other  a  mortal  wound, 
the  latter  living  just  long  enough  to  impeach  the 
uncle,  who,  in  consequence  of  this  impeachment, 
is  arraigned  and  executed  by  the  hand  of  justice, 
etc.  Whoever  compares  the  play  with  the  ballad 
will  have  no  doubt  but  the  former  is  the  original : 
the  language  is  far  more  obsolete,  and  such  a 
vein  of  simplicity  runs  through  the  whole  per¬ 
formance  that,  had  the  ballad  been  written  first, 
there  is  no  doubt  but  every  circumstance  of  it 
would  have  been  received  into  the  drama ;  where¬ 
as  this  was  probably  built  on  some  Italian  novel. 

Printed  from  two  ancient  copies,  one  of  them 
in  black-letter  in  the  Pepys  Collection.  Its  title  at 
large  is,  The  Children  in  the  Wood,  or  The  Norfolk 
Gentleman’ s  Last  Will  and  Testament,  to  the  tune 
of  Rogero,  etc. — Percy’s  Reliques. 

Page  75. — Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree. — This 
song  owes  its  existence  to  the  following  incident : 
The  author  some  years  since  was  riding  out  with 
a  friend  in  the  suburbs  of  New  York  City,  and 
when  near  Bloomingdale  they  observed  a  cottager 
in  the  act  of  sharpening  his  axe  under  the  shadow 
of  a  noble  ancestral  tree.  His  friend,  who  was 
once  the  proprietor  of  the  estate  on  which  the 
tree  stood,  suspected  that  the  woodman  intended 
to  cut  it  down,  remonstrated  against  the  act,  and, 
accompanying  the  protest  with  a  ten- dollar  note, 
succeeded  in  preserving  from  destruction  this  le¬ 
gendary  memorial  of  his  earlier  and  better  days. 
— Frederick  SaundeYs’s  Festival  of  Song. 

. 

Page  81.  —  Auld  Lang  Syne.  —  Of  the  two 
versions  of  this  song,  we  adopt  for  our  text  that 
supplied  to  Johnson  in  preference  to  the  copy 
made  for  George  Thomson.  The  arrangement  of 
the  verses  is  more  natural ;  it  wants  the  redun¬ 
dant  syllable  in  the  fourth  line  of  stanza  first;  and 
the  spelling  of  the  Scotch  words  is  more  correct. 
The  poet  transcribed  the  song  for  Mrs.  Dunlop  in 
his  letter  to  her  dated  17th  December,  1788,  and 
it  is  unfortunate  that  Dr.  Currie  did  not  print  a 
verbatim  copy  of  it,  along  with  that  letter,  in¬ 
stead  of  simply  referring  his  reader  to  the  Thom¬ 
son  correspondence  for  it.  Thomson’s  closing 
verse  stands  second  in  Johnson,  where  it  seems  in 
its  proper  place,  as  having  manifest  reference  to 
the  earlier  stages  of  the  interview  between  the 
long-separated  friends.  Many  of  our  readers 
must  have  observed  that  when  a  social  company 
unites  in  singing  the  song  before  dispersing,  it  is 
the  custom  for  the  singers  to  join  hands  in  a  cir¬ 
cle  at  the  words,  “And  there’s  a  hand,”  etc. 
This  ought  to  conclude  the  song,  with  the  chorus 
sung  rapidly  and  emphatically  thereafter.  But 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


968 


how  awkwardly  and  out  of  place  does  the  slow 
singing  of  Thomson’s  closing  verse  come  in  after 
that  excitement ! — “And  surely  ye’ll  be  your  pint 
stowp,”  etc.  No,  no!  The  play  is  over;  no  more 
pint  stowps !  —  Burns’s  Poems,  William  Scott 
Douglas’s  edition. 

Page  87. — Ode  to  An  Indian  Gold  Coin. — This 
remarkable  poem  was  written  in  Cherical,  Mala¬ 
bar,  the  author  having  left  his  native  land,  Scot¬ 
land,  in  quest  of  a  fortune  in  India.  He  died 
shortly  afterward  in  Java. — Frederick  Saunders’s 
Festival  of  Song. 

Page  103. — Waly,  Waly,  But  Love  be  Bon¬ 
ny. — Nothing  is  known  with  certainty  as  to 
the  authorship  of  this  exquisite  song,  one  of  the 
most  affecting  of  the  many  that  Scotland  can 
boast.  It  had  been  supposed  to  refer  to  an  inci¬ 
dent  in  the  life  of  Lady  Barbara  Erskine,  wife  of 
the  second  Marquis  of  Douglas ;  but  the  allusions 
are  evidently  to  the  deeper  woes  of  one  not  a  wife 
— who  “loved  not  wisely,  but  too  well.’’ — Illus¬ 
trated  Book  of  Scottish  Song. 

Page  112. — The  Nut-Brown  Maid.  —  Henry, 
Lord  Clifford,  first  Earl  of  Cumberland,  and  Lady 
Margaret  Percy  his  wife,  are  the  originals  of  this 
ballad.  Lord  Clifford  had  a  miserly  father  and 
ill-natured  stepmother,  so  he  left  home  and  be¬ 
came  the  head  of  a  band  of  robbers.  The  ballad 
was  written  in  1502,  and  says  that  the  “Not- 
browne  Mayd  ”  was  wooed  and  won  by  a  knight 
who  gave  out  that  he  was  a  banished  man.  After 
describing  the  hardships  she  would  have  to  under¬ 
go  if  she  married  him,  and  finding  her  love  true 
to  the  test,  he  revealed  himself  to  be  an  earl’s  son, 
with  large  hereditary  estates  in  Westmoreland. — 
Percy’s  Beliques  (Series  II.). 

Page  120.  —  Highland  Mary.  —  “  Highland 
Mary,”  says  the  Hon.  A.  Erskine  in  a  letter  to 
Mr.  George  Thomson,  “is  most  enchantingly 
pathetic.”  Burns  says  of  it  himself,  in  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Thomson  :  “  The  foregoing  song  pleases  my¬ 
self;  I  think  it  is  in  my  happiest  manner;  you 
will  see  at  first  glance  that  it  suits  the  air.  The 
subject  of  the  song  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
passages  of  my  youthful  days ;  and  I  own  that  I 
should  be  much  flattered  to  see  the  verses  set  to  an 
air  which  would  ensure  celebrity.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  ’tis  the  still-glowing  prejudice  of  my  heart  that 
throws  a  borrowed  lustre  over  the  merits  of  the 
composition.” — Illustrated  Book  of  Scottish  Song. 

The  history  of  this  humble  maiden  is  now 
known  to  all  the  world,  and  will  continue  to  bo 
remembered  as  long  as  Scottish  song  exists.  Her 
name  was  Mary  Campbell,  and  her  parents  resided 
at  Campbelltown,  in  Argyleshire.  At  the  time 
Burns  became  acquainted  with  her  she  was  ser¬ 
vant  at  Coilsfield  House,  the  seat  of  Colonel 


Montgomery,  afterward  Earl  of  Eglinton.  In 
notes  to  the  Museum,  Burns  says  of  the  present 
song  :  “  This  was  a  composition  of  mine  before  I 
was  known  at  all  to  the  world.  My  Highland 
lassie  was  a  warm-hearted,  charming  young 
creature  as  ever  blessed  a  man  with  generous 
love.  After  a  pretty  long  trial  of  the  most  ardent 
reciprocal  attachment,  we  met  by  appointment  on 
the  second  Sunday  of  May  in  a  sequestered  spot 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  where  we  spent  the 
day  in  taking  a  farewell  before  she  should  em¬ 
bark  for  the  West  Highlands  to  arrange  matters 
among  her  friends  for  our  projected  change  of 
life.  At  the  close  of  the  autumn  following  she 
crossed  the  sea  to  meet  me  at  Greenock,  where 
she  had  scarce  landed  when  she  was  seized  with 
a  malignant  fever,  which  hurried  my  dear  girl  to 
her  grave  in  a  few  days,  before  I  could  even  hear 
of  her  illness.”  Cromek  adds  a  few  particulars 
of  the  final  interview  of  the  youthful  lovers : 
“  This  adieu  was  performed  with  all  those  simple 
and  striking  ceremonials  which  rustic  sentiment 
has  devised  to  prolong  tender  emotion  and  to  in¬ 
spire  awe.  The  lovers  stood  on  each  side  of  a 
small  purling  brook,  they  laved  their  hands  in  the 
limpid  stream,  and,  holding  a  Bible  between  them, 
they  pronounced  their  vows  to  be  faithful  to  each 
other.  They  parted  never  to  meet  again.”  Cro- 
mek’s  account  of  this  parting  interview  was  con¬ 
sidered  somewhat  apocryphal  till,  a  good  many 
years  ago,  a  pocket  Bible  in  two  volumes,  pre¬ 
sented  by  Burns  to  Mary  Campbell,  was  discovered 
in  the  possession  of  her  sister  at  Ardrossan. 
This  Bible  afterward  found  its  way  to  Canada, 
whither  the  family  had  removed  ;  and  having 
excited  the  interest  of  some  Scotchmen  at  Mon¬ 
treal,  they  purchased  it  (for  its  possessors  were 
unfortunately  in  reduced  circumstances),  and  had 
it  conveyed  back  to  Scotlaud,  with  the  view  of 
being  permanently  placed  in  the  monument  at 
Ayr.  On  its  arrival  at  Glasgow,  Mr.  Weir,  sta¬ 
tioner.  Queen  street  (through  the  instrumentality 
of  whose  son,  we  believe,  the  precious  relic  was 
mainly  procured),  kindly  announced  that  he 
would  willingly  show  it  for  a  few  days  at  his 
shop  to  any  person  who  might  choose  to  see  it. 
The  result  was,  that  thousands  flocked  to  obtain 
a  view  of  this  interesting  memorial,  and  the  ladies 
in  particular  displayed  an  unwonted  eagerness 
regarding  it,  some  of  them  being  even  moved  to 
tears  on  beholding  an  object  which  appealed  so 
largely  to  female  sympathies.  On  the  anniver¬ 
sary  of  the  poet  in  1841,  the  Bible,  enclosed  in  an 
oaken  glass  case,  was  deposited  among  other  re¬ 
lics  in  the  monument  at  Ayr.  On  the  boards  of 
one  of  the  volumes  is  inscribed  in  Burns’s  hand¬ 
writing,  “And  ye  shall  not  swear  by  my  namo 
falsely,  I  am  the  Lord,”  Levit.,  chap.  xix.  v.  12; 
and  on  the  other,  “  Thou  shalt  not  forswear  thy- 


064 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


self,  but  shalt  perform  unto  the  Lord  thine  oath,” 
St.  Matt.,  chap.  v.  v.  33;  and  on  the  blank  leaves 
of  both  volumes,  “  Robert  Burns,  Mossgiel.” — 
Duma’s  Works,  Blackie  Son’s  ed. 

Page  120. —  Sally  in-  Our  Alley.  —  Carey 
says  the  occasion  of  his  ballad  was  this :  “  A 
shoemaker’s  apprentice,  making  holiday  with 
his  sweetheart,  treated  her  with  a  sight  of  Bed¬ 
lam,  the  puppet-shows,  the  flying  chain,  and  all 
the  elegancies  of  Moorfields;  from  whence  pro¬ 
ceeding  to  the  Farthing  Piehouse,  he  gave  her  a 
collation  of  buns,  cheese-cakes,  gammon  of  bacon, 
stuffed  beef  and  bottle  ale;  through  all  which 
scenes  the  author  dodged  them  (charmed  with  the 
simplicity  of  their  courtship),  from  whence  he 
drew  this  little  sketch  of  nature.”  The  song,  he 
adds,  made  its  way  into  the  polite  world,  and 
was  more  than  once  mentioned  with  approbation 
by  “  the  divine  Addison.” — Chambers’ s  Cyclopaedia 
of  English  Literature. 

Page  12 J. —  To  Althea,  from  Prison. —  This 
excellent  sonnet,  which  possessed  a  high  degree 
of  fame  among  the  old  Cavaliers,  was  written  by 
Colonel  Richard  Lovelace  during  his  confinement 
in  the  Gate-house,  Westminster,  to  which  he  was 
committed  by  the  House  of  Commons  in  April, 
1642,  for  presenting  a  petition  from  the  county  of 
Kent,  requesting  them  to  restore  the  king  to  his 
rights  and  to  settle  the  government.  See  AVood’s 
Athense,  vol.  ii.,  p.  228,  and  Lysons’s  Environs  of 
London,  vol.  i.,  p.  109,  where  may  be  seen  at 
large  the  affecting  story  of  this  elegant  writer, 
who  after  having  been  distinguished  for  every 
gallant  and  polite  accomplishment,  the  pattern 
of  his  own  sex  and  the  darling  of  the  ladies, 
died  in  the  lowest  wretchedness,  obscurity,  and 
want  in  1658. — Percy’s  lleliqnes. 

Page  126. — Jean. — This  song  was  written  in 
celebration  of  the  charms  of  Jean  Armour,  after¬ 
ward  the  poet’s  wife. 

“Of  a’  the  Airts  the  AArind  can  Blaw”  was  the 
most  universally  popular  of  all  Burns’s  songs, 
at  least  in  the  west  of  Scotland,  and  it  is  still  a 
great  favorite.  The  air  is  by  Mr.  Marshall,  who 
in  Burns’s  time  was  butler  to  the  Duke  of  Gordon, 
and  who  composed  several  other  fine  airs.  Only 
the  first  two  stanzas  were  written  by  Burns.  The 
last  two  have  been  ascribed  to  John  Hamilton, 
music-seller,  Edinburgh. — Burns’s  Works,  Blackie 
&  Son’s  ed. 

Page  127. — The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes.  —  The 
Feast  of  St.  Agnes  was  formerly  held  as  in  a 
special  degree  a  holiday  for  women.  It  was 
thought  possible  for  a  girl,  on  the  eve  of  St. 
Agnes,  to  obtain  by  divination  a  knowledge  of 
her  future  husband.  She  might  take  a  row  of 
pins,  and,  plucking  them  out  one  after  another, 


stick  them  in  her  sleeve,  singing  the  whilst  a  Pa¬ 
ternoster,  and  thus  ensure  that  her  dreams  would 
that  night  present  the  person  in  question.  Or, 
passing  into  a  different  country  from  that  of  her 
ordinary  residence,  and  taking  her  right-leg  stock¬ 
ing,  she  might  knit  the  left  garter  round  it,  re¬ 
peating  : 

“  I  knit  this  knot,  this  knot  I  knit, 

To  know  the  thing  I  know  not  yet, 

That  I  may  see 

The  man  that  shall  my  husband  be, 

Not  in  his  best  or  worst  array, 

But  what  he  weareth  every  day; 

That  I  to-morrow  may  him  ken 
From  among  all  other  men.” 

Lying  down  on  her  back  that  night  with  her 
hands  under  her  head,  the  anxious  maiden  was 
led  to  expect  that  her  future  spouse  would  appear 
in  a  dream  and  salute  her  with  a  kiss. — Cham¬ 
bers’s  Book  of  Days. 

Page  136. — Lochinvar. — The  ballad  of  Lochin- 
var  is  in  a  very  slight  degree  founded  on  a  ballad 
called  “  Katharine  Janfarie.”  (Nee  Note  to  Kath¬ 
arine  Janfarie.) 

Page  137 — A  eld  Robin  Gray. — This  beauti¬ 
ful  ballad,  of  which  the  authorship  was  long  a 
mystery,  was  written  by  Lady  Anne  Lindsay, 
daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Balcarras,  and  afterward 
Lady  Barnard.  It  appears  to  have  been  com¬ 
posed  at  the  commencement  of  the  year  1772, 
when  the  author  was  yet  a  young  girl.  It  was 
published  anonymously,  and  acquired  great  pop¬ 
ularity.  No  one,  however,  came  forward  to  lay 
claim  to  the  laurels  lavished  upon  it,  and  a  liter¬ 
ary  controversy  sprang  up  to  decide  the  author¬ 
ship.  Many  conjectured  that  it  was  as  old  as  the 
days  of  David  Rizzio,  if  not  composed  by  that 
unfortunate  minstrel  himself,  while  others  con¬ 
sidered  it  of  much  later  date.  The  real  author 
was,  however,  suspected ;  and  ultimately,  when 
her  ladyship  was  an  old  woman,  Sir  AAralter  Scott 
received  a  letter  from  Lady  Anne  herself  openly 
avowing  that  she  had  written  it.  She  stated  that 
she  had  been  long  suspected  by  her  more  intimate 
friends,  and  often  questioned  with  respect  to  the 
mysterious  ballad,  but  that  she  had  always  man¬ 
aged  to  keep  her  secret  to  herself  without  a  direct 
and  absolute  denial.  She  was  induced  to  write  the 
song  by  a  desire  to  see  an  old  plaintive  Scottish 
air  (“The  Bridegroom  Grat  when  the  Sun  gaed 
down”)  which  was  a  favorite  with  her  fitted  with 
words  more  suitable  to  its  character  than  the  ri¬ 
bald  verses  which  had  always  hitherto,  for  want 
of  better,  been  sung  to  it.  She  had  previously 
been  endeavoring  to  beguile  the  tedium  occasioned 
by  her  sister’s  marriage  and  departure  for  Lon¬ 
don  by  the  composition  of  verses;  but  of  all  she 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


96b 


had  written,  either  before  or  since,  none  have 
reached  the  merit  of  this  admirable  little  poem. 
It  struck  her  that  some  tale  of  virtuous  distress 
in  humble  life  would  be  most  suitable  to  the  plain¬ 
tive  character  of  her  favorite  air ;  and  she  accord¬ 
ingly  set  about  such  an  attempt,  taking  the  namo 
of  “  Auld  Robin  Gray”  from  an  ancient  herd  at 
Balcarras.  When  she  had  written  two  or  three  of 
the  verses  she  called  to  her  junior  sister  (after¬ 
ward  Lady  Ilardwicke),  who  was  the  only  per¬ 
son  near  her,  and  thus  addressed  her :  “  I  have 
been  writing  a  ballad,  my  dear;  I  am  oppressing 
mjr  heroine  with  many  misfortunes;  I  have  al¬ 
ready  sent  her  Jamie  to  sea,  and  broken  her 
father’s  arm,  and  made  her  mother  fall  sick,  and 
given  her  Auld  Robin  Gray  for  her  lover:  but  I 
wish  to  load  her  with  a  fifth  sorrow  within  the 
four  lines — poor  thing !  Help  me  to  one.”  “  Steal 
the  cow,  sister  Anne,”  said  the  little  Elizabeth. 
“  The  cow,”  adds  Lady  Anne  in  her  letter,  “  was 
immediately  lifted  by  me,  and  the  song  com¬ 
pleted.” — Illustrated  Book  of  Scottish  Sourj. 

Page  137. — To  Mary  ix  Heavex. — “  At  Ellis- 
land,”  says  Professor  Wilson,  “  Burns  wrote  many 
of  his  finest  strains,  and,  above  all,  that  immor¬ 
tal  burst  of  passion,  1  To  Mary  in  Heaven.’  This 
celebrated  poem  was  composed  in  September, 
1789,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  in  which  he 
heard  of  the  death  of  his  early  love,  Mary  Camp¬ 
bell.  According  to  Mrs.  Burns,  he  spent  that  day, 
though  laboring  under  cold,  in  the  usual  work  of 
his  harvest,  and  apparently  in  excellent  spirits  ; 
but  as  the  twilight  deepened  he  appeared  to  grow 
very  sad  about  something,  and  at  length  wan¬ 
dered  out  to  the  barnyard,  to  which  his  wife,  in 
her  anxiety  for  his  health,  followed  him,  entreat¬ 
ing  him  in  vain  to  observe  that  the  frost  had  set 
in,  and  to  return  to  the  fireside.  On  being  again 
and  again  requested  to  do  so,  he  always  promised 
compliance,  but  still  remained  where  he  was, 
striding  up  and  down  slowly  and  contemplating 
the  sky,  which  was  singularly  clear  and  starry. 
At  last  Mrs.  Burns  found  him  stretched  on  a 
mass  of  straw,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  beautiful 
planet  ‘  that  shone  like  another  moon,’  and  pre¬ 
vailed  on  him  to  come  in.  He  immediately  on 
entering  the  house  called  for  his  desk,  and  wrote 
as  they  now  stand,  with  all  the  ease  of  one  copy¬ 
ing  from  memory,  these  sublime  and  pathetic 
verses.” — John  Gibson  Lockhart. 

Page  llfi. — The  Milkmaid’s  Soxg. — This  song 
and  “The  Milkmaid’s  Mother’s  Answer”  have 
been  ascribed  by  some  editors  to  Shakespeare, 
but  there  is  very  little  doubt  but  that  they  were 
written  respectively  by  Marlowe  and  Raleigh. 
Izaak  Walton  says,  in  The  Complcat  Angler :  “As 
I  left  this  place  and  entered  into  the  next  field  a 
second  pleasure  entertained  me.  ’Twas  a  hand¬ 


some  milkmaid,  that  had  not  yet  attained  so 
much  age  and  wisdom  as  to  load  her  mind  with 
any  fears  of  many  things  that  will  never  be,  as 
too  many  men  too  often  do ;  but  she  cast  away 
all  care,  and  sung  like  a  nightingale.  Her  voice 
was  good,  and  the  ditty  suited  for  it.  ’Twas  that 
smooth  song  which  was  made  by  Kit  Marlow  now 
at  least  fifty  3Tears  ago  ;  and  the  milkmaid’s  mo¬ 
ther  sung  an  answer  to  it,  which  was  made,  by 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  his  younger  days.  They 
were  old-fashioned  poetry,  but  choicely  good  ;  I 
think  much  better  than  the  strong  lines  that  are 
now  in  fashion  in  this  critical  age.  Look  yon¬ 
der  !  On  my  word,  yonder  they  both  be  a-milk- 
ing  again  !  I  will  give  her  the  chub,  and  per¬ 
suade  them  to  sing  those  two  songs  to  us.” 

Page  1^5. — Maid  of  Atiiexs. — Our  servant, 
who  had  gone  before  to  procure  accommodation, 
met  us  at  the  gate  and  conducted  us  to  Theodora 
Macri,  the  Consulina’s,  where  we  at  present  live. 
This  lady  is  the  widow  of  the  consul,  and  has 
three  lovely  daughters ;  the  eldest  celebrated  for 
her  beauty,  and  said  to  be  the  subject  of  those 
stanzas  by  Lord  Byron — 

“  Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 

Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart !”  etc. 

Theresa,  the  Maid  of  Athens,  Catinco,  and  Mari¬ 
ana,  are  of  middle  stature.  On  the  crown  of  the 
head  of  each  is  a  red  Albanian  skull-cap,  with  a 
blue  tassel  spread  out  and  fastened  down  like  a 
star.  Near  the  edge  or  bottom  of  the  skull-cap 
is  a  handkerchief  of  various  colors  bound  around 
their  temples.  The  youngest  wears  her  hair  loose, 
falling  on  her  shoulders — the  hair  behind  descend¬ 
ing  down  the  back  nearly  to  the  waist,  and.  as 
usual,  mixed  with  silk.  The  two  eldest  generally 
have  their  hair  bound,  and  fastened  under  the 
handkerchief.  Their  upper  robe  is  a  pelisse  edged 
with  fur,  hanging  loose  down  to  the  ankles ;  be¬ 
low  is  a  handkerchief  of  muslin  covering  the 
bosom  and  terminating  at  the  waist,  which  is 
short;  under  that,  a  gown  of  striped  silk  or 
muslin,  with  a  gore  round  the  swell  of  the  loins, 
falling  in  front  in  graceful  negligence;  white 
stockings  and  yellow  slippers  complete  their 
attire.  The  two  eldest  have  black  or  dark  hair 
and  eyes;  their  visage  oval  and  complexion  some¬ 
what  pale,  with  teeth  of  dazzling  whiteness. 
Their  cheeks  are  rounded  and  nose  straight, 
rather  inclined  to  aquiline.  The  youngest,  Mari¬ 
ana,  is  very  fair,  her  face  not  so  finely  rounded, 
but  has  a  gayer  expression  than  her  sisters’, 
whose  countenances,  except  when  the  conversa¬ 
tion  has  something  of  mirth  in  it,  may  be  said  to 
be  rather  pensive.  Their  persons  are  elegant  an  1 
their  manners  pleasing  and  lady-like,  such  as 
would  be  fascinating  in  any  country.  They  pos- 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


m 


sess  very  considerable  powers  of  conversation, 
and  their  minds  seem  to  be  more  instructed  than 
those  of  the  Greek  women  in  general.  With  such 
attractions  it  would,  indeed,  be  remarkable  if 
they  did  not  meet  with  great  attention  from  the 
travellers  who  occasionally  are  resident  in  Athens. 
They  sit  in  the  Eastern  style,  a  little  reclined, 
with  their  limbs  gathered  under  them  on  the 
divan,  and  without  shoes.  Their  employments 
are  the  needle,  tambourine,  and  reading. —  Trav¬ 
els  in  Italy,  Greece,  etc.,  by  H.  W.  Williams,  Esq. 

Page  14-5.  —  Bonnie  Lesley.  —  The  poet,  in  a 
letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  dated  August,  1792,  de¬ 
scribes  the  influence  which  the  beauty  of  Miss 
Lesley  Baillie  exercised  over  his  imagination. 
“Know,  then,”  said  he,  “that  the  heartstruck 
awe,  the  distant,  humble  approach,  the  delight 
we  should  have  in  gazing  upon  and  listening  to 
a  messenger  of  heaven,  appearing  in  all  the  un¬ 
spotted  purity  of  his  celestial  home  among  the 
coarse,  polluted,  far  inferior  sons  of  men,  to  de¬ 
liver  to  them  tidings  that  make  their  hearts  swim 
in  joy  and  their  imaginations  soar  in  transport, — 
such,  so  delighting  and  so  pure,  were  the  emo¬ 
tions  of  my  soul  on  meeting  the  other  day  with 
Miss  Lesley  Baillie,  your  neighbor.  Mr.  Baillie 
with  his  two  daughters,  accompanied  by  Mr.  H. 
of  G.,  passing  through  Dumfries  a  few  days  ago 
on  their  way  to  England,  did  me  the>  honor  of 
calling  on  me,  on  which  I  took  my  horse  (though 
God  knows  I  could  ill  spare  the  time!)  and  ac¬ 
companied  them  fourteen  or  fifteen  miles,  and 
dined  and  spent  the  day  with  them.  ’Twas  about 
nine,  I  think,  when  I  left  them,  and  riding  home 
I  composed  the  following  ballad.”  —  Burns’s 
Poems. 

Page  155.  —  The  Lass  o’  Patie’s  Mill. — 
“‘The  Lass  o’  Patie’s  Mill,’”  says  Burns,  “is 
one  of  Ramsay’s  best  songs.  The  following 
anecdote  was  told  by  the  late  John,  Earl  of  Lou¬ 
don  :  Allan  Ramsay  was  residing  at  Loudon  Cas¬ 
tle  with  the  then  earl,  father  to  Earl  John,  and 
one  afternoon,  riding  or  walking  out  together, 
his  lordship  and  Allan  passed  a  sweet  romantic 
spot  on  Irwine  Water,  still  called  ‘Patie’s  Mill,’ 
where  a  bonnie  lass  was  ‘tedding  hay  bareheaded 
on  the  green.’  My  lord  observed  to  Allan  that 
it  would  be  a  fine  theme  for  a  song.  Ramsay 
took  the  hint,  and  lingering  behind  he  composed 
the  first  sketch  of  it,  which  he  produced  at  din¬ 
ner.  ’ — Illustrated  Booh  of  Scottish  Song. 

Page  166.  —  Jessy.  —  The  Jessy  of  this  and 
several  other  songs  was  Jessy  Lewars,  sister  of 
a  fellow-exciseman  of  Burns  in  Dumfries.  She 
was  distinguished  from  many  of  his  contem- 
porarary  admirers  by  the  affectionate  sympathy 
which  she  always  had  for  him  and  for  his  wife, 


and  which  during  his  last  illness  took  the  form 
of  a  daughter’s  watchful  care.  This  is  the  last 
song  Burns  ever  wrote. — Mary  Carlyle  Aitken. 

Page  167. — Whe.v  the  Kye  comes  Hame. — In 
the  title  and  chorus  of  this  favorite  little  pas¬ 
toral  I  choose  rather  to  violate  a  rule  in  gram- 
mar  than  a  Scottish  phrase  so  common  that  when 
it  is  altered  into  the  proper  way  every  shepherd 
and  shepherd’s  sweetheart  accounts  it  nonsense, 
I  was  once  singing  it  at  a  wedding  with  great 
glee  the  latter  way  (“  When  the  kye  come 
hame  ”),  when  a  tailor,  scratching  his  head,  said, 
“  It  was  a  terrible  affected  way,  that !”  I  stood 
corrected,  and  have  never  sung  it  so  again. — 
Hogg’s  Poems. 

Page  173. — A  Pastoral. — The  Phoebe  of  this 
admired  pastoral  was  Joanna,  the  daughter  of 
the  very  learned  Dr.  Richard  Bentley,  archdeacon 
and  prebendary  of  Ely,  regius  professor  and  mas¬ 
ter  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  who  died  in  1742. 
She  was  afterward  married  to  Dr.  Dennison  Cum¬ 
berland,  bishop  of  Clonfert  in  Killaloe  in  Ireland, 
and  grandson  of  Dr.  Richard  Cumberland,  bishop 
of  Peterborough. — Spectator,  No.  603,  note. 

Page  179. — Castara. — Castara  was  a  daugh¬ 
ter  of  William  Herbert,  first  Lord  Percy,  and  be¬ 
came  the  wife  of  the  poet.  There  ai-e  no  purer 
and  few  more  graceful  records  of  a  noble  attach¬ 
ment  than  that  which  is  contained  in  the  poems 
to  which  Habington  has  given  the  name  of  the 
lady  of  his  happy  love. — Richard  Chenevix  Trench. 

Page  185. — Go,  Lovely  Rose.  —  A  lady  of 
Cambridge  lent  Waller’s  poems  to  Henry  Kirke 
White,  and  when  he  returned  them  to  her  she 
discovered  this  additional  stanza  written  by  him 
at  the  end  of  this  poem  : 

“Yet,  though  thou  fade, 

From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance  rise; 

And  teach  the  maid 

That  Goodness  Time’s  rude  hand  defies, 

That  Virtue  lives  when  Beauty  dies.” 

— Henry  Kirke  White’s  Poems. 

Page  185. — To  his  Mistress,  the  Queen  of  Bo¬ 
hemia. —  On  that  amiable  princess,  Elizabeth, 
daughter  of  James  I.  and  wife  of  the  Elector  Pala¬ 
tine,  who  was  chosen  King  of  Bohemia  September 
5,  1619.  The  consequences  of  this  fatal  election 
are  well  known.  Sir  Henry  Wotton,  who  in  that 
and  the  following  year  was  employed  in  several 
embassies  in  Germany  in  behalf  of  this  unfortu¬ 
nate  lady,  seems  to  have  had  an  uncommon  attach¬ 
ment  to  her  merit  and  fortunes ;  for  he  gave  away 
a  jewel  that  was  worth  a  thousand  pounds,  that 
was  presented  to  him  by  the  emperor,  “because  it 
came  from  an  enemy  to  his  royal  mistress  the 
Queen  of  Bohemia”  (“for  so,”  says  Walton  in 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


967 


The  Life  of  Wotton ,  “  she  was  pleased  he  should 
always -call  her”). —  Bellew’s  Poets’  Corner. 

Page  186. — Jenny  Kissed  Me. — These  lines  are 
said  to  be  due  to  the  following  incident:  Leigh 
Hunt  called  on  Carlyle  to  inform  him  of  some  very 
pleasant  piece  of  news.  Mrs.  Carlyle,  who  was  in 
the  room  at  the  time,  was  so  delighted  that  she 
jumped  up  and  kissed  him.  On  his  return  home 
he  wrote  this  pretty  little  compliment. 

Page  199. — Annie  Laurie. — 

MAXWELTON  BANKS. 

Maxwelton  banks  are  bonnie, 

Where  early  fa’s  the  dew ; 

Where  me  and  Annie  Laurie 
Made  up  the  promise  true  ; 

Made  up  the  promise  true, 

And  never  forget  will  I ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I’ll  lay  me  doun  and  die. 

She’s  backit  like  the  peacock, 

She’s  breistit  like  the  swan, 

She’s  jimp  about  the  middle, 

Her  waist  ye  weel  micht  span  ; 

Her  waist  ye  weel  micht  span, 

And  she  has  a  rolling  eye ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I’ll  lay  me  doun  and  die. 

“  These  two  verses,”  as  we  are  informed  by  Mr. 
Robert  Chambers,  “  were  written  by  Mr.  Douglas 
of  Finland  upon  Annie,  one  of  the  four  daugh¬ 
ters  of  Sir  Robert  Laurie,  first  baronet  of  Max¬ 
welton,  by  his  second  wife,  who  was  a  daughter 
of  Riddell  of  Minto.  As  Sir  Robert  was  created  a 
baronet  in  the  year  1685,  it  is  probable  that  the 
verses  were  composed  about  the  end  of  the  seven¬ 
teenth  or  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
It  is  painful  to  record  that,  notwithstanding  the 
ardent  and  chivalrous  affection  displayed  by  Mr. 
Douglas  in  his  poem,  he  did  not  obtain  the  heroine 
for  a  wife;  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Ferguson  of 
Craigdarroch.”  The  first  four  lines  of  the  second 
stanza  are  taken  from  the  old  and  indecent  bal¬ 
lad  of  “  John  Anderson,  my  Jo,”  a  fact  which 
Mr.  Chambers  has  not  mentioned.  The  ballad 
of  “John  Anderson,”  as  it  was  sung  before  it  was 
rendered  decent  by  Robert  Burns,  appeared  in  a 
very  scarce  volume  of  English  songs,  with  music, 
entitled  The  Convivial  Songster,  published  in  1782. 
'—Illustrated  Book  of  Scottish  Song. 

Page  201.  —  The  Lord  of  Burleigh.  —  Henry 
Cecil,  eleventh  Baron  Burleigh,  tenth  Earl  of  Ex¬ 
eter  and  first  Marquis  of  Exeter,  was  born  at 
Brussels  in  1754,  and  for  many  years  in  his  early 
life  was  M.  P.  for  Stamford.  His  lordship  was 
married  three  times :  first,  to  Emma,  only  daugh¬ 
ter  and  heiress  of  Thomas  Vernon,  Esq.,  of  Han- 


bury,  from  whom  he  was  divorced  in  1791,  after 
having  issue  by  her  one  son,  who  died  young; 
secondly,  to  Sarah,  daughter  to  Thomas  Hoggins, 
of  Bolas,  Shropshire,  by  whom  he  had  issue  four 
children — namely,  the  Lady  Sophia  Cecil,  married 
to  the  Hon.  Henry  Manvers  Pierrepoint  (whose 
daughter  married  Lord  Charles  Wellesley,  second 
son  of  the  first  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  was  moth¬ 
er  of  the  present  heir-presumptive  to  that  duke¬ 
dom);  Lord  Henry  Cecil,  who  died  young;  Lord 
Brownlow  Cecil,  who  became  second  Marauis  of 

x 

Exeter ;  and  Lord  Thomas  Cecil,  who  married 
Lady  Sophia  Georgiana  Lennox;  and,  thirdly,  to 
Elizabeth,  Duchess  Hamilton,  by  whom  he  had  no 
issue.  The  second  of  these  three  marriages  has 
supplied  a  theme  to  many  novelists  and  dram¬ 
atists.  They  have  used  the  poet’s  license  some¬ 
what,  but  it  is  certain  that  the  bride  and  her 
family  had  no  idea  of  the  rank  of  the  wooer  until 
the  Lord  of  Burleigh  had  wedded  the  peasant  girl. 
Thus  Moore  pictures  Ellen,  the  “  hamlet’s  pride,” 
loving  in  poverty,  leaving  her  home  to  seek  un¬ 
certain  fortune.  Stopping  at  the  entrance  to  a 
lordly  mansion,  blowing  the  horn  with  a  chief¬ 
tain’s  air,  while  the  porter  bowed  as  he  passed 
the  gate,  “she  believed  him  wild”  when  he  said, 
“This  castle  is  thine,  and  these  dark  woods  all;” 
but  “  his  words  were  truth,”  and  “  Ellen  was  Lady 
of  Rosna  Hall.” — The  Stately  Homes  of  England, 
Second  Series. 

Page  202. — Lucy’s  Flittin’. — The  author  of  this 
sweet  little  poem  was  Scott’s  valued  friend  and 
steward.  On  Scott’s  return  to  Abbotsford  from 
Naples,  after  having  travelled  from  London  in  a 
state  of  utter  prostration  and  semi-unconscious¬ 
ness,  seeing  Laidlaw  at  his  bedside,  he  said,  his 
eyes  brightening,  “Is  that  you,  Willie?  I  ken 
I’m  hame  noo.” — Mary  Carlyle  Aitken. 

Page  221. — The  Grave  of  Macaura. — At  Cal- 
lan,  a  pass  on  an  unfrequented  road  leading  from 
Glanerought  (the  Vale  of  the  Roughty)  to  Bantry, 
the  country-people  point  out  a  flat  stone  by  the 
pathway  which  they  name  as  the  burial-place  of 
Daniel  MacCarthy,  who  fell  there  in  an  engage¬ 
ment  with  the  Fitzgeralds  in  1261.  The  stone 
still  preserves  the  traces  of  characters,  which  are, 
however,  illegible.  From  the  scanty  records  of 
the  period  it  would  appear  that  this  battle  was 
no  inconsiderable  one.  The  Geraldines  were  de¬ 
feated,  and  their  leader,  Thomas  Fitzgerald,  and 
his  son,  eighteen  barons,  fifteen  knights,  and  many 
others  of  his  adherents,  slain.  But  the  honor  and 
advantage  of  victory  were  dearly  purchased  by 
the  exulting  natives,  owing  to  the  death  of  their 
brave  and  noble  chieftain.  The  name  MacCarthy, 
as  spelt  in  Irish,  would  be  (represented  in  Roman 
characters)  MacCartha.  But  it  would  be  pro¬ 
nounced  MacCaura,  the  th,  or  dotted  t,  having,  in 


968 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


the  Irish  tongue,  the  soft  sound  of  h. —  Lover’s 
Lyrics  of  Ireland. 

Pa  ye  223. — The  Good  Lord  Clifford. — Mr. 
Southey,  describing  the  mountain-scenery  of  the 
Lake  region,  says  :  “  The  story  of  the  shepherd 
Lord  Clifford,  which  was  known  only  to  a  few  an¬ 
tiquarians  till  it  was  told  so  beautifully  in  verse 
by  Wordsworth,  gives  a  romantic  history  to  Blen- 
cathara.”  Henry,  Lord  Clifford,  was  the  son  of 
John,  Lord  Clifford,  who  was  slain  at  Towton, 
which  battle  placed  the  House  of  York  upon  the 
throne.  His  family  could  expect  no  mercy  from 
the  conqueror,  for  he  was  the  man  who  slew  the 
younger  brother  of  Edward  IV.  in  the  battle  of 
Wakefield — a  deed  of  cruelty  in  a  cruel  age.  The 
hero  of  this  poem  fled  from  his  paternal  home, 
and  lived  for  twenty-four  years  as  a  shepherd. 
He  was  restored  to  his  rank  and  estates  by  Henry 
VII.  The  following  narrative  is  from  an  old  MS. 
quoted  by  Mr.  Southey  : 

“  So  in  the  condition  of  a  shepherd’s  boy  at 
Lonsborrow,  where  his  mother  then  lived  for  the 
most  part,  did  this  Lord  Clifford  spend  his  youth, 
till  he  was  about  fourteen  years  of  age,  about 
which  time  his  mother’s  father,  Henry  Bromflett, 
Lord  Vesey,  deceased.  But  a  little  after  his  death 
it  came  to  be  rumored,  at  the  court,  that  his  daugh-  , 
ter's  two  sons  were  alive,  about  which  their  mother 
was  examined;  but  her  answer  was,  that  she  had  | 
given  directions  to  send  them  both  beyond  seas,  \ 
to  be  bred  there,  and  she  did  not  know  whether 
they  were  dead  or  alive. 

“And  as  this  Henry,  Lord  Clifford,  did  grow  to 
more  years,  he  was  still  the  more  capable  of  his 
danger,  if  he  had  been  discovered.  And  therefore 
presently  after  his  grandfather,  the  Lord  Vesey,  . 
was  dead,  the  said  rumor  of  his  being  alive  being 
more  and  more  whispered  at  the  court,  made  his 
said  loving  mother,  by  the  means  of  her  second 
husband,  Sir  Launcelot  Threlkeld,  to  send  him 
away  with  the  said  shepherds  and  their  wives 
into  Cumberland,  to  be  kept  as  a  shepherd  there, 
sometimes  at  Threlkeld,  and  amongst  his  father- 
in-law’s  kindred,  and  sometimes  upon  the  borders 
of  Scotland,  where  they  took  lands  purposely  for 
these  shepherds  that  had  the  custody  of  him  ;  where 
many  times  his  father-in-law  came  purposely  to 
visit  him,  and  sometimes  his  mother,  though  very 
secretly.  By  which  mean  kind  of  breeding  this 
inconvenience  befell  him,  that  he  could  neither 
write  nor  read  ;  for  they  durst  not  bring  him  up 
in  any  kind  of  learning,  lest  by  it  his  birth  should  ; 
be  discovered.  Yet,  after  he  came  to  his  lands 
and  honors,  he  learnt  to  write  his  name  only. 

“  Notwithstanding  which  disadvantage,  after  he 
came  to  be  possessed  again,  and  restored  to  the 
enjoyment  of  his  father’s  estate,  he  came  to  be  a 
very  wise  man.  and  a  very  good  manager  of  his 
estate  and  fortunes. 


“  This  Henry,  Lord  Clifford,  after  he  came  to  be 
possessed  of  his  said  estate,  was  a  great  builder 
and  repairer  of  all  his  castles  in  the  North,  which 
had  gone  to  decay  when  he  came  to  enjoy  them; 
for  they  had  been  in  strangers’  hands  about  twen¬ 
ty-four  or  twenty-five  years.  Skipton  Castle,  and 
the  lands  about  it,  had  been  given  to  William 
Stanley  by  King  Edward  IV.,  which  William 
Stanley’s  head  was  cut  off  about  the  tenth  year  of 
King  Henry  VII.;  and  Westmoreland  was  given 
by  Edward  IV.  to  his  brother  Richard,  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  who  was  afterward  king  of  England, 
and  was  slain  in  battle,  the  22d  of  August,  1485. 

“  This  Henry,  Lord  Clifford,  did,  after  he  came 
to  his  estate,  exceedingly  delight  in  astronomy 
and  the  contemplation  of  the  course  of  the  stars, 
which  it  is  likely  he  was  seasoned  in  during  the 
course  of  his  shepherd’s  life.  He  built  a  great 
part  of  Barden  Tower  (which  is  now  much  de¬ 
cayed),  and  there  he  lived  much;  which  it  is 
thought  he  did  the  rather  because  in  that  place 
he  had  furnished  himself  with  instruments  for 
that  study. 

“  He  was  a  plain  man)  and  Jived  for  the  most 
part  a  country  life,  and  came  seldom  either  to  the 
court  or  London  but  when  he  was  called  thither 
to  sit  in  them  as  a  peer  of  the  realm,  in  which  par¬ 
liament,  it  is  reported,  he  behaved  himself  wisely, 
and  nobly,  and  likeagood  Englishman.” — Kniylit’s 
Half  Hours  tvith  the  Best  Axitliors. 

Page  233. — Epitaph  ox  the  Countess  of  Pem¬ 
broke.  —  The  accomplished  sister  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  who  dedicated  to  her  his  Arcadia.  The 
countess  of  Pembroke  wrote  some  graceful  poems, 
translated  the  tragedy  of  Antony  from  the  French, 
and  joined  her  brother  in  a  translation  of  the 
Psalms.  Spenser  speaks  of  her  as 

“Most  resembling,  both  in  shape  and  spirit, 

Her  brother  dear.” 

She  died  in  1621.  The  above  epitaph  was  first 
introduced  into  the  collected  works  of  Ben  Jonson 
by  Whalley,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  “  universally 
assigned  to  him.”  Jonson’s  claim  to  it,  however, 
is  by  no  means  certain. — Bcllew’s  Poets’  Corner. 

Page  233. — Ox  Lucy,  Couxtess  of  Bedford. — 
Lucy,  the  lady  of  Edward,  third  Earl  of  Bedford, 
and  daughter  of  John,  Lord  Harrington.  She 
was  a  munificent  patron  of  genius,  and  seems  to 
have  been  peculiarly  kind  to  Jonson.  One  of  the 
most  exquisite  compliments  that  ever  was  offered 
to  talents,  beauty,  and  goodness  was  paid  by  the 
graceful  poet  to  this  lady  The  biographers  are 
never  weary  of  repeating  after  one  another  that 
she  was  “  the  friend  of  Donne  and  Daniel,  who 
wrote  verses  on  her,”  but  of  Jonson,  who  wrote 
more  than  both,  they  preserve  a  rigid  silence. — 
Jonson’s  Works ,  vol.  vii. 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


969 


Pacje  23 Jf.. — Sonnet  to  Cvriac  Skinner. — Cyriac 
Skinner  was  one  of  the  principal  members  of  Har¬ 
rington’s  political  club.  Wood  says  that  he  was 
“an  ingenious  young  gentleman  and  scholar  to 
John  Milton.” 

Page  235. — Milton’s  Prayer  of  Patience. — 
This  poem,  so  Miltonic  in  its  purity  and  force  of 
expression,  was  at  first  attributed  to  the  great 
poet  himself,  and  was  actually  published  in  an 
English  edition  of  his  works  as  a  recently-dis¬ 
covered  poem  by  him. 

Page  235. — To  the  Lady  Margaret  Ley. — The 
daughter  of  Sir  James  Ley,  whose  singular  learn¬ 
ing  and  abilities  raised  him  through  all  the  great 
posts  of  the  law  till  he  came  to  be  made  Earl  of 
Marlborough,  Lord  High  Treasurer,  and  Lord  Pres¬ 
ident  of  the  Council  to  King  James  I.  He  died  at 
an  advanced  age,  and  Milton  attributes  his  death 
to  the  breaking  of  the  Parliament ;  and  it  is  true 
that  the  Parliament  was  dissolved  the  10th  of 
March,  162|,  and  he  died  on  the  14th  of  the 
same  month. 

Page  235. — Lycidas. — The  name  under  which 
Milton  celebrates  the  untimely  death  of  Edward 
King,  Fellow  of  Christ  College,  Cambridge,  who 
was  drowned  in  his  passage  from  Chester  to  Ire¬ 
land,  August  10th,  1G37.  He  was  the  son  of  Sir 
John  King,  Secretary  for  Ireland. — Brewer’s  Dic¬ 
tionary  of  Phrase  and  Fable. 

Page  238. — An  Horatian  Ode. — This  ode  was 
written  in  the  summer  of  1G50,  after  Cromwell's 
return  from  the  campaign  in  Ireland,  and  after  ho 
had  been  designated  for  the  expedition  to  Scot¬ 
land,  but  while  as  yet  the  “  laureat  wreath”  of 
Dunbar  Field  was  unwon. 

Page  2^.5. — On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Levett. — 
In  one  of  his  (Johnson’s)  memorandum-books  in 
my  possession  is  the  following  entry:  “January 
20,  Sunday,  1782,  Robert  Levett  was  buried  in 
the  churchyard  of  Bridewell  between  one  and  two 
in  the  afternoon.  He  died  on  Thursday,  17,  about 
seven  in  the  morning,  by  an  instantaneous  death. 
He  was  an  old  and  faithful  friend.  I  have  known 
him  from  about  1746.  Commendavi.  May  God 
have  mercy  on  him  !  May  lie  have  mercy  on 
me!”  Boswell  quotes  as  follows  from  “Critical 
Remarks”  by  Nathan  Drake,  M.  D. :  “The  stan¬ 
zas  on  the  death  of  this  man  of  great  but  humble 
utility  are  beyond  all  praise.  The  wonderful 
powers  of  Johnson  were  never  shown  to  greater 
advantage  than  on  this  occasion,  where  the  sub¬ 
ject,  from  its  obscurity  and  mediocrity,  seemed 
to  bid  defiance  to  poetical  efforts;  it  is,  in  fact, 
warm  from  the  heart,  and  is  the  only  poem  from 
the  pen  of  Johnson  that  has  been  bathed  with 
tears.  Would  to  God  that  on  every  medical  man 


who  attends  the  poor  such  encomiums  could  be 
justly  passed!” — Boswell’s  Life  of  Johnson. 

Page  2J+7. — Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Hen¬ 
derson. — Captain  Matthew  Henderson,  a  gentle¬ 
man  of  very  agreeable  manners  and  great  pro¬ 
priety  of  character,  usually  lived  in  Edinburgh, 
dined  constantly  at  Fortune’s  Tavern,  and  was  a 
member  of  the  Capillaire  Club,  which  was  com¬ 
posed  of  all  who  desired  to  be  thought  witty  or 
joyous.  He  died  in  1789.  Burns,  in  a  note  to 
the  poem,  says :  “  I  loved  the  man  much,  and 
have  not  flattered  his  memory.”  Henderson  seems, 
indeed,  to  have  been  universally  liked.  “In  our 
travelling  party,”  says  Sir  James  Campbell  of 
Ardkinglass,  “was  Matthew  Henderson,  then 
(1759)  and  afterward  well  known  and  much  es¬ 
teemed  in  the  town  of  Edinburgh,  at  that  time  an 
officer  in  the  Twenty-fifth  regiment  of  foot,  and, 
like  myself,  on  his  way  to  join  the  army;  and  I 
may  say  with  truth  that  in  the  course  of  a  long 
life  I  have  never  known  a  more  estimable  cha¬ 
racter  than  Matthew  Henderson.” — Memoirs  of 
Campbell  of  Ardkinglass. 

Page  252. — Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore. — 
Sir  John  Moore  often  said  that  if  he  were  killed 
in  battle  he  wished  to  be  buried  where  he  fell. 
The  body  was  removed  at  midnight  to  the  citadel 
of  Corunna.  A  grave  was  dug  for  him  on  the 
rampart  there  by  a  body  of  the  Ninth  regiment, 
the  aides-de-camp  attending  by  turns.  No  coffin 
could  be  procured,  and  the  officers  of  his  staff 
wrapped  the  body,  dressed  as  it  was,  in  a  military 
cloak  and  blanket.  The  interment  was  hastened, 
for  about  eight  in  the  morning  some  firing  was 
heard,  and  the  officers  feared  that  if  a  serious 
attack  were  made  they  should  be  ordered  away 
and  not  suffered  to  pay  him  their  last  duty.  The 
officers  of  his  family  bore  him  to  the  grave,  the 
funeral  service  was  read  by  the  chaplain,  and  the 
corpse  was  covered  with  earth. — Edinburgh  An¬ 
nual  Register  (1808). 

Page  252. — On,  Breathe  not  iiis  Name. —  This 
poem  refers  to  Robert  Emmett,  an  eloquent  Irish 
enthusiast,  born  in  Cork  in  1780.  He  was  an 
ardent  but  misguided  partisan  of  Irish  independ¬ 
ence,  and  appears  to  have  been  a  sincere  patriot. 
He  was  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  “United  Irish¬ 
men.”  In  July,  1803,  he  rashly  put  himself  at 
the  head  of  a  party  of  insurgents  consisting  of 
the  rabble  of  Dublin,  who  murdered  the  chief- 
justice,  Lord  Kil warden,  and  others,  but  were 
quickly  dispersed  by  the  military.  Emmett  was 
arrested,  was  tried,  and  after  an  eloquent  and 
impassioned  speech  in  vindication  of  his  course, 
suffered  with  intrepid  courage  a  felon’s  death, 
September,  1803. —  Thomas's  Biographical  Dic¬ 
tionary. 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 

{ 


J70 


Page  263. — The  Lost  Leader. — In  his  earlier 
years,  Wordsworth,  who  had  travelled  in  France 
during  the  French  Revolution,  was  very  demo¬ 
cratic  in  his  opinions,  but  afterward  grew  more 
conservative,  which  some  of  his  old  associates 
attributed  to  his  having  received  from  the  Eng¬ 
lish  government  the  office  of  poet-laureate. 

Page  267. — Ichabod. — “And  she  named  the 
child  Ichabod,  saying,  The  glory  is  departed 
from  Israel.”  1  Samuel  iv.  21.  This  poem  was 
written  upon  receipt  of  the  intelligence  of  Dan¬ 
iel  Webster’s  speech  in  the  U.  S.  Senate,  March 
7,  1850,  in  defence  of  the  Compromise  measures, 
and  especially  of  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law. 

Page  273. — Lines  Written  on  the  Night  of 
the  30tii  of  July,  1847. — The  contest  was  short, 
but  sharp.  For  ten  days  the  city  was  white  with 
broadsides,  and  the  narrow  courts  off  the  High 
street  rang  with  the  dismal  strains  of  innumer¬ 
able  ballad-singers.  The  opposition  was  nomi¬ 
nally  directed  against  both  the  sitting  members, 
but  from  the  first  it  was  evident  that  all  the  scur¬ 
rility  was  meant  exclusively  for  Macaulay.  He 
came  scathless  even  out  of  that  ordeal.  The  vague 
charge  of  being  too  much  of  an  essayist  and  too 
little  of  a  politician  was  the  worst  that  either 
saint  or  sinner  could  find  to  say  of  him.  The  bur¬ 
den  of  half  the  election  songs  was  to  the  effect  that 
he  had  written  poetry,  and  that  one  who  knew  so 
much  of  ancient  Rome  could  not  possibly  be  the 
man  for  modern  England.  The  day  of  nomination 
was  the  29th  of  July.  The  space  in  front  of  the 
hustings  had  been  packed  by  the  advocates  of 
cheap  whiskey.  Professor  Aytoun,  who  stooped 
to  second  Mr.  Blackburn,  was  applauded  to  his 
heart’s  content,  while  Macaulay  was  treated  with 
a  brutality  the  details  of  which  are  painful  to  read 
and  would  be  worse  than  useless  to  record.  The 
polling  took  place  on  the  morrow.  A  considerable 
number  of  the  Tories,  instead  of  plumping  for 
Blackburn  or  dividing  their  favors  with  the  sit¬ 
ting  members  (who  were  both  of  them  moderate 
Whigs  and  supporters  of  the  Establishment), 
thought  fit  to  give  their  second  votes  to  Mr. 
Cowan,  an  avowed  Yoluntaryist  in  church  mat¬ 
ters  and  the  accepted  champion  of  the  Radical 
party. 

“  I  waited  with  Mr.  Macaulay,”  says  Mr.  Adam 
Black,  “in  a  room  of  the  Merchants’  Hall  to  re¬ 
ceive  at  every  hour  the  numbers  who  had  polled 
in  all  the  districts.  At  10  o’clock  we  were  con¬ 
founded  to  find  that  he  was  150  below  Cowan,  but 
still  had  faint  hopes  that  the  next  hour  might  turn 
the  scale.  The  next  hour  came,  and  a  darker 
prospect.  At  12  o’clock  he  was  340  below  Cowan. 
It  was  obvious  now  that  the  field  was  lost,  but 
we  were  left  from  hour  to  hour  under  the  torture 
of  a  sinking  poll,  till  at  4  o’clock  it  stood  thus: 


Cowan,  2063;  Craig,  1854;  Macaulay,  1477; 
Blackburn,  980.” 

That  same  night,  while  the  town  was  still  alive 
with  jubilation  over  a  triumph  that  soon  lost  its 
gloss  even  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  had  won  it, 
Macaulay,  in  the  grateful  silence  of  his  chamber, 
was  weaving  his  perturbed  thoughts  into  those  ex¬ 
quisite  lines  which  tell  within  the  compass  of  a 
score  of  stanzas  the  essential  secret  of  the  life 
whose  outward  aspect  these  volumes  have  endeav¬ 
ored  to  portray. — Macaulay' 8  Life  and  Letters. 

Page  291. — Harmozan. — After  a  noble  defence, 
Harmozan,  the  prince  or  satrap  of  Ahwaz  and 
Susa,  was  compelled  to  surrender  his  person  and 
his  state  to  the  discretion  of  the  caliph;  and 
their  interview  exhibits  a  portrait  of  the  Arabian 
manners.  In  the  presence  and  by  the  command 
of  Omar  the  gay  barbarian  was  despoiled  of  his 
silken  robes  embroidered  with  gold,  and  of  his 
tiara  bedecked  with  rubies  and  emeralds.  “Are 
you  not  sensible,”  said  the  conqueror  to  his  naked 
captive — “are  you  not  sensible  of  the  judgment 
of  God,  and  of  the  different  rewards  of  infidel¬ 
ity  and  obedience?” — “Alas!”  replied  Harmo¬ 
zan,  “I  feel  them  too  deeply.  In  the  days  of  our 
common  ignorance  we  fought  with  the  weapons 
of  the  flesh,  and  my  nation  was  superior.  God 
was  then  neuter;  since  He  has  espoused  your 
quarrel  you  have  subverted  our  kingdom  and 
religion.”  Oppressed  by  this  painful  dialogue, 
the  Persian  complained  of  intolerable  thirst,  but 
discovered  some  apprehension  lest  he  should  be 
killed  whilst  he  was  drinking  a  cup  of  water. 
“Be  of  good  courage,”  said  the  caliph;  “your 
life  is  safe  till  you  have  drunk  this  water.”  The 
crafty  satrap  accepted  the  assurance,  and  instant¬ 
ly  dashed  the  vase  against  the  ground.  Omar 
would  have  avenged  the  deceit,  but  his  compan¬ 
ions  represented  the  sanctity  of  an  oath ;  and  the 
speedy  conversion  of  Harmozan  entitled  him  not 
only  to  a  free  pardon,  but  even  to  a  stipend  of 
two  thousand  pieces  of  gold.  —  Gibbon's  Rome , 
chap.  li. 

Page  292. — Crescentius. — Crescentius  was  con¬ 
sul  of  the  Romans  in  the  reign  of  the  Emperor 
Otho  III.  He  attempted  to  shake  off  the  Saxon 
yoke,  and  was  besieged  by  Otho  in  the  Mole  of 
Hadrian  (long  called  the  Tower  of  Crescentius). 
He  was  betrayed  and  beheaded. — Bellew’s  Poets' 

Corner. 

Page  292. — The  Vengeance  of  Mudara.— 
Gon^alo  Bustos  de  Salas  de  Lara,  a  Castilian 
hero  of  the  eleventh  century,  had  seven  sons. 
Ilis  brother,  Rodrigo  Velasquez,  married  a  Moor¬ 
ish  lady,  and  these  seven  nephews  were  invited 
to  the  feast.  A  fray  took  place  in  which  one  of 
the  seven  slew  a  Moor,  and  the  bride  demanded 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


971 


vengeance.  Rodrigo,  to  please  his  bride,  waylaid 
his  brother  Gonyalo,  and  kept  him  in  durance  in 
a  dungeon  of  Cordova,  and  the  seven  boys  were 
betrayed  into  a  ravine  where  they  were  cruelly 
murdered.  While  in  the  dungeon  the  daughter 

O  O  j 

of  the  Moorish  king  fell  in  love  with  Gonfalo  and 
became  the  mother  of  Mudara,  who  avenged  the 
death  of  Lara’s  seven  sons  by  slaying  Rodrigo. 
— Brewer's  Dictionary  of  Phrase  and  Fable. 

Page  293. — The  Bard. — This  ode  is  founded 
on  a  tradition  current  in  Wales,  that  Edward  I., 
when  he  completed  the  conquest  of  that  country, 
ordered  all  the  Bards  that  fell  into  his  hands 
to  be  put  to  death.  The  original  argument  of 
this  ode,  as  Mr.  Gray  had  set  it  down  in  one 
of  the  pages  of  his  commonplace  book,  was  as 
follows:  The  army  of  Edward  I.,  as  they  march 
through  a  deep  valley,  are  suddenly  stopped  by 
the  appearance  of  a  venerable  figure  seated  on 
the  summit  of  an  inaccessible  rock,  who,  with  a 
voice  more  than  human,  reproaches  the  king 
with  all  the  misery  and  desolation  which  he  had 
brought  on  his  country;  foretells  the  misfortunes 
of  the  Norman  race,  and  with  prophetic  spirit 
declares  that  all  his  cruelty  shall  never  extinguish 
the  noble  ardor  of  poetic  genius  in  this  island; 
and  that  men  shall  never  be  wanting  to  celebrate 
true  virtue  and  valor  in  immortal  strains,  to  ex¬ 
pose  vice  and  infamous  pleasure,  and  boldly  cen¬ 
sure  tyranny  and  oppression.  His  song  ended, 
he  precipitates  himself  from  the  mountain,  and 
is  swallowed  up  by  the  river  that  rolls  at  its 
foot. —  Gray's  Poems. 

Page  295. — A  Vert  Mournful  Ballad. — The 
effect  of  the  original  ballad  (which  existed  both 
in  Spanish  and  Arabic)  was  such  that  it  was  for¬ 
bidden  to  be  sung  by  the  Moors,  on  pain  of  death, 
within  Granada. — Byron's  Poems. 

Page  296. — The  Lord  of  Butrago. — The  in¬ 
cident  to  which  this  ballad  relates  is  supposed 
to  have  occurred  on  the  famous  field  of  Alju- 
barrota,  where  King  Juan  I.  of  Castile  was  de¬ 
feated  by  the  Portuguese.  The  king,  who  was 
at  the  time  in  a  feeble  state  of  health,  exposed 
himself  very  much  during  the  action,  and,  being 
wounded,  had  great  difficulty  in  making  his  es¬ 
cape.  The  battle  was  fought  A.  d.  1385. — Lock¬ 
hart's  Spanish  Ballad ». 

Page  297. — Make  Way  for  Liberty! — This 
poem  is  founded  on  the  heroic  achievement  of 
Arnold  de  Winkelried  at  the  battle  of  Sempach, 
which  was  fought  on  the  9th  of  July,  1386.  In 
this  battle  the  Swiss  gained  a  great  victory  over 
Leopold,  Duke  of  Austria,  and  secured  the  liberty 
of  their  country,  which  had  been  grossly  op¬ 
pressed  by  Austria. 

Page  298. — The  Ballad  of  Agincourt. — In 


the  battle  of  Agincourt,  fought  on  the  25th  of 
October,  1115,  Henry  V.  of  England,  with  an 
army  of  about  ten  thousand  men,  totally  defeated 
the  French  under  the  Constable  d’Albret.  The 
French  army  consisted  of  about  sixty  thousand 
men. 

Page  299. — The  Ballad  of  Chevy  Chace. — 
There  had  long  been  a  rivalry  between  the 
families  of  Percy  and  Douglas,  which  showed 
itself  by  incessant  raids  into  each  other’s  terri¬ 
tory.  Percy  of  Northumberland  one  day  vowed 
he  would  hunt  for  three  days  in  the  Scottish 
border  without  condescending  to  ask  leave  of 
Earl  Douglas.  The  Scottish  warden  said  in  his 
anger,  “  Tell  this  vaunter  he  shall  find  one  day 
more  than  sufficient.”  The  ballad  called  “  Chevy 
Chace  ”  mixes  up  this  hunt  with  the  battle  of 
Otterburn,  which,  Dr.  Percy  justly  observes,  was 
“a  very  different  event.”  Chevy  Chace  means  the 
chase  or  hunt  among  the  “  Chy  viat  hyls.”  — 
Brewer's  Dictionary  of  Phrase  and  Fable. 

Page  302. — EDINBURGH  AFTER  FlODDEN. — The 
great  battle  of  Flodden  was  fought  upon  the  9th 
of  September,  1513.  The  defeat  of  the  Scottish 
army,  resulting  mainly  from  the  fantastic  ideas 
of  chivalry  entertained  by  James  IV.,  and  his 
refusal  to  avail  himself  of  the  natural  advantages 
of  his  position,  was  by  far  the  most  disastrous  of 
any  recounted  in  the  history  of  the  northern 
wars.  The  whole  strength  of  the  kingdom,  both 
Lowland  and  Highland,  was  assembled,  and  the 
contest  was  one  of  the  sternest  and  most  des¬ 
perate  upon  record.  For  several  hours  the  issue 
seemed  doubtful.  On  the  left  the  Scots  obtained 
a  decided  advantage;  on  the  right  they  were 
broken  and  overthrown  ;  and  at  last  the  whole 
weight  of  the  battle  was  brought  into  the  centre, 
where  King  James  and  the  Earl  of  Surrey  com¬ 
manded  in  person.  The  determined  valor  of 
James,  imprudent  as  it  was,  had  the  effect  of 
rousing  to  a  pitch  of  desperation  the  courage  of 
the  meanest  soldiers ;  and  the  ground  becoming 
soft  and  slippery  from  blood,  they  pulled  off 
their  boots  and  shoes,  and  secured  a  firmer  foot¬ 
ing  by  fighting  in  their  hose.  Both  parties  did 
wonders,  but  none  performed  more  than  the  king. 
He  would  fight  not  only  in  person,  but  on  foot. 
At  first  he  had  abundance  of  success ;  but  at 
length  his  battalion  was  surrounded,  and  the 
Scots  formed  themselves  into  a  ring,  and,  being 
resolved  to  die  nobly  with  their  sovereign,  who 
scorned  to  ask  quarter,  were  altogether  cut  off. 
The  loss  of  the  Scots  was  about  ten  thousand 
men.  The  loss  to  Edinburgh  was  peculiarly 
great.  All  the  magistrates  and  able-bodied  citi¬ 
zens  had  followed  their  king  to  Flodden,  whence 
very  few  of  them  returned.  The  news  of  the 
overthrow  on  the  field  of  Flodden  overwhelmed 


i>72 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


the  inhabitants  with  grief  and  confusion.  The 
streets  were  crowded  with  women  seeking  in¬ 
telligence  about  their  friends,  clamoring  and 
weeping.  The  city  banner  referred  to  in  the 
poem  is  a  standard  still  held  in  great  honor  by 
the  burghers,  having  been  presented  to  them  by 
James  III.  in  return  for  their  loyal  service  in 
14S2.  This  banner,  still  conspicuous  in  the 
library  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates,  was  honor¬ 
ably  brought  back  from  Flodden,  and  could  cer¬ 
tainly  never  have  been  displayed  on  a  more  mem¬ 
orable  field.  No  event  in  Scottish  history  ever 
took  a  more  lasting  hold  on  the  public  mind  than 
the  “woeful  fight”  of  Flodden;  and  even  now  the 
songs  and  traditions  which  are  current  on  the 
Border  recall  the  memory  of  a  contest  unsullied 
by  disgrace,  though  terminating  in  disaster  and 
defeat. — Harper’s  Magazine. 

Page  306. — The  Flowers  of  the  Forest. — 
The  “Flowers  of  the  Forest”  are  the  young 
men  of  the  districts  of  Selkirkshire  and  Peebles¬ 
shire,  anciently  known  as  “the  Forest.”  The 
song  is  founded  by  the  author  upon  an  older 
composition  of  the  same  name,  deploring  the 
loss  of  the  Scotch  at  Flodden  Field,  of  which 
all  has  been  lost  except  two  or  three  lines. — 
Illustrated  Book  of  Scottish  Song. 


after,  he  was  convicted  and  executed  for  the 
crime.  Baltimore  never  recovered  this.  To  the 
artist,  the  antiquary,  and  the  naturalist  its  neigh¬ 
borhood  is  most  interesting.  (See  The  Ancient 
and  Present  State  of  the  County  and  City  of  Cork, 
by  Charles  Smith,  M.  D.,  second  edition,  Dublin, 
1774.  Note  by  Thomas  Osborne  Davis.) 

Page  311. — Naseby. — The  battle  of  Naseby  was 
fought  June  14,  1645,  between  the  royal  forces, 
commanded  by  Charles  I.,  and  the  Parliamentary 
party,  nicknamed  “  Roundheads,”  under  Lord 
Fairfax.  The  forces  on  both  sides  were  about 
equal,  Fairfax  having  rather  the  choice  of  posi¬ 
tion.  At  first,  Prince  Rupert,  who  commanded 
the  right  wing  of  the  royal  army,  made  such  an 
impetuous  attack  upon  the  left  wing  of  the  Parlia¬ 
mentarians  that  it  was  broken  and  put  to  flight, 
and  Ireton,  its  commander,  wounded  and  taken 
prisoner ;  but  finally  Cromwell,  who  commanded 
the  right  wing  of  Fairfax's  army,  routed  the  left 
wing  of  the  opposing  army,  and  came  to  the  re¬ 
lief  of  the  Parliamentary  centre,  commanded  by 
Fairfax  and  Skippon,  when  the  royal  army  was 
defeated,  and  Charles  fled  from  the  bloody  field, 
leaving  800  killed,  4500  prisoners,  besides  his  ar¬ 
tillery,  ammunition,  and  several  thousand  stand 
of  arms.  The  battle  virtually  decided  the  war. 


Page  307.  —  Ivry.  —  Henry  IV.,  on  his  ac¬ 
cession  to  the  French  throne,  was  opposed  by 
a  large  part  of  his  subjects  under  the  Duke  of 
Mayenne,  with  the  assistance  of  Spain  and 
Savoy,  and  from  the  union  of  these  several 
nations  their  army  was  called  the  “Army  of  the 
League.”  In  March,  1590,  he  gained  a  decisive 
victory  over  that  party  at  Ivry,  a  small  town  in 
France.  Before  the  battle  he  said  to  his  troops, 
“  My  children,  if  you  lose  sight  of  your  colors, 
rally  to  my  white  plume  ;  you  will  always  find  it 
in  the  path  to  honor  and  glory.”  His  conduct  was 
answerable  to  his  promise.  Nothing  could  resist 
his  impetuous  valor,  and  the  Leaguers  underwent 
a  total  and  bloody  defeat.  In  the  midst  of  the 
rout  Henry  followed,  crying,  “  Save  the  French !” 
and  his  clemency  added  a  number  of  the  enemy 
to  his  own  army. 

Page  309.  —  The  Sack  of  Baltimore.  —  Bal¬ 
timore  is  a  small  seaport  in  the  barony  of  Car- 
bery  in  South  Munster.  It  grew  up  round  a 
castle  of  O’Driscoll’s,  and  was  after  his  ruin  col¬ 
onized  by  the  English.  On  the  20th  of  June, 
1631,  the  crews  of  two  Algerine  galleys  landed  in 
the  dead  of  the  night,  sacked  the  town,  and  bore 
off  into  slavery  all  who  were  not  too  old,  or  too 
young,  or  too  fierce  for  their  purpose.  The 
pirates  were  steered  up  the  intricate  channel  by, 
one  Hackett.  a  Dungarvan  fisherman,  whom  they 
had  taken  at  sea  for  the  purpose.  Two  years 


Page  313. — When  the  Assault  was  Intended 
to  the  City.  —  This  sonnet,  the  first  of  those 
which  refer  to  English  public  affairs,  was  written 
in  November,  1642,  and  probably  on  Saturday,  the 
12th  of  that  month.  The  Civil  War  had  then  be¬ 
gun,  and  Milton,  already  known  as  a  vehement 
anti-Episcopal  pamphleteer  and  Parliamentarian, 
was  living,  with  two  young  nephews  whom  he  was 
educating,  in  his  house  in  Aldersgate  street,  a 
surburban  thoroughfare  just  beyond  one  of  the 
city  gates  of  London.  After  some  of  the  first 
actions  of  the  war,  including  the  indecisive  bat¬ 
tle  of  Edgehill  (Oct.  23),  the  king’s  army,  advan¬ 
cing  out  of  the  Midlands,  with  the  king  and  Prince 
Rupert  present  in  it.  had  come  as  near  to  London 
as  Hounslow  and  Brentford,  and  was  threatening 
a  further  march  to  crush  the  Londoners  and  the 
!  Parliament  at  once.  They  were  at  their  nearest 
on  Saturday,  the  12th  of  November  ;  and  all  that 
day  and  the  next  there  was  immense  excitement 
in  London  in  expectation  of  an  assault — chains 
put  up  across  streets,  houses  barred,  etc.  It 
was  not  till  the  evening  of  the  13th  that  the 
citizens  were  reassured  by  the  retreat  of  the 
king’s  army,  which  had  been  checked  from  a 
closer  advance  by  a  rapid  march-out  of  the 
trained  bands  under  Essex  and  Skippon.  Mil- 
ton,  we  are  to  fancy,  had  shared  the  common 
alarm.  His  was  one  of  the  houses  which,  if  the 
Cavaliers  had  been  let  loose,  it  would  have  given 
them  particular  pleasure  to  sack.  Knowing  this, 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


973 


the  only  precaution  he  takes  is,  half  in  jest,  and 
yet  perhaps  with  some  anxiety,  to  write  a  son¬ 
net  addressed  to  the  imaginary  Royalist  captain, 
colonel,  or  knight  who  may  command  the  Alders- 
gate  street  sacking-party.  “On  his  dore  ichen  ye 
c itty  expected  an  assault”  is  the  original  heading 
of  the  sonnet  in  the  copy  of  it,  by  an  amanuensis, 
among  the  Cambridge  MSS.,  as  if  the  sonnet  had 
actually  been  pasted  or  nailed  up  on  the  outside 
of  Milton’s  door.  This  title  was  afterward  de¬ 
leted  by  Milton  himself,  and  the  other  title  sub¬ 
stituted  in  his  own  hand  ;  but  the  sonnet  appeared 
without  any  title  at  all  in  the  editions  of  1G45  and 
1673. — Milton,  Masson’s  edition. 

Page  313. — On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Pied¬ 
mont. — This,  the  most  powerful  of  Milton’s  son¬ 
nets,  was  written  in  1655,  and  refers  to  the  perse¬ 
cutions  instituted,  in  the  early  part  of  that  year, 
by  Charles  Emmanuel  II.,  Duke  of  Savoy  and 
Prince  of  Piedmont,  against  his  Protestant  sub¬ 
jects  of  the  valleys  of  the  Cottian  Alps.  This 
Protestant  community,  half  French  and  half 
Italian,  and  known  as  the  Waldenses  or  Yaudois, 
were  believed  to  have  kept  up  the  tradition  of  a 
primitive  Christianity  from  the  time  of  the  apos¬ 
tles.  There  had  been  various  persecutions  of 
them  since  the  Reformation,  but  that  of  1655 
surpassed  all.  By  an  edict  of  the  duke  they  were 
required  to  part  with  their  property  and  leave 
their  habitations  within  twenty  days,  or  else  to 
become  Roman  Catholics.  On  their  resistance, 
forces  were  sent  into  their  valleys,  and  the  most 
dreadful  atrocities  followed.  Many  were  butch¬ 
ered,  others  were  taken  away  in  chains,  and  hun- 
dreds  of  families  were  driven  for  refuge  to  the 
mountains  covered  with  snow,  to  live  there  miser¬ 
ably  or  perish  with  cold  and  hunger.  Among  the 
Protestant  nations  of  Europe,  and  especially  in 
England,  the  indignation  was  immediate  and  vio¬ 
lent.  Cromwell,  who  was  then  Protector,  took  up 
the  matter  with  his  whole  strength.  He  caused 
Latin  letters,  couched  in  the  strongest  terms,  to  be 
immediately  sent,  not  only  to  the  offending  Duke 
of  Savoy,  but  also  to  the  chief  princes  and  pow¬ 
ers  of  Europe.  These  letters  were  drawn  up  by 
Milton,  and  may  be  read  among  his  Letters  of 
State.  An  ambassador  was  also  sent  to  collect  in¬ 
formation;  a  Fast  Day  was  appointed;  a  sub¬ 
scription  of  £40,000  was  raised  for  the  sufferers ; 
and  altogether  Cromwell’s  remonstrances  were 
such  that,  backed  as  they  would  have  been,  if 
necessary,  by  armed  force,  the  cruel  edict  was 
withdrawn,  and  a  convention  made  with  the  Yau¬ 
dois,  allowing  them  the  exercise  of  their  worship. 
Milton’s  sonnet  is  his  private  and  more  tremen¬ 
dous  expression  in  verse  of  the  feeling  he  expressed 
publicly,  in  Cromwell’s  name,  in  his  Latin  State 
Letters. — Milton,  Masson’s  edition. 


Page  313. — The  Execution  of  Montrose. — - 
James  Graham,  Marquis  of  Montrose,  was  born 
at  Edinburgh  in  1612.  Having  finished  his  stud¬ 
ies  in  France,  after  his  return  to  Scotland  he 
served  for  a  time  in  the  Presbyterian  army,  but 
subsequently  went  over  to  the  royalists.  He  was 
appointed  by  Charles  I.,  in  1644,  Marquis  of 
Montrose  and  commander-in-chief  of  the  Scot¬ 
tish  forces.  He  signally  defeated  the  Covenanters 
at  Tippermuir  in  1644,  also  at  Inverlochy  and  at 
Kilsyth  in  1645;  but  his  army  was  surprised  and 
totally  defeated  by  General  Leslie  at  Philiphaugh 
in  September,  1645.  Montrose  soon  after  went  to 
Germany,  where  he  was  received  with  great  dis¬ 
tinction  by  the  Austrian  emperor  and  made  a 
marshal  of  the  Empire.  Having  collected  a  small 
but  ill-organized  force,  he  returned  to  Scotland  in 
1650,  but  was  soon  after  defeated  and  taken  pris¬ 
oner.  He  was  executed,  without  a  trial,  at  Edin¬ 
burgh,  in  May,  1650. —  Thomas's  Biographical  Dic¬ 
tionary. 

Page  316. — The  Bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee. — 
Dundee,  enraged  at  his  enemies,  and  still  more  at 
his  friends,  resolved  to  retire  to  the  Highlands, 
and  to  make  preparations  for  civil  war,  but  with 
secrecy,  for  he  had  been  ordered  by  James  to 
make  no  public  insurrection  until  assistance 
should  be  sent  him  from  Ireland. 

Whilst  Dundee  was  in  this  temper,  information 
was  brought  him — whether  true  or  false  is  uncer¬ 
tain — that  some  of  the  Covenanters  had  associated 
themselves  to  assassinate  him,  in  revenge  for  his 
former  severities  against  their  party.  He  flew  to 
the  Convention  and  demanded  justice.  The  Duke 
of  Hamilton,  who  wished  to  get  rid  of  a  trouble¬ 
some  adversary,  treated  his  complaint  with  neg¬ 
lect,  and,  in  order  to  sting  him  in  the  tenderest 
part,  reflected  upon  that  courage  which  could  be 
alarmed  by  imaginary  dangers.  Dundee  left  the 
house  in  a  rage,  mounted  his  horse,  and  with  a 
troop  of  fifty  horsemen,  who  had  deserted  to  him 
from  his  regiment  in  England,  galloped  through 
the  city.  Being  asked  by  one  of  his  friends,  who 
stopped  him,  “Where  he  was  going?”  he  waved 
his  hat,  and  is  reported  to  have  answered, 
“Wherever  the  spirit  of  Montrose  shall  direct 
me.”  In  passing  under  the  walls  of  the  Castle, 
he  stopped,  scrambled  up  the  precipice  at  a  place 
difficult  and  dangerous,  and  held  a  conference 
with  the  Duke  of  Gordon  at  a  postern-gate,  the 
marks  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen,  though  the 
gate  itself  is  built  up.  Hoping,  in  vain,  to  infuse 
the  vigor  of  his  own  spirit  into  the  duke,  he 
pressed  him  to  retire  with  him  into  the  High¬ 
lands,  raise  his  vassals  there,  who  were  numerous, 
brave,  and  faithful,  and  leave  the  command  of  the 
Castle  to  Winram,  the  lieutenant-governor,  an 
officer  on  whom  Dundee  could  rely.  The  duke 


974 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


concealed  his  timidity  under  the  excuse  of  a  sol¬ 
dier.  “A  soldier,”  said  he,  “cannot  in  honor 
quit  the  post  that  is  assigned  him.”  The  novelty 
of  the  sight  drew  numbers  to  the  foot  of  the  rock 
upon  which  the  conference  was  held.  These  num¬ 
bers  every  minute  increased,  and,  in  the  end,  were 
mistaken  for  Dundee’s  adherents.  The  Conven¬ 
tion  was  then  sitting;  news  was  carried  thither 
that  Dundee  was  at  the  gates  with  an  army,  and 
had  prevailed  upon  the  governor  of  the  Castle  to 
fire  upon  the  town.  The  Duke  of  Hamilton, 
whose  intelligence  was  better,  had  the  presence 
of  mind,  by  improving  the  moment  of  agitation, 
to  overwhelm  the  one  party,  and  provoke  the 
other,  by  their  fears.  He  ordered  the  doors  of 
the  house  to  be  shut,  and  the  keys  to  be  laid  on 
the  table  before  him.  He  cried  out,  “  That  there 
was  danger  within  as  well  as  without  doors ;  that 
traitors  must  be  held  in  confinement  until  the 
present  danger  was  over ;  bat  that  the  friends  of 
liberty  had  nothing  to  fear,  for  that  thousands 
were  ready  to  start  up  in  their  defence  at  the 
stamp  of  his  foot.”  He  ordered  the  drums  to  be 
beat  and  the  trumpets  to  sound  through  the  city. 
In  an  instant  vast  swarms  of  those  who  had  been 
brought  into  town  by  him  and  Sir  John  Dalrym- 
ple  from  the  western  counties,  and  who  had  been 
hitherto  hid  in  garrets  and  cellars,  showed  them¬ 
selves  in  the  streets ;  not,  indeed,  in  the  proper 
habiliments  of  war,  but  in  arms,  and  with  looks 
fierce  and  sullen,  as  if  they  felt  disdain  at  their 
former  concealment.  This  unexpected  sight  in¬ 
creased  the  noise  and  tumult  of  the  town,  which 
grew  loudest  in  the  square  adjoining  the  house 
where  the  members  were  confined,  and  appeared 
still  louder  to  those  who  were  within,  because  they 
were  ignorant  of  the  cause  from  which  the  tumult 
ai’ose,  and  caught  contagion  from  the  anxious 
looks  of  each  other.  After  some  hours  the  doors 
were  thrown  open,  and  the  Whig  members,  as 
they  went  out,  were  received  with  acclamations, 
and  those  of  the  opposite  party  with  the  threats 
and  curses  of  a  prepared  populace.  Terrified  by 
the  prospect  of  future  alarms,  many  of  the  ad¬ 
herents  of  James  quitted  the  Convention  and 
retired  to  the  country;  most  of  them  changed 
sides ;  only  a  very  few  of  the  most  resolute  con¬ 
tinued  their  attendance. — Dalrymple’s  Memoirs. 

Page  317. — The  Burial  March  of  Dundee. — 
John  Graham,  Viscount  Dundee,  was  born  in  1643. 
He  served  in  the  French  armv  from  1668  to  1672, 
and  next  entered  the  Dutch  service  as  cornet  in 
the  Prince  of  Orange’s  horse-guards,  and  is  re¬ 
ported  to  have  saved  the  life  of  the  prince  at  the 
battle  of  Seneffe  in  1674.  Returning  to  Scotland, 
he  took  a  prominent  partin  the  persecution  of  the 
Covenanters  and  in  the  attempt  to  force  Episco¬ 
pacy  on  the  people  of  that  country.  In  16S8,  on 


the  eve  of  the  Revolution,  he  was  raised  to  the 
peerage  by  James  II.  as  Viscount  Dundee  and 
Lord  Graham  of  Claverhouse.  When  James  was 
driven  from  the  throne,  Dundee  remained  faith¬ 
ful  to  the  fallen  monarch.  He  was  joined  by  the 
Jacobite  Highland  clans  and  by  auxiliaries  from 
Ireland,  and  raised  the  standard  of  rebellion 
against  the  government  of  William  and  Mary. 
After  various  movements  in  the  North,  he  advanced 
upon  Blair  in  Athol,  and  General  Mackay,  com¬ 
manding  the  government  forces,  hastened  to  meet 
him.  The  two  armies  confronted  each  other  at 
the  Pass  of  Killiecrankie,  July  27,  1689.  Mackay’s 
force  was  about  four  thousand  men ;  Dundee’s, 
twenty-five  hundred  foot,  with  one  troop  of  horse. 
A  few  minutes  decided  the  contest.  After  both 
armies  had  exchanged  fire,  the  Highlanders  rush¬ 
ed  on  with  their  swords,  and  the  enemy  instantly 
scattered  and  gave  way.  Mackay  lost  by  death 
and  capture  two  thousand  five  hundred  men;  the 
victors,  nine  hundred.  Dundee  fell  by  a  musket- 
shot  while  waving  on  one  of  his  battalions  to 
advance.  He  was  carried  off  the  field  to  Urrard 
House,  or  Blair  Castle,  and  there  expired. 

Page  321. — Fontenoy. — The  battle  of  Fontenoy 
was  fought  between  the  French,  under  Marshal 
Saxe,  and  the  English,  Dutch,  and  Austrians; 
under  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  May  11,  1745. 
The  fortunes  of  w^ar  were  at  first  in  favor  of  the 
French,  who  were  posted  on  a  hill  behind  Fonte¬ 
noy,  when  Cumberland,  heading  a  column  of  four¬ 
teen  thousand  British  and  Hanoverian  infantry, 
with  fixed  bayonets,  plunged  down  the  ravine 
separating  the  two  armies,  and  gained  the  hill, 
canning  everything  before  him.  The  day  was 
apparently  lost  to  the  French,  and  Marshal  Saxe 
in  vain  urged,  the  king  to  fly.  At  this  critical 
moment  the  Irish  brigade  charged  on  the  English 
flank,  and  changed  the  apparent  defeat  into  a  de¬ 
cisive  victory. 

Page  323. — Lochiel’s  Warning. — Lochiel,  the 
chief  of  the  warlike  clan  of  the  Camerons,  and 
descended  from  ancestors  distinguished  in  their 
narrow  sphere  for  great  personal  prowess,  was  a 
man  worthy  of  a  better  cause  and  fate  than  that  in 
which  he  embarked— the  enterprise  of  the  Stuarts  in 
1745.  His  memory  is  still  fondly  cherished  among 
the  Highlanders  by  the  appellation  of  the  “  gentle 
Lochiel,”  for  he  was  famed  for  his  social  virtues 
as  much  as  his  martial  and  magnanimous  (though 
mistaken)  loyalty.  His  influence  was  so  import¬ 
ant  among  the  Highland  chiefs,  that  it  depended 
on  his  joining  with  his  clan  whether  the  standard 
of  Charles  should  be  raised  or  not  in  1745.  Lochiel 
was  himself  too  wise  a  man  to  be  blind  to  the 
consequences  of  so  hopeless  an  enterprise,  but  his 
sensibility  to  the  point  of  honor  overruled  his 
wisdom.  Lochiel,  with  many  arguments,  but  in 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE . 


975 


vain,  pressed  the  Pretender  to  return  to  France 
and  reserve  himself  and  his  friends  for  a  more 
favorable  occasion,  as  he  had  come,  by  his  own 
acknowledgment,  without  arms,  or  money,  or  ad¬ 
herents  ;  or,  at  all  events,  to  remain  concealed  till 
his  friends  should  meet  and  deliberate  what  was 
best  to  be  done.  Charles,  whose  mind  was  wound 
up  to  the  utmost  impatience,  paid  no  regard  to 
his  proposal,  but  answered  that  he  was  determined 
to  put  all  to  the  hazard.  “In  a  few  days,”  said 
he,  “  I  will  erect  the  royal  standard,  and  will  pro¬ 
claim  to  the  people  of  Great  Britain  that  Charles 
Stuart  is  come  over  to  claim  the  crown  of  his  an¬ 
cestors,  and  to  win  it  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 
Lochiel,  who  my  father  has  often  told  me  was  our 
firmest  friend,  may  stay  at  home  and  learn  from 
the  newspapers  the  fate  of  his  prince.”  “  No,” 
said  Lochiel,  “  I  will  share  the  fate  of  my  prince, 
rind  so  shall  every  man  over  whom  nature  or  for¬ 
tune  hath  given  me  any  power.”  —  Campbell’ 8 
Poems,  note. 

Page  327. — The  Tears  of  Scotland. — Written 
on  the  barbarities  committed  in  the  Highlands  by 
the  English  forces  under  the  command  of  the  Duke 
of  Cumberland  after  the  battle  of  Culloden,  1746. 
It  is  said  that  Smollett  originally  finished  the 
poem  in  six  stanzas,  when  some  one  representing 
that  such  a  diatribe  against  government  might 
injure  his  prospects,  he  sat  down  and  added  the 
still  more  pointed  invective  of  the  seventh  stanza. 
—  Chambers’ s  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature. 

Page  328. — Louis  XV. — The  story  of  the  king’s 
meeting  a  coffin  was  in  everybody’s  mouth.  No 
one  here  had  heard  it.  So  Jerome  told  that  the 
king  was  fond  of  asking  questions  of  strangers, 
and  particularly  about  disease,  death,  and  church¬ 
yards,  because  he  thought  his  gay  attendants  did 
not  like  to  hear  of  such  things.  One  day  he  was 
hunting  in  the  forest  of  Senard  when  he  met  a 
man  on  horseback  carrying  a  coffin.  “Where  are 
you  carrying  that  coffin  ?”  asked  the  king.  “  To 
the  village  yonder.”  “  Is  it  for  a  man  or  a 
woman?”  “For  a  man.”  “What  did  he  die 
of?”  “Of  hunger.”  The  king  clapped  spurs  to 
his  horse  and  rode  away. —  The  Peasant  and  the 
Prince,  by  Harriet  Martineau. 

Page  329. — Paul  Reverf.’s  Ride. — Paul  Revere 
was  one  of  the  four  engravers  in  America  at  the 
time  of  the  Revolution,  and  one  of  the  most  active 
participants  in  the  political  movements  imme¬ 
diately  preceding  the  breaking  out  of  the  war. 
He  was  prominent  in  the  destruction  of  the  tea  in 
Boston  harbor,  and  was  sent  to  Philadelphia  and 
New  York  to  convey  the  news  of  that  event;  and 
again  visited  those  cities  to  enlist  their  sympathy 
and  co-operation  when  the  decreo  for  closing  the 
port  of  Boston  was  passed.  On  the  night  of  April 


18th,  1775,  Dr.  Joseph  Warren  sent  him  and  Wil¬ 
liam  Dawes  to  Lexington  and  Concord  to  give 
notice  of  General  Gage's  intended  expedition  to 
destroy  the  Provincial  military  stores  and  can¬ 
non  at  Concord.  Dawes  went  by  way  of  Roxbor- 
ough  to  Lexington,  while  Revere  went  through 
Charlestown.  After  the  latter  had  crossed  the 
Charles  River  orders  were  sent  from  the  British 
head-quarters  to  arrest  him,  but,  eluding  the  Brit¬ 
ish  sentinels,  he  rowed  across  the  Charles  River 
five  minutes  before  the  order  was  received,  and 
galloped  through  the  country  to  Lexington,  arous¬ 
ing  the  inhabitants  as  he  went  along.  The  two 
messengers  passed  through  Lexington  a  little 
after  midnight,  and  aroused  Hancock  and  Adams, 
who  were  lodging  at  the  house  of  the  Rev.  Jonas 
Clark,  and  then  hurried  on  to  Concord.  They 
were  afterward  taken  prisoners,  and  brought  as 
far  as  Lexington,  but  were  released  in  the  con¬ 
fusion  of  the  battle. 

Page  331. — Song  of  Marion’s  Men. — The  ex¬ 
ploits  of  General  Francis  Marion,  the  famous 
partisan  warrior  of  South  Carolina,  form  an  in¬ 
teresting  chapter  in  the  annals  of  the  American 
Revolution.  The  British  troops  were  so  harassed 
by  the  irregular  and  successful  warfare  which  he 
kept  up  at  the  head  of  a  few  daring  followers, 
that  they  sent  an  officer  to  remonstrate  with  him 
for  not  coming  into  the  open  field  and  fighting 
“like  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian.” — Notes  to 
Bryant’s  Poems. 

Page  3Jfi. — Hohenlinden. — During  his  tour  in 
Germany,  Campbell  saw  a  battle  from  a  convent 
near  Ratisbon,  and  he  saw  the  field  of  Ingolstadt 
after  a  battle.  From  such  experiences  he  derived 
his  poem  on  the  battle  in  which  the  French  de¬ 
feated  the  Austrians  at  Hohenlinden  on  the  3d 
of  December,  1800.  Ten  thousand  Austrians  were 
killed  or  wounded,  and  as  many  were  made  pris¬ 
oners. — Morley'8  Shorter  English  Poems. 

Page  3^1.  —  Battle  of  the  Baltic. — In  De¬ 
cember,  1800,  a  maritime  alliance  was  formed  be¬ 
tween  Russia,  Prussia,  Denmark,  and  Sweden  in 
regard  to  the  rights  of  neutral  nations  in  war. 
For  the  purpose  of  breaking  up  this  confederacy 
a  fleet  of  52  sail  was  sent  in  March,  1801,  to  the 
Baltic  under  Sir  Hyde  Parker,  Nelson  consenting 
to  act  as  second  in  command.  The  squadron 
passed  the  Sound  on  the  30th,  and  entered  the 
harbor  of  Copenhagen.  To  Nelson,  at  the  head 
of  12  ships  of  the  line  and  smaller  vessels,  mak¬ 
ing  36  in  all,  was  assigned  the  attack;  against 
him  were  opposed  18  vessels  mounting  628  guns, 
moored  in  a  line  a  mile  in  length  and  flanked  by 
two  batteries.  The  action  began  about  10  a.  m., 
April  2,  and  lasted  five  hours.  About  1  o’clock 
I  Sir  Hyde  Parker  made  the  signal  for  discontinu- 


976 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


ing.  Nelson  ordered  it  to  be  acknowledged,  but, 
putting  the  glass  to  his  blind  eye,  exclaimed,  “I 
really  don’t  see  the  signal.  Keep  mine  for  closer 
battle  still  flying-  That’s  the  way  I  answer  such 
signals.  Nail  mine  to  the  mast.”  By  2  o’clock, 
the  Danish  fleet  being  almost  entirely  taken  or 
destroyed,  he  wrote  to  the  crown  prince  the  fol¬ 
lowing  note:  “  Vice-Admiral  Nelson  has  been 
commanded  to  spare  Denmark  when  she  no 
longer  resists.  The  line  of  defence  which  cov- 
ered  her  shores  has  struck  to  the  British  flag; 
but  if  the  firing  is  continued  on  the  part  of  Den¬ 
mark,  he  must  set  on  fire  all  the  prizes  he  has 
taken,  without  having  the  power  of  saving  the 
men  who  have  so  nobly  defended  them.  The 
brave  Danes  are  the  brothers,  and  should  never 
be  the  enemies,  of  the  English.”  An  armistice  of 
fourteen  weeks  was  agreed  to,  and  in  the  mean 
time  the  accession  of  Alexander  to  the  throne  of 
Russia  broke  up  the  confederacy  and  left  matters 
on  their  old  footing.  For  this  battle,  which  Nel¬ 
son  said  was  the  most  terrible  of  all  in  which  he 
had  ever  been  engaged,  he  was  raised  to  the  rank 
of  viscount. — Appleton  8  Cyclopedia. 

Page  344- —  Casabianca.  —  Young  Casabianca, 
a  boy  about  thirteen  years  old,  son  of  the  admiral 
of  the  Orient,  remained  at  his  post  (in  the  battle 
of  the  Nile)  after  the  ship  had  taken  fire  and  all 
the  guns  had  been  abandoned,  and  perished  in 
the  explosion  of  the  vessel  when  the  flames  had 
reached  the  powder. — Hemans’s  Poems. 

Page  344- — The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista. — At 
the  terrible  fight  of  Buena  Vista,  Mexican  women 
were  seen  hovering  near  the  field  of  death  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  aid  and  succor  to  the  wounded. 
One  poor  woman  was  found  surrounded  by  the 
maimed  and  suffering  of  both  armies,  minister¬ 
ing  to  the  wants  of  Americans  as  well  as  Mex¬ 
icans  with  impartial  tenderness. 

Page  3Jfi- — Marco  Bozzaris. — Marco  Bozzaris 
was  one  of  the  bravest  and  best  of  the  modern 
Greek  chieftains.  lie  fell  in  a  night-attack  upon 
the  Turkish  camp  at  Laspi,  the  site  of  the  ancient 
Platma,  August  20,  1823,  and  expired  in  the  mo¬ 
ment  of  victory. — Halleclc’s  Poems. 

Page  31/7 • — Ox  the  Extinction  of  the  Vene¬ 
tian  Republic.  —  During  the  revolutionary 
movements  of  1848,  Venice  in  March  revolted 
against  the  Austrian  rule  and  proclaimed  the 
restoration  of  the  republic ;  but  after  enduring 
a  long  siege  and  a  terrible  bombardment,  she  ca¬ 
pitulated  on  August  23,  1849,  and  on  the  30th 
Radetzky  entered  the  city,  which  was  not  released 
from  the  state  of  siege  until  May  1,  1854. — Apple¬ 
ton’s  Cyclopedia. 

Page  347. — Tiie  Charge  of  the  Light  Brig¬ 


ade. — The  battle  of  Balaklava  was  fought  Octo¬ 
ber,  1854,  between  the  allied  English,  French,  and 
Turkish  forces,  under  Lord  Raglan,  Omar  Pacha, 
and  Marshal  St.  Arnaud,  and  the  Russian  armies; 
the  fighting  being  principally  by  the  English  and 
Russians.  The  brilliant  but  useless  charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade  has  made  this  battle  famous  in 
song  and  story,  but  it  really  did  little  toward 
deciding  the  result  of  the  war. 

Page  353. — The  Star  -  Spangled  Banner. — 
This  song  was  composed  under  the  following 
circumstances :  A  gentleman  had  left  Baltimore 
with  a  flag  of  truce  for  the  purpose  of  getting 
released  from  the  British  fleet  a  friend  of  his,  who 
had  been  captured  at  Marlborough.  He  went  as 
far  as  the  mouth  of  the  Patuxent,  and  was  not 
permitted  to  return,  lest  the  intended  attack  on 
Baltimore  should  be  disclosed.  He  was  therefore 
brought  up  the  bay  to  the  mouth  of  the  Patapsco, 
where  the  flag-vessel  was  kept  under  the  guns  of 
a  frigate ;  and  he  was  compelled  to  witness  the 
bombardment  of  Fort  McHenry,  which  the  admi¬ 
ral  had  boasted  he  would  carry  in  a  few  hours, 
and  that  the  city  must  fall.  He  watched  the  flag 
at  the  fort  through  the  whole  day,  with  anxiety 
that  can  be  better  felt  than  described,  until  the 
night  prevented  him  from  seeing  it.  In  the  night 
he  watched  the  bomb-shells,  and  at  early  dawn  his 
eye  was  again  greeted  by  the  flag  of  his  country. 
— McCarty’s  National  Songs. 

Page  359. — Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu. — This  is 
a  very  ancient  pibroch  belonging  to  Clan  Mac¬ 
Donald,  and  supposed  to  refer  to  the  expedition  of 
Donald  Balloch,  who,  in  1431,  launched  from  the 
Isles  with  a  considerable  force,  invaded  Lochaber, 
and  at  Inverlochy  defeated  and  put  to  flight  the 
Earls  of  Mar  and  Caithness,  though  at  the  head 
of  an  army  superior  to  his  own. — Scott’s  Poems, 
Abbotsford  ed. 

Page  362. — The  Harp  that  Once  through 
Tara’s  Halls. — Tara,  orTarah,  was  from  the  ear¬ 
liest  times  the  capital  of  Ireland.  Each  province 
appears  to  have  had  its  own  king,  but  he  was  sub¬ 
ject  to  the  monarch  who  ruled  in  person  over  the 
central  district  of  Meath  and  resided  at  Tarah. 
There  is  now  preserved  in  the  old  museum  of 
Trinity  College,  at  Dublin,  an  old  harp  which  is 
said  to  have  been  owned  by  one  of  these  old  mon- 
archs  of  Ireland  at  Tara.  It  is  made  of  willow  and 
oak,  and  ornamented  with  brass  and  silver  and  va¬ 
rious  carvings.  Only  one  of  its  twenty-eight  strings 
remains.  The  following  history  is  told  of  it:  It 
was  at  one  time  the  property  of  Brian  Borumha 
or  Brien  Boroimhe,  monarch  of  Ireland,  about 
the  year  a.  d.  1000.  After  his  death,  at  the  bat¬ 
tle  of  Clontarf,  in  1014,  it  was  presented  by  his 
son  to  the  pope.  After  remaining  in  the  Vatican 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


977 


for  several  centuries  it  was  given  by  Pope  Leo  X. 
to  Henry  VIII.  of  England,  who  transmitted  it 
to  the  first  earl  of  Clanricarde.  It  passed  from  the 
possession  of  one  family  to  that  of  another,  until 
at  the  end  of  the  last  century  the  marquis  of  Co- 
nyngham  gave  it  to  the  museum  of  Trinity  Col¬ 
lege,  where  it  now  can  be  seen. — Literary  World, 
Boston. 

Page  367. — Sir  Patrick  Spens. — The  name  of 
Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  not  mentioned  in  history, 
but  I  am  able  to  state  that  tradition  has  preserved 
it.  In  the  little  island  of  Papa  Stronsay,  one  of 
the  Orcadian  group,  lying  over  against  Norway, 
there  is  a  large  grave,  or  tumulus,  which  has  been 
known  to  the  inhabitants,  from  time  immemorial, 
as  “  the  grave  of  Sir  Patrick  Spens.”  .  .  .  The 
people  know  nothing  beyond  the  traditional  ap¬ 
pellation  of  the  spot,  and  they  have  no  legend  to 
tell.  Spens  is  a  Scottish,  not  a  Scandinavian 
name.  Is  it,  then,  a  forced  conjecture  that  the 
shipwreck  took  place  off  the  iron-bound  coast  of 
the  northern  islands,  which  did  not  then  belong 
to  the  crown  of  Scotland? — Aytoun  ( Noted.  Names 
of  Fiction). 

Page  372. — How  they  Brought  the  Good 
News. — The  following  is  an  extract  from  a  private 
note  of  Robert  Browning,  dated  London,  Jan.- 23, 
1881:  “  There  is  no  sort  of  historical  foundation 
for  the  poem  about  ‘Good  News  to  Ghent.'  I 
wrote  it  under  the  bulwark  of  a  vessel,  off  the 
African  coast,  after  I  had  been  at  sea  long  enough 
to  appreciate  even  the  fancy  of  a  gallop  on  the 
back  of  a  certain  good  horse  ‘York,’  then  in  my 
stable  at  home.  It  was  written  in  pencil  on  the 
fly-leaf  of  Bartoli’s  Simboli,  I  remember.” — Lit¬ 
erary  World,  Boston. 

Page  37 J. — The  Wandering  JEwr. — The  story 
of  the  “Wandering  Jew”  is  of  considerable  an¬ 
tiquity.  It  had  obtained  full  credit  in  this  part 
of  the  world  before  the  year  1228,  as  we  learn 
from  Matthew  Paris ;  for  in  that  year,  it  seems, 
there  came  an  Armenian  archbishop  into  England 
to  visit  the  shrines  and  reliques  preserved  in  our 
churches;  who,  being  entertained  at  the  monas¬ 
tery  of  St.  Albans,  was  asked  several  questions 
relating  to  his  country,  etc.  Among  the  rest,  a 
monk  who  sat  near  him  inquired  “  if  he  had  ever 
seen  or  heard  of  the  famous  person  named 
Joseph,  that  was  so  much  talked  of,  who  was 
present  at  our  Lord’s  crucifixion  and  conversed 
with  him,  and  who  was  still  alive,  in  confirmation 
of  the  Christian  faith.”  The  archbishop  answered 
that  the  fact  was  true ;  and  afterward  one  of  his 
train,  who  was  well  known  to  a  servant  of  the 
abbot’s,  interpreting  his  master’s  words,  told 
them  in  French  “  that  his  lord  knew  the  person 

they  spoke  of  very  well ;  that  he  had  dined 
62 


at  his  table  but  a  little  while  before  he  left 
the  East ;  that  he  had  been  Pontius  Pilate’s  por¬ 
ter,  by  name  Cartaphilus,  who,  when  they  were 
dragging  Jesus  out  of  the  door  of  the  judgment- 
hall,  struck  him  with  his  fist  on  the  back,  saying, 

‘  Go  faster,  Jesus,  go  faster  !  why  dost  thou  lin¬ 
ger  ?’  Upon  which  Jesus  looked  at  him  with  a 
frown  and  said,  e  I  indeed  am  going,  but  thou 
shalt  tarry  till  I  come.’  Soon  after  he  was  con¬ 
verted,  and  baptized  by  the  name  of  Joseph. 
He  lives  for  ever,  but  at  the  end  of  every  hun¬ 
dred  years  falls  into  an  incurable  illness,  and  at 
length  into  a  fit  or  ecstasy,  out  of  which,  when 
he  recovers,  he  returns  to  the  same  state  of  youth 
he  was  in  when  Jesus  suffered,  being  then  about 
thirty  years  of  age.  He  remembers  all  the  cir¬ 
cumstances  of  the  death  and  resurrection  of 
Christ,  the  saints  that  arose  with  him,  the  com¬ 
posing  of  the  apostles’  creed,  their  preaching  and 
dispersion,  and  is  himself  a  very  grave  and  holy 
person.”  This  is  the  substance  of  Matthew  Paris’s 
account,  who  was  himself  a  monk  of  St.  Albans, 
and  was  living  at  the  time  when  the  Armenian 
archbishop  made  the  above  relation. 

Since  his  time  several  impostors  have  ap¬ 
peared  at  intervals  under  the  name  and  charac¬ 
ter  of  the  “  Wandering  Jew,”  whose  several  his¬ 
tories  may  be  seen  in  Calmet’s  Dictionary  of  the 
Bible.  See  also  The  Turkish  Spy,  vol.  ii.,  book  3, 
let.  1.  The  story  that  is  copied  in  the  following 
ballad  is  of  one  who  appeared  at  Hamburg  in 
1547,  and  pretended  he  had  been  a  Jewish  shoe¬ 
maker  at  the  time  of  Christ’s  crucifixion.  The 
ballad,  however,  seems  to  be  of  a  later  date. — 
Percy's  Reliques. 

Page  375. — The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram. — 
Eugene  Aram,  the  son  of  a  poor  gardener,  but 
who  by  the  most  indefatigable  industry  and  un¬ 
swerving  perseverance  in  the  face  of  the  greatest 
difficulties  had  won  for  himself  the  reputation 
of  extensive  scholarship,  was  a  schoolmaster  in 
Knaresborough.  In  1745  he  was  implicated  in 
a  robbery  committed  by  Daniel  Clark,  a  shoe¬ 
maker  of  that  place,  but  was  acquitted  for  want 
of  evidence.  Nevertheless,  he  left  Knaresborough 
and  went  to  London,  while  at  the  same  time 
Clark  mysteriously  disappeared.  Nothing  was 
known  of  the  matter  until  February,  1759,  nearly 
fourteen  years  afterward,  when  a  skeleton  was 
dug  up  near  Knaresborough  which  was  suspected 
to  be  that  of  the  shoemaker.  At  the  time  of  this 
discovery  Aram  was  an  usher  at  an  academy  in 
Lynn,  pursuing  his  favorite  studies  of  heraldry, 
botany,  the  Chaldee,  Arabic,  Welsh,  and  Irish 
languages,  and  was  just  engaged  in  compiling  a 
comparative  lexicon  of  the  English, Latin,  Greek. 
Hebrew,  and  Celtic  languages,  when  lie  was  sud¬ 
denly  arrested  on  the  charge  of  murder.  At  the 


978 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


trial  he  conducted  his  own  defence  with  wonder¬ 
ful  ability  and  ingenuity,  but  the  evidence  of  his 
crime  was  overwhelming,  and  he  was  found 
guilty.  After  his  condemnation  he  confessed  his 
guilt  and  attempted  to  commit  suicide,  but  was 
discovered  before  he  had  bled  to  death,  and  ex¬ 
piated  his  crime  on  the  gallows. 

Page  378.  —  Inchcape  Rock.  —  An  old  writer 
mentions  a  curious  tradition  which  may  be  worth 
quoting.  “  By  east  the  Isle  of  May,”  says  he, 
“twelve  miles  from  all  land,  in  the  German  seas, 
lyes  a  great  hidden  rock,  called  Inchcape,  very 
dangerous  for  navigators,  because  it  is  overflowed 
everie  tide.  It  is  reported,  in  old  times  upon  the 
saide  rock  there  was  a  bell,  fixed  upon  a  tree  or 
timber,  which  rang  continually,  being  moved  by 
the  sea,  giving  notice  to  the  saylers  of  the  dan¬ 
ger.  This  bell  or  clocke  was  put  there  and 
maintained  by  the  abbot  of  Aberbrothok,  and 
being  taken  down  by  a  sea-pirate,  a  yeare  there¬ 
after  he  perished  upon  the  same  rocke,  with  ship 
and  goodes,  in  the  righteous  judgment  of  God.” 
— Stoddart’s  Remarks  on  Scotland. 

Page  379.  —  Cumnor  Hall.  —  The  death  of 
Lord  Dudley’s  deserted  wife  at  this  critical  junc¬ 
ture,  under  peculiarly  suspicious  circumstances, 
gave  rise  to  dark  rumors  that  she  had  been  put 
out  of  the  way  to  enable  him  to  accept  the  willing 
hand  of  a  royal  bride.  Several  days  before  the 
tragedy  was  perpetrated  at  Cumnor  Hall,  it  had 
been  reported  in  the  court  that  she  was  very  ill 
and  not  expected  to  recover,  although  at  that 
time  in  perfect  health.  The  Spanish  ambassador, 
De  Quadra,  writes  to  the  Duchess  of  Parma : 
“  The  queen,  on  her  return  from  hunting,  told 
me  that  Lord  Robert’s  wife  was  dead,  or  nearly 
so,  and  begged  me  to  say  nothing  about  it.  As¬ 
suredly  it  is  a  matter  full  of  shame  and  infamy. 
Since  this  was  written,”  His  Excellency  adds,  “the 
death  of  Lord  Robert's  wife  has  been  given  out 
publicly.”  The  queen  said  in  Italian,  “  She  had 
broken  her  neck ;  she  was  found  dead  at  the  foot 
of  a  staircase  at  Cumnor  Hall.”  There  was  cer¬ 
tainly  a  great  lack  of  feminine  feeling  in  the  brief, 
hard  terms  in  which  Elizabeth  announced  the 
tragic  fate  of  the  unfortunate  lady,  from  whom  she 
had  alienated  a  husband’s  love.  Lever,  one  of  the 
popular  preachers  of  the  day,  wrote  to  Cecil,  “that 
the  country  was  full  of  dangerous  suspicion  and 
muttering  of  the  death  of  her  that  was  Lord 
Robert  Dudley’s  wife,  and  entreated  that  there 
might  be  an  earnest  investigation,  with  punish¬ 
ment  if  any  were  found  guilty;  for  if  the  matter 
were  hushed  up  or  passed  over,  the  displeasure  of 
God,  the  dishonor  of  the  queen,  and  the  danger 
of  the  whole  realm  were  to  be  feared.”  Lord 
Robert  caused  a  coroner’s  inquest  to  sit  on  the 
b  >dy  of  his  deceased  wife,  but  we  detect  him  in 


|  correspondence  with  the  foreman  of  the  jury; 
and,  although  a  verdict  of  accidental  death  was 
returned,  Lord  Robert  continued  to  be  burdened 
with  the  suspicion  of  having  contrived  the  mur¬ 
der,  or,  to  use  Cecil’s  more  expressive  words, 
“was  infamed  by  the  death  of  his  wife.”  Throck¬ 
morton,  the  English  ambassador  at  Paris,  was 
so  thoroughly  mortified  at  the  light  in  which  this 
affair  was  regarded  on  the  Continent  that  he 
wrote  to  Cecil:  “The  bruits  be  so  brim ,  and  so 
maliciously  reported  here,  touching  the  marriage 
of  the  Lord  Robert  and  the  death  of  his  wife,  that 
I  know  not  where  to  turn  me  nor  what  coun¬ 
tenance  to  bear.” — Strickland’s  Queens  of  Eng¬ 
land. 

Page  381. — The  Dowie  Dexs  of  Yarrow. — 
This  ballad  was  first  published  in  the  Minstrelsy 
of  the  Scottish  Border ;  but  other  versions  of  it 
were  previously  in  circulation,  and  it  is  stated  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott  to  have  been  “a  very  great  favor¬ 
ite  among  the  inhabitants  of  Ettrick  Forest,”  where 
it  is  universally  believed  to  be  founded  on  fact.  - 
Sir  Walter,  indeed,  “found  it  easy  to  collect  a 
variety  of  copies  ;”  and  from  them  he  collated  the 
present  edition — avowedly  for  the  purpose  of  “  suit¬ 
ing  the  tastes  of  these  more  light  and  giddy-paced 
times.”  A  copy  is  contained  in  Motherwell’s 
Minstrelsy,  Ancient  and  Modern;  another  in  Bu¬ 
chan’s  Ballads  and  Songs  of  the  North  of  Scot¬ 
land  ;  it  no  doubt  originated  the  popular  compo¬ 
sition  beginning — 

“  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  bride,” 

by  Hamilton  of  Bangour,  first  published  in 
Ramsay’s  Tea-Table  Miscellany,  and  suggested 
the  ballad  “The  Braes  of  Yarrow,”  by  the  Rev. 
John  Logan.  In  Herd’s  Collection,  in  Ritson’s 
Scottish  Songs,  and  in  the  Tea-Table  Miscellany 
are  to  be  found  fragments  of  another  ballad, 
entitled  “Willie’s  drowned  in  Yarrow,”  of  which 
this  is  the  concluding  stanza : 

“She  sought  him  east,  she  sought  him  west, 

She  sought  him  braid  and  narrow; 

Syne  in  the  cleaving  of  a  craig, 

She  found  him  drowned  in  Yarrow.” 

Indeed,  “Yarrow  stream”  has  been  a  fertile 
source  of  poetry,  and  seems  to  have  inspired  the 
poets ;  the  very  sound  is  seductive  :  and,  as  Mr. 
Buchan  remarks,  “  All  who  have  attempted  to 
sing  its  praise  or  celebrate  the  actions  of  those 
who  have  been  its  visitors  have  almost  univer¬ 
sally  succeeded  in  their  attempts.” 

That  the  several  versions  of  the  story  scat¬ 
tered  among  the  people  and  preserved  by  them 
in  some  form  or  other  had  one  common  origin 
there  can  be  little  doubt.  “Tradition,”  accord¬ 
ing  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  “  places  the  event  re¬ 
corded  in  the  song  very  early,  and  it  is  probable 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


979 


the  ballad  was  composed  soon  afterward,  although 
the  language  has  been  modernized  in  the  course  of 
its  transmission  to  us  through  the  inaccurate  chan¬ 
nel  of  oral  tradition.”  “  The  hero  of  the  ballad,” 
he  adds,  “  was  a  knight  of  great  bravery,  called 
Scott ;”  and  he  believes  it  refers  to  a  duel  fought 
at  Deucharswyre,  of  which  Annan’s  Treat  is  a 
part,  betwixt  John  Scott  of  Tushielaw  and  his 
brother-in-law  Walter  Scott,  third  son  of  Robert 
of  Thirlstane,  in  which  the  latter  was  slain. 
Annan’s  Treat  is  a  low  rnuir  on  the  banks  of  the 
Yarrow,  lying  to  the  west  of  Yarrow  kirk.  Two 
tall  unhewn  masses  of  stone  are  erected  about 
eighty  yards  distant  from  each  other,  and  the 
least  child,  that  can  herd  a  cow,  will  tell  the  pas¬ 
senger  that  there  lie  “  the  two  lords  who  were 
slain  in  single  combat.”  Sir  Walter  also  informs 
us  that,  according  to  tradition,  the  murderer  was 
the  brother  of  either  the  wife  or  the  betrothed 
bride  of  the  murdered,  and  that  the  alleged  cause 
of  quarrel  was  the  lady’s  father  having  proposed 
to  endow  her  with  half  of  his  property  upon  her 
marriage  with  a  warrior  of  such  renown.  The 
name  of  the  murderer  is  said  to  have  been  Annan, 
hence  the  place  of  combat  is  still  called  Annan’s 
Treat. — Percy’s  Reliques. 

Page  387. — Hartleap  Well. — Hartleap  Well 
is  a  small  spring  of  water  about  five  miles  from 
Richmond  in  Yorkshire,  and  near  the  side  of  the 
road  that  leads  from  Richmond  to  Askriscg.  Its 
name  is  derived  from  a  remarkable  chase,  the 
memory  of  which  is  preserved  by  the  monuments 
spoken  of  in  the  second  part  of  the  following 
poem,  which  monuments  do  now  exist  as  I  have 
there  described  them. —  Wordsworth,  Svo  ed. 

Page  393.  —  Katharine  Janfarie.  —  Of  this 
ballad — first  published  in  the  Minstrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border — the  editor  informs  us  that  it 
is  “  given  from  several  recited  copies.”  It  has 
obviously  undergone  some  alteration,  yet  much 
of  the  rugged  character  of  the  original  has  been 
retained.  The  scenery  of  the  ballad  is  said  by 
tradition  to  lie  upon  the  banks  of  the  Cadden- 
water,  “a  small  rill  which  joins  the  Tweed  (from 
the  north)  betwixt  Inverleithen  and  Clovenford.” 
It  is  also  traditionally  stated  that  Katharine  Jan¬ 
farie  “lived  high  up  in  the  glen” — a  beautiful 
and  sequestered  vale  connected  with  Traquair,  and 
situated  about  three  miles  above  Traquair  House. 
The  recited  copies,  from  which  it  is  probable  Sir 
Walter  Scott  collected  the  verses  he  has  here 
brought  together,  exist  in  Buchan’s  Ancient  Bal¬ 
lads  and  Songs,  and  in  Motherwell’s  Minstrelsy, 
Ancient  and  Modern.  It  derives  interest  and  im¬ 
portance,  however,  less  from  its  intrinsic  merit 
than  from  the  circumstance  of  its  having  given 
to  Scott  the  hint  upon  which  he  founded  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  and  spirit-stirring  of  his  com¬ 


positions  —  the  famous  and  favorite  ballad  of 
“Young  Lochinvar.” — Percy’s  Reliques. 

Page  395. — O’Connor’s  Child. — The  poem  of 
“  O’Connor’s  Child  ”  is  an  exquisitely  finished  and 
pathetic  tale.  The  rugged  and  ferocious  features 
of  ancient  feudal  manners  and  family  pride  are 
there  displayed  in  connection  with  female  suffer¬ 
ing,  love,  and  beauty,  and  with  the  romantic  and 
warlike  coloring  suited  to  the  country  and  times. 
It  is  full  of  antique  grace  and  passionate  energy 
— the  mingled  light  and  gloom  of  the  wild  Celtic 
character. —  Chambers’s  Cyclopaedia  of  English 
Literature. 

Page  398. — Prisoner  of  Chillon.  —  Francis 
de  Bonnivard  was  born  in  Seyssel,  in  the  depart¬ 
ment  of  Ain,  in  1496.  Having  adopted  republican 
opinions,  he  took  sides  with  the  Genevese  against 
Duke  Charles  III.  of  Savoy  ;  but  he  had  the  mis¬ 
fortune  in  1530  to  fall  into  the  power  of  the  latter, 
who  confined  him  six  years  in  the  castle  of  Chil¬ 
lon.  The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated  between 
Clarens  and  Yilleneuve,  which  last  is  at  one  ex¬ 
tremity  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  On  its  left  are 
the  entrances  of  the  Rhone,  and  opposite  are  the 
heights  of  Meillerie  and  the  range  of  the  Alps 
above  Boveret  and  St.  Gingo.  Year  it,  on  a  hill 
behind,  is  a  torrent ;  below  it,  washing  its  walls, 
the  lake  has  been  fathomed  to  the  depth  of  eight 
hundred  feet  (French  measure);  within  it  are  a 
range  of  dungeons,  in  which  the  early  Reformers, 
and  subsequently  prisoners  of  state,  were  confined. 
Across  one  of  the  vaults  is  a  beam  black  with  age, 
on  which  we  were  informed  that  the  condemned 
were  formerly  executed.  In  the  cells  are  seven 
pillars,  or  rather  eight,  one  being  half  merged  in 
the  wall;  in  some  of  these  are  rings  for  the  fet¬ 
ters  and  fettered ;  in  the  pavement  the  steps  of 
Bonnivard  have  left  their  traces. 

Page  £02. — Fair  Helen. — The  story  upon  which 
this  ballad  is  founded  is  thus  related  in  the  first 
edition  of  the  Statistics  of  Scotland  :  “  In  the  burial- 
ground  of  Ivirkconnell  are  still  to  be  seen  the 
tombstones  of  Fair  Helen  and  her  favorite  lover, 
Adam  Fleeming.  She  was  a  daughter  of  the  fam¬ 
ily  of  Ivirkconnell,  and  fell  a  victim  to  the  jealousy 
of  a  lover.  Being  courted  by  two  young  gentle¬ 
men  at  the  same  time,  the  one  of  whom,  thinking 
himself  slighted,  vowed  to  sacrifice  the  other  to 
his  resentment  when  he  again  discovered  him  in 
her  company.  An  opportunity  soon  presented 
itself  when  the  faithful  pair,  walking  along  the 
romantic  banks  of  the  Kirtle,  were  discovered 
from  the  opposite  banks  by  the  assassin.  Helen, 
perceiving  him  lurking  among  the  bushes,  and 
dreading  the  fatal  resolution,  rushed  to  her  lover’s 
bosom  to  rescue  him  from  the  danger,  and  thus 
receiving  the  wound  intended  for  another,  sank 
and  expired  in  her  favorite’s  arms.  He  immedi- 


980 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


ately  avenged  her  death  and  slew  her  murderer. 
The  inconsolable  Adam  Fleeming,  now  sinking 
under  the  pressure  of  grief,  went  abroad  and 
served  under  the  banners  of  Spain  against  the 
infidels.  The  impression,  however,  was  too  strong 
to  be  obliterated.  The  image  of  woe  attended  him 
thither,  and  the  pleasing  remembrance  of  the  ten¬ 
der  scenes  that  were  past,  with  the  melancholy 
reflection  that  they  could  never  return,  harassed 
his  soul  and  deprived  his  mind  of  repose.  He 
soon  returned,  and  stretching  himself  on  her  grave, 
expired,  and  was  buried  by  her  side.  Upon  the 
tombstone  are  engraven  a  sword  and  cross,  with 
•  Hie  jacet  Adamus  Fleeming.’  ” — Burns’s  Works, 
Blackie  and  Son’s  edition. 

Page  4O8. — Bull-fight  of  Gaztjl. — Gazul  is 
the  name  of  one  of  the  Moorish  heroes  who  figure 
in  the  Historia  de  las  Guerras  Civiles  de  Granada. 
The  following  ballad  is  one  of  the  very  many  in 
which  the  dexterity  of  the  Moorish  cavaliers  in  the 
bull-fight  is  described.  The  reader  will  observe 
that  the  shape,  activity,  and  resolution  of  the  un¬ 
happy  animal  destined  to  furnish  the  amusement 
of  the  spectators  are  enlarged  upon,  just  as  the 
qualities  of  a  modern  race-horse  might  be  among 
ourselves  ;  nor  is  the  bull  without  his  name.  The  1 
day  of  the  Baptist  is  a  festival  among  the  Mussul¬ 
mans  as  well  as  among  Christians. — Lockhart’s 
Spanish  Ballads. 

Page  ^09. — God’s  Judgment  on  a  Wicked  Bish¬ 
op. — It  hapned  in  the  year  914,  that  there  was  an 
exceeding  great  famine  in  Germany,  at  what  time 
Otho,  surnamed  the  Great  was  Emperor,  and  one 
Hatto,  once  Abbot  of  Fulda,  was  Archbishop  of 
Mentz,  of  the  Bishops  after  Crescens  and  Creseen- 
tius  the  two  and  thirtieth,  of  the  Archbishops  after 
St.  Bonifacius  the  thirteenth.  This  Hatto  in  the 
time  of  this  great  famine  afore-mentioned,  when 
he  saw  the  poor  people  of  the  country  exceedingly 
oppressed  with  famine,  assembled  a  great  com¬ 
pany  of  them  together  into  a  Barne,  and,  like  a 
most  accursed  and  mercilesse  caitiffe,  burnt  up 
those  poor  innocent  souls,  that  were  so  far  from 
doubting  any  such  matter,  that  they  rather  hoped 
to  receive  some  comfort  and  relief  at  his  hands. 
The  reason  that  moved  the  prelat  to  commit  that 
execrable  impiety  was,  because  he  thought  the 
famine  would  the  sooner  cease,  if  those  unprofit¬ 
able  beggars,  that  consumed  more  bread  than  they 
were  worthy  to  eat,  were  dispatched  out  of  the 
world.  For  he  said  that  those  poor  folks  were 
like  to  Mice,  that  were  good  for  nothing  but  to 
devour  corne.  But  God  Almighty,  the  just  aven¬ 
ger  of  the  poor  folks  quarrel,  did  not  long  suffer 
this  hainous  tyranny,  this  most  detestable  fact, 
unpunished.  For  he  mustered  up  an  army  of  Mice 
against  the  Archbishop,  and  sent  them  to  perse¬ 
cute  him  as  his  furious  Alastors,  so  that  they  af¬ 


flicted  him  both  day  and  night,  and  would  not 
suffer  him  to  take  his  rest  in  any  place.  Where¬ 
upon  the  Prelate,  thinking  he  should  be  secure 
from  the  injury  of  Mice  if  he  were  in  a  certain 
tower,  that  standeth  in  the  Rhine  near  to  the 
towne,  betook  himself  unto  the  said  tower  as  to  a 
safe  refuge  and  sanctuary  from  his  enemies,  and 
locked  himself  in.  But  the  innumerable  troupes 
of  Mice  chased  him  continually  very  eagerly,  and 
swumme  unto  him  upon  the  top  of  the  water  to 
execute  the  just  judgment  of  God,  and  so  at  last 
he  was  most  miserably  devoured  by  those  sillie 
creatures;  who  pursued  him  with  such  bitter  hos¬ 
tility,  that  it  is  recorded  they  scraped  and  knawed 
out  his  very  name  from  the  walls  and  tapistry 
wherein  it  was  written,  after  they  had  so  cruelly 
dev  oured  his  body.  Wherefore  the  tower  wherein 
he  was  eaten  up  by  the  Mice  is  shewn  to  this  day, 
for  a  perpetual  monument  to  all  succeeding  ages 
of  the  barbarous  and  inhuman  tyranny  of  this 
impious  Prelate,  being  situate  in  a  little  green 
Island  in  the  midst  of  the  Rhine  near  to  the  towne 
of  Bingen,  and  is  commonly  called  in  the  German 
Tongue  the  Mowse-turn. —  Cory  at’ s  Crudities. 

Page  417. — Barbara  Allen’s  Cruelty. — There 
are  several  versions  of  this  popular  ballad,  and 
we  have  chosen  the  one  adopted  by  Mr.  Alling- 
liam  in  his  Ballad  Book.  Allingham  says:  “No 
doubt,  however,  those  who  have  been  bred  up,  as 
it  were,  in  a  particular  form  of  a  ballad  will  be 
apt,  at  least  at  first,  to  mislike  any  other  form. 
One  who  has  had  impressed  upon  his  youthful 
mind — 

‘  It  was  in  or  about  the  Martinmas  time, 

When  the  green  leaves  were  a-fallin’, 

That  Sir  John  Graeme  in  the  west  countrie 
Fell  in  love  with  Barbara  Allen,’ — 

may  very  likely  be  ill-content  to  find  name  of  per¬ 
son  and  season  of  year  altered,  as  they  are  in  this 
equally  authentic  version.  But  let  him  not,  there¬ 
fore,  fall  foul  of  the  editor,  who  was  bound  to 
choose  without  prejudice  between  Autumn  and 
Spring,  Jemmy  Grove  and  Sir  John.” 

Page  417. — Lament  of  the  Border  Widow. — 
This  fragment,  obtained  from  recitation  in  the 
Forest  of  Ettrick,  is  said  to  relate  to  the  execution 
of  Cockburne  of  Henderland,  a  Border  freebooter 
hanged  over  the  gate  of  his  own  tower  by  James 
V.  in  the  course  of  that  memorable  expedition  in 
1529  which  was  fatal  to  Johnie  Armstrong,  Adam 
Scott  of  Tushielaw,  and  many  other  marauders. 
— Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Page  421. — A  Song  of  the  North. — In  May, 
1845,  Sir  John  Franklin  sailed  from  England  with 
the  two  ships  Erebus  and  Terror,  to  discover  a 
north-west  passage  through  the  Arctic  seas.  Not 
returning,  several  expeditions  were  sent  out  in 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


981 


search,  among  which  was  the  celebrated  one 
headed  by  the  late  Dr.  E.  K.  Kane,  Lady  Frank¬ 
lin,  especially,  being  indefatigable  in  her  endeav¬ 
ors  to  ascertain  his  fate,  but  without  any  success 
until  1854,  when  Dr.  Rae  found  some  relics,  and 
in  1859,  Captain  McClintock  discovered  on  the 
shore  of  King  William’s  Land  a  record  deposited 
in  a  cairn  by  the  survivors  of  Franklin’s  company. 
This  document  was  dated  April  25,  1848,  and 
stated  that  Sir  John  died  June  11,  1847 — that 
the  Erebus  and  Terror  were  abandoned  April  22, 
1848,  when  the  survivors,  105  in  number,  started 
for  the  Great  Fish  River.  Many  relics  were  also 
found  of  this  party,  who  perished  on  their  journey, 
probably  soon  after  leaving  the  vessels.  It  ap¬ 
pears  also  that  Sir  John  really  did  discover  the 
long-sought-for  north-west  passage,  but  the  know¬ 
ledge  of  its  whereabouts  perished  with  him,  al¬ 
though  subsequent  expeditions  have  been  sent 
out  to  find  it. 

Page  1^56. — The  Death  of  the  Flowers. — 
The  verse  beginning — 

“And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful 
beauty  died,” 

is  an  allusion  to  the  memory  of  the  poet’s  sister, 
who  died  of  consumption  in  1824. — Duyckinek’s 
Cyclopaedia  of  American  Literature. 

Page  50 J. — Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern. — 
The  Mermaid  Tavern  was  the  resort  of  Ben 
Jonson  and  his  literary  friends,  members  of  a 
club  established  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  1603, 
and  numbering  among  them  Shakespeare,  Beau¬ 
mont,  Fletcher,  Donne,  Selden,  and  the  noblest 
names  in  English  authorship.  Truly  might  Beau¬ 
mont,  in  his  poetical  epistle  to  Jonson,  exclaim — 

“  What  things  have  seen 

Done  at  the  Mermaid ;  heard  words  that  have 
been 

So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 

As  if  that  every  one  from  whom  they  came 

Had  mean’d  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest !” 

.  — Chambers’ s  Book  of  Days. 

Page  513. — Alnwick  Castle. — Alnwick  Castle 
is  one  of  the  finest  in  England.  It  is  built  of 
freestone,  in  the  Gothic  style,  and  covers  five 
acres  of  ground,  and  was  restored  in  1830  at  an 
outlay  of  $1,000,000.  It  belongs  to  the  Duke  of 
Northumberland,  a  descendant  of  the  Percys  so 
famed  in  ancient  ballads,  and  especially  for  their 
feuds  with  their  neighbors  on  the  other  side  of 
the  border,  the  noble  Douglases.  One  of  the 
Percys  was  an  emperor  of  Constantinople,  anoth¬ 
er  was  a  major  in  the  British  army,  and  “fought 
for  King  George  at  Lexington”  and  at  the  battle 
of  the  Brandywine. 

Page  51£. —  Hellvellyn.  —  In  the  spring  of 
1805  a  young  gentleman  of  talents,  and  of  a  most 


amiable  disposition,  perished  by  losing  his  way  on 
the  mountain  Hellvellyn.  His  remains  were  not 
discovered  till  three  months  afterward,  when  they 
were  found  guarded  by  a  faithful  terrier  bitch,  his 
constant  attendant  during  frequent  solitary  ram¬ 
bles  through  the  wilds  of  Cumberland  and  West¬ 
moreland. — Scott’s  Poems. 

Page  517. — The  Meeting  of  the  Waters. — 
“The  Meeting  of  the  Waters”  forms  a  part  of 
that  beautiful  scenery  which  lies  between  Rath- 
drum  and  Arklow,  in  the  county  of  Wicklow, 
and  these  lines  were  suggested  by  a  visit  to  this 
romantic  spot  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1807. — 
Moore’s  Works ,  8vo. 

Page  522. — The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp. — 
Moore’s  “  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp,”  written  at 
Norfolk,  in  Virginia,  is  founded  on  the  following 
legend:  “A  young  man  who  lost  his  mind  upon 
the  death  of  a  girl  he  loved,  and  who,  suddenly 
disappearing  from  his  friends,  was  never  afterward 
heard  of.  As  he  had  frequently  said  in  his  rav¬ 
ings  that  the  girl  was  not  dead,  but  gone  to  the 
Dismal  Swamp,  it  is  supposed  he  had  wandered 
into  that  dreary  wilderness,  and  had  died  of  hun¬ 
ger  or  had  been  lost  in  some  of  its  dreadful  mo¬ 
rasses.” — Frederick  Saunders’s  Festival  of  Song. 

Page  523. — On  the  Morning  of  Christ’s  Nativ¬ 
ity. — This  magnificent  ode,  called  by  Ilallam  “per¬ 
haps  the  finest  in  the  English  language,”  was  com¬ 
posed,  as  we  learn  from  Milton's  own  heading  of 
it  in  the  edition  of  1645,  in  the  year  1629.  Mil- 
ton  was  then  twenty-one  years  of  age,  in  the 
sixth  academic  year  at  Cambridge,  and  a  B.  A. 
of  a  year’s  standing.  There  is  an  interesting 
allusion  to  the  ode  by  Milton  himself,  when  he 
was  in  the  act  of  composing  it,  in  the  sixth  of 
his  Latin  elegies.  In  that  elegy,  addressed  to 
his  friend  Charles  Diodati,  residing  in  the  coun¬ 
try,  in  answer  to  a  friendly  epistle  which  Dioda¬ 
ti  had  sent  to  him  on  the  13th  of  December,  1629, 
there  is  a  distinct  description  of  the  “  Ode  on  the 
Nativity  ”  as  then  finished,  or  nearly  so,  and  ready 
to  be  shown  to  Diodati,  together  with  the  express 
information  that  it  was  begun  on  Christmas  Day, 
1629. — Milton,  Masson’s  ed. 

Page  5^9. — Emigrants  in  the  Bermudas. — 
Representative  government  was  introduced  into 
the  Bermudas  in  1620,  and  in  1621  the  Bermuda 
Company  of  London  issued  a  sort  of  charter  to 
the  colony,  including  rights  and  liberties — among 
them  liberty  of  worship — that  attracted  many  of 
those  English  emigrants  whose  feeling  Marvell 
has  here  fashioned  into  song. — Morley’s  Shorter 
Poems  of  the  English  Language. 

Page  550. — Rebecca’s  Hymn. — It  was  in  the 
twilight  of  the  day  when  her  trial — if  it  could  be 
called  such — had  taken  place,  that  a  low  knock 


982 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


was  heal'd  at  the  door  of  Rebecca’s  prison-cham¬ 
ber.  It  disturbed  not  the  inmate,  who  was  then 
engaged  in  the  evening  prayer  recommended  by 
her  religion,  and  which  concluded  with  a  hymn 
which  we  have  ventured  thus  to  translate  into 
English. — Ivanhoe. 

Page  593. — I  Would  Not  Live  Alwav. — This 
hymn  was  written  without  the  remotest  idea  that 
any  portion  of  it  would  ever  be  employed  in  the 
devotions  of  the  Church.  Whatever  service  it 
has  done  in  that  way  is  owing  to  the  late  Bishop 
of  Pennsylvania,  then  the  rector  of  St.  Ann’s 
Church,  Brooklyn,  who  made  the  selection  of 
verses  out  of  the  whole  which  constitutes  the 
present  hymn,  and  offered  it  to  the  Committee 
on  Hymns  appointed  by  the  General  Convention 

of - .  The  hymn  was  at  first  rejected  by  the 

committee,  of  which  the  unknown  author  was  a 
member,  who,  upon  a  satirical  criticism  being 
made  upon  it,  earnestly  voted  against  its  adop¬ 
tion.  It  was  admitted  on  the  importunate  appli¬ 
cation  of  Dr.  Onderdonk  to  the  bishops  on  the 
committee. — Duyckinck’ s  Cyclopsedia  of  Ameri¬ 
can  Literature. 

Page  630. — Elegy  Written  in  a  Country 
Churchyard. — As  he  was  floating  down  the 
river  to  attack  Quebec,  General  Wolfe  read  the 
“Elegy”  in  low  tones  to  his  officers,  and  upon 
its  conclusion  said :  “  I  had  rather  be  the  author 
of  that  poem  than  take  Quebec” — a  remark  which 
has  perhaps  done  as  much  to  perpetuate  Wolfe’s 
name  as  the  capture  of  Quebec,  great  as  that 
achievement  was. 

Page  637. — Stanzas. — These  beautiful  lines 
were  composed  by  Hood  on  his  death-bed. 

Page  6^2. — To  A  Skeleton. — The  manuscript 
of  this  poem  was  found  near  a  skeleton  in  the 
London  Royal  College  of  Surgeons  about  1820. 
The  author  has  never  been  found,  though  a  re¬ 
ward  of  fifty  guineas  was  offered  for  his  dis¬ 
covery. — Single  Famous  Poems. 

Page  655. — The  Lie. — This  celebrated  poem 
has  been  attributed  to  Joshua  Sylvester.  In  a 
note  of  Mr.  Peter  Cunningham’s  to  his  edition 
of  Campbell’s  Lives  of  the  Poets ,  referring  to  the 
passage  in  which  Campbell  says,  “We  would  will¬ 
ingly  ascribe  the  ‘  Soul’s  Errand’  to  him  (Ral¬ 
eigh)/’  we  read,  “ ‘  The  Lie’  is  ascribed  to  Sir  Wal¬ 
ter  Raleigh  in  an  answer  to  it  written  at  the  time, 
and  recently  discovered  in  the  Cheetham  Library 
at  Manchester.  That  it  was  written  by  Raleigh 
is  now  almost  past  a  doubt.”  —  Bellew’s  Poets’ 
Corner. 

Page  656. — Armstrong’s  Good-Night. — These 
verses  are  said  to  have  been  composed  by  one  of 
the  Armstrongs,  executed  for  the  murder  of  Sir 


John  Carmichael  of  Edrom,  Warden  of  the  Mid¬ 
dle  Marches.  Whether  these  are  the  original 
words  will  admit  of  a  doubt. — Sir  Walter  Scott. 

This  is  one  of  the  songs  which  so  touched  Gold¬ 
smith  in  his  youth  that  nothing  he  heard  sung  in 
after  years  had  an  equal  charm  for  him.  “  The 
music  of  the  finest  singer,”  he  wrote  in  the  Bee, 
October  13,  1759,  “is  dissonance  to  what  I  felt 
when  our  old  dairymaid  sung  me  into  tears  with 
‘Johnny  Armstrong’s  Last  Good-Night’  or  the 
‘  Cruelty  of  Barbara  Allen  ;  ’  ”  and  in  a  letter  to  his 
Irish  friend  Hodson,  December  27,  1757,  he  says: 
“  If  I  go  to  the  opera  where  Signora  Columba  pours 
out  all  the  mazes  of  melody,  I  sit  and  sigh  for 
‘  Lishoy’s  Fireside’  and  ‘Johnny  Armstrong’s 
Last  Good-Night,’  from  Peggy  Golden.” — Mary 
Carlyle  Aitken. 

Page  672. — The  Old  and  Young  Courtier. — 
The  whole  of  the  sixteenth  century  was  marked 
by  important  changes  of  every  kind — political, 
religious,  and  social.  The  wars  with  France  and 
the  internal  contests  of  the  Roses  were  over,  and 
the  energy  of  the  nation  was  directed  to  new  ob¬ 
jects.  Trade  and  commerce  were  extended ; 
fresh  sources  of  wealth  were  developed ;  and 
new  classes  of  society  sprang  up  into  import¬ 
ance  whose  riches  enabled  them  to  outvie  the  old 
landed  gentry,  but  who  had  few  of  their  heredi¬ 
tary  tastes  and  habits.  Hence  the  innovation  of 
old  customs  and  the  decay  of  ancient  manners  to 
which  the  gentry  themselves  were  compelled  to 
conform.  This  old  song,  which  is  printed  in  the 
Percy  Reliques  from  an  ancient  black-letter  copy 
in  the  Pepys  Collection,  is  a  lament  over  the 
changes  which  had  taken  place  in  the  early 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  as  compared 
with  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth. — Knight’s 
Half  Hours  with  the  Best  Authors. 

Page  677. — Battle  of  Blenheim. — The  battle 
of  Blenheim  or  Hochstadt  was  fought  August  13, 
1701,  between  the  English  and  Austrians,  under 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene, 
and  the  French  and  Bavarians,  under  Marshal 
Tallard,  Marson,  and  the  Elector  of  Bavaria. 
The  latter  army,  being  badly  handled  and  hud¬ 
dled  together  in  the  village  of  Blenheim,  was  sud¬ 
denly  attacked  by  Marlborough  and  completely 
defeated,  losing  30,000  in  killed,  wounded,  and 
prisoners.  Marlborough’s  loss  was  but  11,000. 
This  victory  completely  shattered  the  French 
prestige  which  Louis  XIV.  had  struggled  so 
hard  to  obtain. 

Page  688. — Lines  Written  by  One  in  the 
Tower. — Chidiock  Tychborn  shared  in  Babing- 
ton’s  conspiracy,  and  was  executed  with  him  in 
1586.  (For  a  fuller  account  see  Disraeli’s  Curios- 
[  ities  of  Literature.) 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


983 


Page  70 4. — Honest  Poverty. — A  great  critic 
(Aikin)  on  songs  says  that  love  and  wine  are 
the  exclusive  themes  for  song-writing.  The  fol¬ 
lowing  is  on  neither  subject,  and  consequently  is 
no  song,  but  will  be  allowed,  I  think,  to  be  two 
or  three  pretty  good  prose  thoughts  inverted  into 
rhyme. — In  a  Letter  from  Burns  to  G.  Thomson. 

Page  724. — Alexander’s  Feast. — St.  Cecilia  is  j 
said  to  have  been  a  Roman  lady  born  about  A.  D. 
295,  bred  in  the  Christian  faith,  and  married  to  a 
Pagan  nobleman,  Yalerianus.  She  told  her  hus¬ 
band  that  she  was  visited  nightly  by  an  angel, 
whom  he  was  allowed  to  see  after  his  own  conver¬ 
sion.  The  celestial  youth  had  brought  from  par¬ 
adise  two  wreaths,  which  he  gave  to  them.  One 
was  of  the  lilies  of  heaven,  the  other  of  its  roses. 
They  both  suffered  martyrdom  at  the  beginning 
of  the  third  ceutur}',  in  the  reign  of  Septimius 
Severus.  The  angel  by  whom  Cecilia  was  visited 
is  referred  to  in  the  closing  lines  of  Dryden’s 
“  Ode,”  coupled  with  a  tradition  that  he  had  been 
drawn  down  to  her  from  heaven  by  her  melodies. 
In  the  earliest  traditions  of  Cecilia  there  is  no 
mention  of  her  skill  in  music.  This  part  of  her 
story  seems  to  have  been  developed  by  a  little 
play  of  fancy  over  her  relations  with  the  angel, 
and  the  great  Italian  painters — Raffaelle,  Dome- 
nichino,  and  others — fixed  her  position  as  the  pa¬ 
tron  saint  of  music  by  representing  her  always 
with  symbols  of  harmony,  a  harp  or  organ-pipes. 
Then  came  the  suggestion  adopted  in  Dryden’s 
“  Ode,”  that  the  organ  was  invented  by  St.  Ce¬ 
cilia.  The  practice  of  holding  musical  festivals  on 
St.  Cecilia’s  Day,  the  22d  of  November,  began  to 
prevail  in  England  at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  The  earliest  piece  composed  for  such  a 
meeting  was  produced  in  1683,  and  was  by  Henry 
Purcell.  From  that  date  to  about  1740  there  was 
an  annual  Cecilian  festival  in  London,  and  the 
fashion  spread  into  the  provinces.  Poets — Dry- 
den  and  Pope  among  them — were  applied  to  for 
odes  which  were  to  celebrate  the  power  of  music, 
and  to  be  set  to  music  for  performance  as  a  spe¬ 
cial  feature  of  the  anniversary. — Mor ley’s  Shorter 
Poems. 

Page  735. — A  Canadian  Boat-Song. — I  wrote 
these  words  to  an  air  which  our  boatmen  sung  to 
us  frequently.  The  wind  was  so  unfavorable  that 
they  were  obliged  to  row  all  the  way,  and  we  were 
five  days  in  descending  the  river  from  Kingston 
to  Montreal,  exposed  to  an  intense  sun  during  the 
day,  and  at  night  forced  to  take  shelter  from  the 
dews  in  any  miserable  hut  upon  the  banks  that 
would  receive  us.  But  the  magnificent  scenery 
of  the  St.  Lawrence  repays  all  such  difficulties. 

Our  voyageurs  had  good  voices,  and  sung  per¬ 
fectly  in  tune  together.  The  original  words  of  the 
air  to  which  I  adapted  these  stanzas  appeared  to 


be  a  long,  incoherent  story,  of  which  I  could  un¬ 
derstand  but  little,  from  the  barbarous  pronuncia¬ 
tion  of  the  Canadians.  It  begins — 

Dans  mon  chemin  j’ai  rencontre 
Deux  cavaliers  tres-bien  rnontes ; 

and  the  refrain  to  every  verse  was — 

A  l’ombre  d’un  bois  je  m’en  vais  jouer, 

A  l’ombre  d’un  bois  je  m’en  vais  danser. 

I  ventured  to  harmonize  this  air,  and  have  pub¬ 
lished  it.  Without  that  charm  which  association 
gives  to  every  little  memorial  of  scenes  or  feelings 
that  are  past,  the  melody  may  perhaps  be  thought 
common  and  trifling:  but  I  remember  when  we 
have  entered,  at  sunset,  upon  one  of  those  beau¬ 
tiful  lakes  into  which  the  St.  Lawrence  so  grandly 
and  unexpectedly  opens,  I  have  heard  this  simple 
air  with  a  pleasure  which  the  finest  compositions 
of  the  first  masters  have  never  given  me;  and 
now  there  is  not  a  note  of  it  which  does  not  recall 
to  my  memory  the  dip  of  our  oars  in  the  St.  Law¬ 
rence,  the  flight  of  our  boat  down  the  rapids,  and 
all  those  new  and  fanciful  impressions  to  which 
my  heart  was  alive  during  the  whole  of  this  very 
interesting  voyage. — Moore’s  Poems,  note. 

Page  739. — A  Vision  upon  this  Conceit  of  the 
Faerie  Queene. — This  sonnet  is  the  first  among 
the  commendatory  poems  prefixed  to  the  earliest 
edition  of  The  Faerie  Queene.  As  original  in  con¬ 
ception  as  it  is  grand  in  execution,  it  is  about  the 
finest  compliment  which  was  ever  paid  by  poet  to 
poet,  such  as  it  became  Raleigh  to  indite  and  Spen¬ 
ser  to  receive.  Yet  it  labors  under  a  serious  de¬ 
fect.  The  great  poets  of  the  past  lose  no  whit  of 
their  glory  because  later  poets  are  found  worthy 
to  share  it.  Petrarch  in  his  lesser,  and  Homer  in 
his  greater  sphere,  are  just  as  illustrious  since 
Spenser  appeared  as  before. — Richard  Chenevix 
Trench. 

Page  756. — The  Deserted  Village. — Lissoy, 
near  Ballymahon,  where  the  poet’s  brother,  a  cler¬ 
gyman,  had  his  living,  claims  the  honor  of  being 
the  spot  from  which  the  localities  of  “  The  Deserted 
Village”  were  derived.  The  church  which  tops  the 
neighboring  hill,  the  mill,  and  the  brook,  are  still 
pointed  out;  and  a  hawthorn  has  suffered  the 
penalty  of  poetical  celebrity,  being  cut  to  pieces 
by  those  admirers  of  the  bard  who  desired  to  have 
classical  toothpick  -  cases  and  tobacco  -  stoppers. 
Much  of  this  supposed  locality  may  be  fanciful, 
but  it  is  a  pleasing  tribute  to  the  poet  in  the  land 
of  his  fathers. — Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Page  787. — Indian  Revelry. — This  remark¬ 
able  poem  appeared  originally,  it  is  believed,  in 
the  St.  Helena  Magazine,  and  was  afterward 
copied  in  the  London  Spectator  and  other  jour¬ 
nals.  It  relates  to  the  early  service  of  English 


984 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


officers  in  India  when  the  army  was  mowed  down 
by  pestilence.  When  Macaulay’s  account  of  the 
effects  of  smallpox  in  England  is  remembered,  as 
it  describes  the  separation  of  brothers,  sisters,  and 
lovers,  it  will  be  seen  that  this  poem  gives  with 
wonderful  effect  what  is  far  nobler,  however  pain¬ 
ful — the  very  poetry  of  military  despair,  but  still 
the  dying  together  of  brothers  in  arms. 

Page  787. — Tithonus. — Tithonus  was  a  beauti¬ 
ful  Trojan,  beloved  by  Aurora.  He  begged  the 
goddess  to  grant  him  immortality,  which  request 
she  granted;  but  as  he  had  forgotten  to  ask  for 
youth  and  vigor,  he  soon  grew  old,  infirm,  and 
ugly.  When  life  became  insupportable,  he  prayed 
Aurora  to  remove  him  from  the  world ;  this,  how¬ 
ever,  she  could  not  do,  but  she  changed  him  into 
a  grasshopper. — Brewer’s  Dietionary  of  Phrase 
and  Fable. 

Page  795.  —  The  Rape  of  the  Lock.  —  The 
stealing  of  Miss  Belle  Fermor’s  hair  (by  Lord  Pe- 
tre)  was  taken  too  seriously,  and  caused  an  es¬ 
trangement  between  the  two  families,  though  they 
had  lived  so  long  in  great  friendship  before.  A 
common  acquaintance  and  well-wisher  to  both 
desired  me  to  write  a  poem,  to  make  a  jest  of  it 
and  laugh  them  together  again.  It  was  with  this 
view  that  I  wrote  “  The  Rape  of  the  Lock,”  which 
was  well  received,  and  had  its  effect  in  the  two 
families.  Nobody  but  Sir  George  Brown  was  an¬ 
gry,  and  he  was  a  good  deal  so,  and  for  a  long 
time.  He  could  not  bear  that  Sir  Plume  should 
talk  nothing  but  nonsense.  The  machinery  was 
added  afterward. — Pope’s  Letter  to  Spence. 

Page  810. — The  Culprit  Fay. — This  exquisite 
poem  was  composed  hastily  among  the  highlands 
of  the  Hudson  in  the  summer  of  1819.  The  au¬ 
thor  was  walking  with  somo  friends  on  a  warm 
moonlight  evening,  when  one  of  the  party  re¬ 
marked  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  write  a  faery 
poem,  purely  imaginative,  without  the  aid  of  hu¬ 
man  characters.  The  party  was  reassembled  two 
or  three  days  afterward,  and  “  The  Culprit  Fay” 
was  read  to  them,  nearly  as  it  is  now  printed. — 
Introduction  to  the  “  Culprit  Fay.” 

Page  818. — Comus. — “  Comus  ”  was  presented  at 
Ludlow  Castle  in  1631,  before  the  Earl  of  Bridge- 
water,  then  President  of  Wales.  This  drama  was 
founded  on  an  actual  occurrence.  The  Earl  of 
Bridgewater  then  resided  at  Ludlow  Castle ;  his 
sons,  Lord  Brackley  and  Mr.  Egerton,  and  Lady 
Alice  Egerton,  his  daughter,  passing  through 
Haywood  Forest  in  Herefordshire,  on  their  way 
to  Ludlow,  we,re  benighted,  and  the  lady  was  for 
a  short  time  lost.  This  accident  being  related  to 
their  father  upon  their  arrival  at  his  castle,  Milton 
— at  the  request  of  his  friend,  Henry  Lawes  the 
musician,  who  taught  music  in  the  family — wrote 


the  masque.  Lawes  set  it  to  music,  and  it  was  acted 
on  Michaelmas  Night,  1631,  the  two  brothers,  the 
young  lady,  and  Lawes  himself,  bearing  each  a 
part  in  the  representation. 

Page  883. — Kilmeny. — Besides  the  old  tradi¬ 
tion  on  which  this  ballad  is  founded,  there  are 
some  modern  incidents  of  a  similar  nature  which 
cannot  well  be  accounted  for,  yet  are  as  well  at¬ 
tested  as  any  occurrence  that  has  taken  place  in 
the  present  age.  The  relation  may  be  amusing  to 
some  readers: 

A  man  in  the  parish  of  Traquair  and  county 
of  Peebles  was  busied  one  day  casting  turf  in  a 
large  open  field  opposite  the  mansion-house — the 
spot  is  well  known,  and  is  still  pointed  out  as 
rather  unsafe;  his  daughter,  a  child  seven  years 
of  age,  was  playing  beside  him  and  amusing  him 
with  her  prattle.  Chancing  to  ask  a  question  of 
her,  he  was  surprised  at  receiving  no  answer,  and, 
looking  behind  him,  he  perceived  that  his  child 
was  not  there.  He  always  averred  that,  as  far  as 
he  could  remember,  she  had  been  talking  to  him 
about  half  a  minute  before;  he  was  certain  it  was 
not  above  a  whole  one  at  most.  It  was  in  vain 
that  he  ran  searching  all  about  like  one  distracted, 
calling  her  name  ;  no  trace  of  her  remained.  He 
went  home  in  a  state  of  mind  that  may  be  better 
conceived  than  expressed,  and  raised  the  people 
of  the  parish,  who  searched  for  her  several  days 
with  the  same  success.  Every  pool  in  the  river, 
every  bush  and  den  on  the  mountains  around, 
was  searched  in  vain.  It  was  remarked  that  the 
father  never  much  encouraged  the  search,  being 
thoroughly  persuaded  that  she  had  been  carried 
away  by  some  invisible  being,  else  she  could  not 
have  vanished  so  suddenly.  As  a  last  resource, 
he  applied  to  the  minister  of  Inverleithen,  a 
neighboring  divine  of  exemplary  piety  and  zeal 
in  religious  matters,  who  enjoined  him  to  cause 
prayers  to  be  offered  to  God  for  her  in  seven 
Christian  churches  next  Sabbath  at  the  same 
instant  of  time;  “And  then,”  said  he,  “if  she  is 
dead,  God  will  forgive  our  sin  in  praying  for  the 
dead,  as  we  do  it  through  ignorance;  and  if  she  is 
still  alive,  I  will  answer  for  it  that  all  the  devils 
in  hell  shall  be  unable  to  keep  her.”  The  injunc¬ 
tion  was  punctually  attended  to.  She  was  re¬ 
membered  in  the  prayers  of  all  the  neighboring 
congregations  next  Sunday  at  the  same  hour,  and 
never  were  there  such  prayers  for  fervor  heard 
before.  Thero  was  one  clergyman  in  particular, 
Mr.  Davidson,  who  prayed  in  such  a  manner  that 
all  the  hearers  trembled.  As  the  old  divine  fore¬ 
boded,  so  it  fell  out.  On  that  very  day,  and  with¬ 
in  an  hour  of  the  time  on  which  these  prayers 
were  offered,  the  girl  was  found  in  the  Plora  wood, 
sitting  picking  the  bark  from  a  tree.  She  could 
give  no  perfect  account  of  the  circumstances  which 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


985 


had  befallen  to  her,  but  she  said  she  did  not  want 
plenty  of  meat,  for  that  her  mother  came  and  fed 
her  with  milk  and  bread  several  times  a  day,  and 
sung  her  to  sleep  at  night.  Her  skin  had  acquired 
a  bluish  cast,  which  gradually  wore  off  in  the 
course  of  a  few  weeks.  Her  name  was  Jane 
Brown ;  she  lived  to  a  very  advanced  age,  and 
was  known  to  many  still  alive.  Every  circum¬ 
stance  of  this  story  is  truth,  if  the  father’s  report 
of  the  suddenness  of  her  disappearance  may  be 
relied  on. 

Another  circumstance,  though  it  happened  still 
later,  is  not  less  remarkable.  A  shepherd  of  Tus- 
hilaw,  in  the  parish  of  Ettrick,  whose  name  was 
Walter  Dalgleish,  went  out  to  the  heights  of  that 
farm  one  Sabbath  morning  to  herd  the  young 
sheep  of  his  son  and  let  him  go  to  church.  He 
took  his  own  dinner  along  with  him,  and  his  son’s 
breakfast.  When  the  sermon  was  over,  the  lad 
went  straight  home,  and  did  not  return  to  his 
father.  Night  came,  but  nothing  of  the  old  shep¬ 
herd  appeared.  When  it  grew  very  late  his  dog 
came  home — seemed  terrified,  and  refused  to  take 
any  meat.  The  family  were  ill  at  ease  during  the 
night,  especially  as  they  had  never  known  his  dog 
leave  him  before ;  and  early  next  morning  the  lad 
arose  and  went  to  the  height  to  look  after  his 
father  and  his  flock.  He  found  his  sheep  all  scat¬ 
tered,  and  his  father’s  dinner  unbroken,  lying  on 
the  same  spot  where  they  had  parted  the  day  be¬ 
fore.  At  the  distance  of  twenty  yards  from  the 
spot  the  plaid  which  the  old  man  wore  was  lying 
as  if  it  had  been  flung  from  him,  and  a  little 
farther  on,  in  the  same  direction,  his  bonnet  was 
found,  but  nothing  of  himself.  The  country  peo¬ 
ple,  as  on  all  such  occasions,  rose  in  great  num¬ 
bers  and  searched  for  him  many  days.  My  father 
and  several  old  men  still  alive  were  of  the  party. 
He  could  not  be  found  or  heard  of,  neither  dead 
nor  alive,  and  at  length  they  gave  up  all  thoughts 
of  ever  seeing  him  more.  On  the  twentieth  day 
after  his  disappearance,  a  shepherd’s  wife,  at  a 
place  called  Berrybush,  came  in  as  the  family 
were  sitting  down  to  dinner  and  said  that  if  it 
were  possible  to  believe  that  Walter  Dalgleish 
was  still  in  existence,  she  would  say  yonder  was 
he  coming  down  the  hill.  They  all  ran  out  to 
watch  the  phenomenon,  and  as  the  person  ap¬ 
proached  nigher  they  perceived  that  it  was  actu¬ 
ally  he,  walking  without  his  plaid  and  his  bonnet. 
The  place  where  he  was  first  descried  is  not  a  mile 
distant  from  that  where  he  was  last  seen,  and 
there  is  neither  brake,  bog,  nor  bush.  When  he 
came  into  the  house  he  shook  hands  with  them  all 
— asked  for  his  family,  and  spoke  as  if  he  had 
been  absent  for  years,  and  as  if  convinced  some¬ 
thing  had  befallen  them.  As  they  perceived 
something  singular  in  his  looks  and  manner,  they 
unfortunately  forbore  asking  him  any  questions 


at  first,  but  desired  him  to  sit  and  share  their 
dinner.  This  he  readily  complied  with,  and  be¬ 
gan  to  sup  some  broth  with  seeming  eagerness. 
He  had  only  taken  one  or  two  spoonfuls  when  he 
suddenly  stopped,  a  kind  of  rattling  sound  was 
heard  in  his  breast,  and  he  sank  back  in  a  faint. 
They  put  him  to  bed,  and  from  that  time  forth  he 
never  spoke  another  word  that  any  person  could 
make  sense  of.  He  was  removed  to  his  own 
home,  where  he  lingered  a  few  weeks  and  died. 
What  befell  him  remains  to  this  day  a  mystery, 
and  for  ever  must. — Hoyy’s  Poems. 

Paye  8^1. — Christabel.  —  Coleridge’s  friend, 
Mr.  Gilman,  with  whom  he  spent  much  of  the 
latter  part  of  his  life,  and  who  began  his  biogra¬ 
phy,  tells  us  that  “  the  following  relation  was  to 
have  occupied  a  third  and  fourth  canto,  and  to 
have  closed  the  tale:  ‘Over  the  mountains  the 
Bard,  as  directed  by  Sir  Leoline,  hastes  with 
his  disciple,  but  in  consequence  of  one  of  those 
inundations  supposed  to  be  common  to  this  coun¬ 
try,  the  spot  only  where  the  castle  once  stood  is 
discovered,  the  edifice  being  washed  away.  He  de¬ 
termines  to  return.  Geraldine,  being  acquainted 
with  all  that  is  passing,  like  the  Weird  Sisters  in 
Macbeth,  vanishes.  Reappearing,  however,  she 
waits  the  return  of  the  Bard,  exciting,  in  the 
mean  time,  by  her  wily  arts,  all  the  anger  she 
could  rouse  in  the  baron’s  breast,  as  well  as  that 
jealousy  of  which  he  is  described  to  have  been 
susceptible.  The  old  Bard  and  the  youth  at 
length  arrive,  and  therefore  she  can  no  longer 
personate  the  character  of  Geraldine,  the  daugh¬ 
ter  of  Lord  Roland  de  Yaux,  but  changes  her 
appearance  to  that  of  the  accepted,  though  ab¬ 
sent,  lover  of  Christabel.  Next  ensues  a  court¬ 
ship  most  distressing  to  Christabel,  who  feels — 
she  knows  not  why — great  disgust  for  her  once- 
favored  knight.  This  coldness  is  very  painful  to 
the  baron,  who  has  no  more  conception  than  her¬ 
self  of  the  supernatural  transformation.  She  at 
last  yields  to  her  father’s  entreaties,  and  consents 
to  approach  the  altar  with  this  hated  suitor.  The 
real  lover,  returning,  enters  at  this  moment,  and 
produces  the  ring  which  she  had  once  given  him 
in  sign  of  her  betrothment.  Thus  defeated,  the 
supernatural  being,  Geraldine,  disappears.  As 
predicted,  the  castle-bell  tolls,  the  mother’s  voice 
is  heard,  and,  to  the  exceeding  great  joy  of  the 
parties,  the  rightful  marriage  takes  place,  after 
which  follow  a  reconciliation  and  explanation 
between  the  father  and  daughter.’  ” — Morley's 
Shorter  Poems. 

Paye  84S. — Kubla  Khan. — In  the  summer  of 
the  year  1797  the  author,  then  in  ill  health,  had 
retired  to  a  lonely  farm-houso  between  Porlock 
and  Linton,  on  the  Exmoor  confines  of  Somerset 
and  Devonshire.  In  consequence  of  a  slight  in- 


986 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


disposition,  an  anodyne  had  been  prescribed, 
from  the  effect  of  which  he  fell  asleep  in  his 
chair  at  the  moment  that  he  was  reading  the  fol¬ 
lowing  sentence,  or  words  of  the  same  substance, 
in  Purchas’s  Pilgrimage  :  “Here  the  Khan  Kubla 
commanded  a  palace  .to  be  built,  and  a  stately 
garden  thereunto,  and  thus  ten  miles  of  fertile 
ground  were  enclosed  with  a  wall.”  The  author 
continued  for  about  three  hours  in  a  profound 
sleep,  at  least  of  the  external  senses,  during 
which  time  he  has  the  most  vivid  confidence  that 
he  could  not  have  composed  less  than  from  two  to 
three  hundred  lines,  if  that,  indeed,  can  be  called 
composition  in  which  all  the  images  rose  up  be¬ 
fore  him  as  things,  with  a  parallel  production  of 
the  correspondent  expressions,  without  any  sen¬ 
sation  or  consciousness  of  effort.  On  awaking  he 
appeared  to  himself  to  have  a  distinct  recollec¬ 
tion  of  the  whole,  and  taking  his  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  instantly  and  eagerly  wrote  down  the  lines 
that  are  here  preserved.  At  this  moment  he  was 
unfortunately  called  out  by  a  person  on  business 
from  Porlock,  and  detained  by  him  above  an 
hour,  and  on  his  return  to  his  room  found,  to  his 
no  small  surprise  and  mortification,  that  though 
he  still  retained  some  vague  and  dim  recollection 
of  the  general  purport  of  the  vision,  yet,  with  the 
exception  of  some  eight  or  ten  scattered  lines  and 
images,  all  the  rest  had  passed  away  like  the  im¬ 
ages  on  the  surface  of  a  stream  into  which  a  stone 
had  been  cast,  but  alas!  without  the  after-restora¬ 
tion  of  the  latter. —  Coleridge's  Poems. 

Page  851. — The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin. — 
The  story  of  the  Pied  Piper — that  first  by  his 
pipe  gathered  together  all  the  rats  and  mice  and 
drowned  them  in  the  river,  and  afterward,  being 
defrauded  of  his  reward,  which  the  town  prom¬ 
ised  him  if  he  could  deliver  them  from  the  plague 
of  those  vermin,  took  his  opportunity  and  by  the 
same  pipe  made  the  children  of  the  town  follow 
him,  and  leading  them  into  a  hill  that  opened, 
buried  them  there  all  alive — has  so  evident  proof  of 
it  in  the  town  of  Hammel  where  it  was  done,  that 
it  ought  not  at  all  to  be  discredited.  For  the  fact 
is  very  religiously  kept  among  their  ancient  rec¬ 
ords,  painted  out  also  in  their  church-windows, 
and  is  an  epoch  joined  with  the  year  of  our  Lord 
in  their  bills  and  indentures  and  other  law  instru¬ 
ments. —  Henry  Moore’s  Philosophy. 

Page  855. — The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mari¬ 
ner. — Wordsworth  has  given  the  following  ac¬ 
count  of  the  origin  of  “  The  Ancient  Mariner.” 
“  It  arose,”  he  says,  “  out  of  the  want  of  five 
pounds  which  Coleridge  and  I  needed  to  make  a 
tour  together  in  Devonshire.  We  agreed  to  write 
jointly  a  poem,  the  subject  of  which  Coleridge 
took  from  a  dream,  which  a  friend  of  his  had 
once  dreamt,  concerning  a  person  suffering  under 


a  dire  curse  from  the  commission  of  some  crime. 
I  supplied  the  crime,  the  shooting  of  the  alba¬ 
tross,  from  an  incident  I  had  met  with  in  one  of 
Shelvocke’s  voyages.  We  tried  the  poem  con¬ 
jointly  for  a  day  or  two,  but  we  pulled  different 
ways,  and  only  a  few  lines  of  it  are  mine.” — 
Frederick  Saunders’s  Festival  of  Song. 

Page  878. — The  Abbot  M'Kinnon. — To  describe 
the  astonishing  scenes  to  which  this  romantic  tale 
relates,  Icolmkill  and  Staffa,  would  only  be  mul¬ 
tiplying  pages  to  no  purpose.  By  the  Temple  of 
the  Ocean  is  meant  the  Isle  of  Staffa,  and  by  its 
chancel  the  Cave  of  Fingal. 

St.  Columba  placed  the  nuns  in  an  island  at  a 
little  distance  from  Iona,  where  he  would  not 
suffer  either  a  cow  or  a  woman ;  “for  where  there 
are  cows,”  said  he,  “  there  must  be  women  ;  and 
where  there  are  women,  there  must  be  mischief.” 
— Hogg’s  Poems. 

Page  892. — The  Laird  o’  Cockpen. — Miss 
Ferrier,  who  wrote  Marriage  Destiny,  etc.,  added 
the  last  two  verses. 

Page  ^PP.-^-Baucis  and  Philemon. — The  orig¬ 
inal  tale  here  playfully  modernized  is  in  the 
Eighth  Book  of  Ovid’s  Metamorphoses,  where 
Jove  and  Mercury  are  the  originals  of  the  two 
brother  hermits.  Finding  hospitality  only  in  the 
thatched  cottage  of  the  poor  old  couple,  Baucis 
and  Philemon,  the  gods  after  their  entertainment 
took  the  old  couple  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  whence 
they  saw  the  houses  and  lands  of  their  unchar¬ 
itable  neighbors  all  swallowed  in  a  lake.  Only 
their  little  home  remained,  which  expanded  to  a 
temple.  In  this  they  served  as  the  priests  of 
Jove  until  they  were  changed  into  companion 
trees,  hung  over  with  fresh  garlands  by  their 
worshippers. — Morley’s  Shorter  Poems. 

Page  91 J. — The  Vicar  of  Brav. — The  Vicar 
of  Bray,  in  Berkshire,  wras  a  Papist  under  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  and  a  Protestant  under 
Edward  VI.  ;  he  was  a  Papist  again  under  Mary, 
and  once  more  became  a  Protestant  in  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth.  When  this  scandal  to  the  gown 
was  reproached  for  his  versatility  of  religious 
creeds,  and  taxed  for  being  a  turncoat  and  an 
inconstant  changeling,  as  Fuller  expresses  it,  he 
replied,  “Not  so,  neither;  for  if  I  changed  my 
religion,  I  am  sure  I  kept  true  to  my  principle; 
which  is,  to  live  and  die  the  Vicar  of  Bray.” 

This  vivacious  and  reverend  hero  has  given 
birth  to  a  proverb  peculiar  to  this  county :  “  The 
Vicar  of  Bray  will  be  Vicar  of  Bray  still.”  But 
how  has  it  happened  that  this  vicar  should  be  so 
notorious,  and  one  in  much  higher  rank,  acting 
the  same  part,  should  have  escaped  notice?  Dr. 
Kitchen,  Bishop  of  Llandaff,  from  an  idle  abbot 
under  Henry  VIII.  was  made  a  busy  bishop; 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


987 


Protestant  under  Edward,  he  returned  to  his  old 
master  under  Mary;  and  at  last  took  the  oath  of 
supremacy  under  Elizabeth,  and  finished  as  a 
Parliament  Protestant.  A  pun  spread  the  odium 
of  his  name,  for  they  said  that  he  had  always 
loved  the  Kitchen  better  than  the  Church. — Dis¬ 
raeli’s  Curiosities  of  Literature. 

Page  922. — What  Mr.  Robinson  Thinks. — This 
satire  was  written  to  ridicule  the  habit  of  compar¬ 
atively  obscure  personages  writing  long  letters  to 
the  newspapers  supporting  this  or  that  candidate. 
The  General  C.  mentioned  in  the  poem  is  Gen. 
Caleb  Cushing,  afterward  Attorney-General  of 
the  United  States.  During  his  absence  at  the 
head  of  his  troops  in  the  Mexican  war  he  was 
nominated  for  Governor  of  Massachusetts,  but 
was  not  elected. 

Page  929. — The  Diverting  History  of  John 
Gilpin. — Mr.  Beyer,  an  eminent  linen-draper  at 
the  end  of  Paternoster  Row,  where  it  adjoins  to 
Cheapside — who  died  on  the  11th  of  May,  1791,  at 
the  ripe  age  of  ninety-eight — is  reported  upon 
tolerable  authority  to  have  undergone  in  his 
earlier  days  the  adventure  which  Cowper  has 
depicted  in  his  ballad  of  “  John  Gilpin.”  It  ap¬ 
pears  from  Southey’s  life  of  the  poet  that,  among 
the  efforts  which  Lady  Austen  from  time  to  time 
made  to  dispel  the  melancholy  of  Cowper,  was  her 
recital  of  a  story  told  to  her  in  her  childhood  of 
an  attempted  but  unlucky  pleasure-party  of  a 
London  linen-draper,  ending  in  his  being  carried 
past  his  point  both  in  going  and  returning,  and 
finally  brought  home  by  his  contrarious  beast, 
without  ever  having  come  in  contact  with  his 
longing  family  at  Edmonton.  Cowper  is  said  to 
have  been  extremely  amused  by  the  story,  and 
kept  awake  by  it  the  great  part  of  the  ensuing 
night,  during  which  he  probably  laid  the  foun¬ 
dations  of  his  ballad  embodying  the  incidents. 
This  was  in  October,  1782. 

Southey’s  account  of  the  origin  of  the  ballad 
may  be  consistent  with  truth;  but  any  one  who 
candidly  reads  the  marriage  adventure  of  Com¬ 
modore  Trunnion,  in  Peregrine  Pickle,  will  be 
forced  to  own  that  what  is  effective  in  the  nar¬ 
ration  previously  existed  there. — Chambers’ s  Book 
of  Days. 

Page  935. — The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the 
Knife-Grinder. — In  this  poem  Canning  ridicules 
the  youthful  Jacobin  effusions  of  Southey,  in  which, 
he  says,  it  was  sedulously  inculcated  that  there 
was  a  natural  and  eternal  warfare  between  the 
poor  and  the  rich.  The  Sapphic  rhymes  of  Sou¬ 
they  afforded  a  tempting  subject  for  ludicrous 
parody,  and  Canning  quotes  the  following  stan¬ 
za,  lest  he  should  be  suspected  of  painting  from 
fancy,  and  not  from  life : 


“  Cold  was  the  night-wind :  drifting  fast  the 
snows  fell; 

Wide  were  the  downs,  and  shelterless  and 
naked ; 

When  a  poor  wanderer  struggled  on  her  jour¬ 
ney, 

Weary  and  waysore.” 

Page  935. — Song,  by  Rogero. —  The  Rovers; 
or,  The  Double  Arrangement,  was  a  caricature 
of  the  sentimental  drama,  and  was  levelled  at 
Schiller’s  Robbers  and  Goethe’s  Stella.  The 
following  extract  will  throw  some  light  on  the 
song.  The  soliloquy  is  by  Frere,  the  song  by 
Canning  and  Ellis : 

Scene  from  “  The  Rovers.” 

(Scene  changes  to  a  subterranean  vault  in  the  Abbey 
of  Quedliuburgh,  icith  coffins,  ’ scutcheons ,  Death’s 
heads,  and  cross-bones. —  Toads  and  other  loath¬ 
some  reptiles  are  seen  traversing  the  obscurer  parts 
of  the  stage. — Rogero  appears  in  chains,  in  a  suit 
of  rusty  armor,  with  his  beard  grown  and  a  cap 
of  a  grotesque  form  upon  his  head. — Beside  him 
a  crock  or  pitcher,  supposed  to  contain  his  daily 
allowance  of  sustenance. — A  long  silence,  during 
ivhich  the  wind  is  heard  to  whistle  through  the 
caverns. — Rogero  rises  and  comes  slowly  for¬ 
ward,  with  his  arms  folded.) 

Rog.  Eleven  years!  It  is  now  eleven  years  since 
I  was  first  immured  in  this  living  sepulchre — the 
cruelty  of  a  minister — the  perfidy  of  a  monk — 
yes,  Matilda!  for  thy  sake — alive  amidst  the  dead 
— chained — coffined — confined — cut  off  from  the 
converse  of  my  fellow-men.  Soft !  what  have  we 
here?  ( Stumbles  over  a  bundle  of  sticks.)  This 
cavern  is  so  dark  that  I  can  scarcely  distinguish 
the  objects  under  my  feet.  Oh! — the  register  of 
my  captivity — let  me  see,  how  stands  the  ac¬ 
count?  (Takes  up)  the  sticks  and  turns  them  over 
with  a  melancholy  air  ;  then  stands  silent  for  a  few 
moments,  as  if  absorbed  in  calculation.)  Eleven 
years  and  fifteen  days ! — Ha !  the  twenty-eighth 
of  August !  How  does  the  recollection  of  it  vi¬ 
brate  on  my  heart!  It  was  on  this  day  that  I 
took  my  last  leave  of  my  Matilda.  It  was  a  sum¬ 
mer  evening ;  her  melting  hand  seemed  to  dis¬ 
solve  in  mine  as  I  pressed  it  to  my  bosom — some 
demon  whispered  me  that  I  should  never  see  her 
more.  I  stood  gazing  on  the  hated  vehicle  which 
was  conveying  her  away  for  ever.  The  tears  were 
petrified  under  my  eyelids.  My  heart  was  crys¬ 
tallized  with  agony.  Anon,  I  looked  along  the 
road.  The  diligence  seemed  to  diminish  every 
instant.  I  felt  my  heart  beat  against  its  prison 
as  if  anxious  to  leap  out  and  overtake  it.  My 
soul  whirled  round  as  I  watched  the  rotation  of 
the  hinder  wheels.  A  long  trail  of  glory  fol¬ 
lowed  after  her,  and  mingled  with  the  dust;  it 


988 


NOTES  EXPLANATORY  AND  CORROBORATIVE. 


was  the  emanation  of  divinity,  luminous  with 
love  and  beauty  like  the  splendor  of  the  setting 
sun,  but  it  told  me  that  the  sun  of  my  joys  was 
sunk  for  ever.  Yes,  here  in  the  depths  of  an  eter¬ 
nal  dungeon — in  the  nursing-cradle  of  hell — the 
suburbs  of  perdition — in  a  nest  of  demons,  where 
despair  in  vain  sits  brooding  over  the  putrid 
eggs  of  hope ;  where  agony  woos  the  embrace 
of  death ;  where  patience,  beside  the  bottomless 
pool  of  despondency,  sits  angling  for  impossibil¬ 
ities — yet  even  here  to  behold  her,  to  embrace 
her ! — yes,  Matilda,  whether  in  this  dark  abode, 
amidst  toads  and  spiders,  or  in  a  royal  palace, 
amidst  the  more  loathsome  reptiles  of  a  court, 
would  be  indilferent  to  me.  Ansrels  would  show- 
er  down  their  hymns  of  gratulation  upon  our 
heads,  while  fiends  would  envy  the  eternity  of 
suffering  love.  .  .  .  Soft,  what  air  was  that? 
It  seemed  a  sound  of  more  than  human  war- 
blings.  Again  (listens  attentively  for  some  min¬ 
utes).  Only  the  wind.  It  is  well,  however — it 
reminds  me  of  that  melancholy  air  which  has 
so  often  solaced  the  hours  of  my  captivity.  Let 


not  yet  injured  my  guitar.  ( Takes  his  guitar, 
tunes  it,  and  begins  the  song  icitli  a  full  accompa¬ 
niment  of  violins  from  the  orchestra.) — Morley’s 
Shorter  Poems. 

Page  936. — A  Tale  of  Drury  Laxe. — The 
opening  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  in  1802,  after 


having  been  burnt  and  rebuilt,  and  the  offering 
of  a  prize  of  fifty  pounds  by  the  manager  for 
the  best  opening  address,  were  the  circumstances 
which  suggested  the  production  of  the  Rejected 
Addresses.  The  idea  of  the  work  was  suddenly 
conceived,  and  it  was  executed  in  six  weeks. 
Of  the  examples  of  the  Rejected  Addresses  given 
in  this  book,  “A  Tale  of  Drury  Lane”  is  a  bur¬ 
lesque  imitation  of  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  poems,  “  The 
Theatre”  of  Crabbe’s,  and  “The  Baby’s  Debut” 
of  Wordsworth’s. 

Page  9j8. — Malbrouck:. — “  Malbrouck  ”  does 
not  date  from  the  battle  of  Malplaquet  (1709), 
but  from  the  time  of  the  Crusades,  six  hundred 
years  before.  According  to  a  tradition  discovered 
by  M.  de  Chateaubriand,  the  air  came  from  the 
Arabs,  and  the  tale  is  a  legend  of  Mambrou,  a 
crusader.  It  was  brought  into  fashion  during  the 
Revolution  by  Mme.  Poitrine,  who  used  to  sing  it 
to  her  royal  foster-child,  the  son  of  Louis  XVI. 
M.  Arago  tells  us  that  when  M.  Monge,  at  Cairo, 
sang  this  air  to  an  Egyptian  audience,  they  all 
knew  it,  and  joined  in  it.  Certainly  the  song  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  as 
it  is  all  about  feudal  castles  and  Eastern  wars. 
We  are  told  also  that  the  band  of  Captain  Cook, 
in  1770,  was  playing  the  air  one  day  on  the  east 
coast  of  Australia,  when  the  natives  evidently 
recognized  it,  and  seemed  enchanted. — Moniteur 
de  V Annie. — Brewer’s  Dictionary  of  Phrase  and 
Fable. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Page 


A  Baby  was  sleeping .  33 

Abide  with  me  !  fast  falls  the  eventide .  557 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!)...  644 
Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly 

drifting  .  282 

A  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound .  381 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun .  442 

A  country  life  is  sweet ! .  692 

A  dewdrop  came  with  a  spark  of  flame .  459 

A  district  school,  not  far  away .  923 

Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever  ! .  154 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride .  490 

Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave .  689 

Again  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Light .  536 

A  good  that  never  satisfies  the  mind .  656 

A  good  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one  morn .  24 

A  happy  bit  hame  this  auld  world  would  be...  706 

Ah,  Chloris  !  could  I  now  but  sit .  189 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh .  189 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love! .  97 

Ah  me  !  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn .  57 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting .  429 

Ah  !  then  how  sweetly  closed  those  crowded 

days! .  53 

Ah !  what  a  weary  race  my  feet  have  run .  508 

Ah  !  what  is  love?  It  is  a  pretty  thing .  142 

Airy,  fairy  Lilian .  203 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave .  695 

A  little  child  beneath  a  tree .  .  55 

A  little  pause  in  life  while  daylight  lingers  ...  683 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning .  186 

All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus’  name! .  536 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moor’d .  119 

All  in  the  merry  month  of  May .  417 

All  praise  to  Thee,  my  God,  this  night .  555 

“All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,”  they  say .  349 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights .  100 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom .  643 

All  yesterday  I  was  spinning .  774 

All  ye  woods,  and  trees,  and  bowers .  425 

Aloft  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag .  276 

Alone  I  walk  the  morning  street .  782 

Although  I  enter  not .  211 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell .  665 

A  monk,  when  his  rites  sacerdotal  were  o’er...  665 

An  attorney  was  taking  a  turn .  920 

An  Austrian  army,  awfully  arrayed .  960 

And  are  ye  sure  the  new3  is  true? .  10 


Page 


And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home .  39 

And  is  this  Yarrow  ? — this  the  stream .  510 

And  this  is  thy  grave,  Macaura .  221 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair .  742 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  (how  strange  a 

story  !) .  74“4 

“And  wherefore  do  the  poor  complain?” .  714 

“And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary” .  809 

And  ye  sail  walk  in  silk  attire .  147 

An  old  song  made  by  an  aged  old  pate . .  672 

A  poor  wayfaring  man  of  grief .  541 

Arethusa  arose .  460 

Ariel  to  Miranda: — Take .  732 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness .  446 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers?  660 

Art  thou  weary,  art  thou  languid .  577 

As,  by  some  tyrant’s  stern  command .  738 

As  by  the  shore  at  break  of  day . .  363 

As  I  gaed  down  by  yon  house-en’ .  412 

A  simple  child .  51 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day .  480 

As  Julia  once  a-slumbering  lay .  209 

Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea.  192 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows .  192 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here .  214 

A  slanting  ray  of  evening  light .  671 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers .  83 

As  one  who  destined  from  his  friends  to  part.  784 

A  song  of  a  boat .  21 

As  ships  becalm’d  at  eve,  that  lay .  744 

A  steed!  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed .  311 

As  thro’  the  land  at  eve  we  went .  39 

A  street  there  is  in  Paris  famous .  89 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress .  740 

A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we .  470 

A  thousand  silent  years  ago .  784 

At  midnight  in  his  guarded  tent .  347 

At  Paris  hard  by  the  Maine  barriers .  334 

At  Paris  it  was,  at  the  opera  there .  180 

At  setting  day  and  rising  morn .  195 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is 

still .  648 

At  the  gate  of  old  Granada,  when  all  its  bolts 

are  barr’d .  373 

At  the  king’s  gate  the  subtle  noon .  702 

Avenge,  O  Lord  !  thy  slaughter’d  saints,  'whose 

bones .  313 

Awake,  Alolian  lyre,  awake .  72S 


9S9 


990 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 


Awake,  awake,  my  lyre  ! . . ...o,  121 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun .  553 

Awake  thee,  my  lady-love .  178 

A  warrior  so  bold,  and  a  virgin  so  bright .  871 

“Away!  away  !”  cried  the  stout  Sir  John .  421 

Away,  away  o'er  the  feathery  crest .  696 

Away  !  let  naught  to  love  displeasing .  7 

A  weary  weed,  toss’d  to  and  fro .  463 

A  Avee  bird  came  to  our  ha’-door .  326 

A  well  there  is  in  the  wrest  country .  898 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea .  695 

Ay,  I  saw  her,  we  have  met .  195 

Ay,  this  is  freedom  !  these  pure  skies .  494 

Bachelor's  Hall !  what  a  quare-lookin'  place 

it  is  ! .  960 

Backward,  turn  backward,  0  Time,  in  your 

flight .  74 

Balow,  my  babe,  lye  stil  and  sleipe  ! .  32 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth .  740 

Beat  on,  proud  billows;  Boreas  blow .  241 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! .  196 

Because  I  oft  in  dark  abstracted  guise .  781 

Before  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee .  187 

Before  Jehovah’s  awful  throne .  546 

Before  the  beginning  of  years .  744 

Before  the  starry  threshold  of  Jove’s  court...  818 

Behold .  615 

Behold  the  sun,  that  seem’d  but  now .  556 

Behold  this  ruin  !  ’Twas  a  skull .  642 

Be  it  ryght,  or  wrong,  these  men  among .  112 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young 

charms .  162 

Ben  Battle  Avas  a  soldier  bold .  896 

Beneath  the  Avarrior’s  helm  behold .  780 

Be  seated  pray.  “  A  grave  appeal  ?  ’ .  958 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away  ! . 499 

Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived .  679 

BetAveen  the  broad  fields  of  Avheat  and  corn...  75 

BetAveen  the  dark  and  the  daylight .  45 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  Aveeping .  595 

Bird  of  the  Avilderness .  473 

Blame  not  my  Lute  !  for  he  must  sound .  190 

Blest  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he .  192 

Blest  be  Tby  loAre,  dear  Lord .  548 

Blossom  of  the  almond  trees .  457 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind .  438 

Blue-bird!  on  yon  leafless  tree .  475 

Bonny  Kilraeny  gaed  up  the  glen .  833 

Born  in  yon  blaze  of  orient  sky .  431 

Bound  upon  th’  accursed  tree .  535 

Break,  break,  break .  88 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morn¬ 
ing .  534 

Bright  flower,  whose  home  is  every Avhere .  454 

Bright  shadows  of  true  rest!  some  shoots  of 

blisse .  560 

Brothers,  the  day  declines .  552 


Page 


Brother,  thou  art  gone  before  us ;  and  thy 

saintly  soul  is  flown .  595 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee  ! .  482 

Bury  the  Great  Duke .  270 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  bride .  382 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly .  483 

By  cool  Siloam’s  shady  rill .  575 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain .  580 

By  our  camp-fires  rose  a  murmur .  322 

By  the  moon  we  sport  and  play .  793 

Call  for  the  robin  redbreast  and  the  wren .  638 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm .  565 

Cam  ye  by  Athol,  lad  wi’  the  philabeg .  326 

Can  I  see  another’s  woe .  589 

Can  I,  who  have  for  others  oft  compiled .  226 

Captain,  or  colonel,  or  knight  in  arms .  313 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night...  776 

Carol,  carol,  Christians .  530 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches .  29 

Cherry-ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry .  214 

Child,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play .  564 

Child  of  the  sun  !  pursue  thy  rapturous  flight.  4S2 

Children  are  what  the  mothers  are .  36 

Children  of  the  heavenly  King .  574 

Christians,  awake,  salute  the  happy  morn .  531 

Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day . 535 

Christ  will  gather  in  his  own .  609 

Clear  and  cool,  clear  and  cool .  461 

Clear  the  brown  path  to  meet  his  coulter’s 

gleam ! .  692 

Close  his  eyes,  his  Avork  is  done .  279 

Come,  all  ye  jolly  shepherds .  167 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death .  197 

Come,  follow,  follow  me .  793 

Come  from  my  first,  ay,  come  ! .  264 

Come  hither,  Evan  Cameron  ! .  313 

Come,  Holy  Ghost,  our  souls  inspire .  542 

Come,  Holy  Spirit,  heavenly  Dove .  542 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning.  158 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud .  177 

Come  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free .  390 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love .  140 

Come,  oh  come!  in  pious  lays .  551 

Come,  0  thou  Traveller  unknown .  571 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken 

deer .  147 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin’s  anchor  forged  !  ’tia 

at  a  Avhite  heat  noAv .  693 

Come  sleep,  O  sleep  !  the  certain  knot  of  peace.  776 

Come,  Thou  Fount  of  every  blessing .  585 

Come  to  me,  dearest,  I’m  lonely  Avithout  thee.  11 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands .  794 

Come,  ye  lofty,  come,  ye  loAvly .  530 

Come,  ye  thankful  people,  come... .  558 

Comfort  thee,  O  thou  mourner,  yet  a  Avhile....  273 
Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  Avhile  as  yet 

’tis  early  morn .  149 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 


Condemn’d  to  hope’s  delusive  mine .  245 

Consider  the  sea’s  listless  chime. .  462 

ContempJate  all  this  work  of  Time .  690 

Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas.  17 

Crabbed  age  and  youth .  756 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid .  543 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a 

cloud .  234 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  play’d .  99 

Cyriac,  this  three  years  day  these  eyes,  tho’ 

clear .  234 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power .  777 

Daughter  to  that  good  earl,  once  President....  235 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dying .  170 

Day  of  vengeance,  without  morrow  ! .  611 

Day  of  wrath!  0  day  of  mourning! .  610 

Day-stars  !  that  ope  your  frownless  eyes  to 

twinkle .  451 

Dazzled  thus  with  height  of  place .  230 

Dead  !  One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  East.  26 

Dear  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd .  2 

Dear  chorister,  who  from  those  shadows  sends.  478 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale .  498 

Dear  my  friend  and  fellow-student,  I  would 

lean  my  spirit  o’er  you  . .  104 

Deathless  principle,  arise  ! .  596 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove .  464 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows .  546 

Descend,  ye  Nine  !  descend  and  sing . .  727 

Did  Christ  o’er  sinners  weep  ? .  535 

Dies  Irae,  Dies  Ilia! .  609 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? .  578 

Do  not  beguile  my  heart .  585 

Down  the  dimpled  green-sward  dancing .  53 

Down  to  the  wharves,  as  the  sun  goes  down...  789 

Downward  sinks  the  setting  sun .  688 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  0  my 

brothers .  63 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes .  195 

Drop,  drop,  slow  tears .  544 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo . . .  144 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair....  503 

Earth,  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills .  629 

E’en  such  is  time  ;  which  takes  on  trust .  230 

Eternal  source  of  every  joy .  559 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind ! .  398 

Ethereal  Minstrel!  Pilgrim  of  the  sky! .  473 

Even  is  come:  and  from  the  dark  Park,  hark.  959 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam .  500 

Every  wedding,  says  the  proverb .  183 

Eyes  which  can  but  ill  define .  749 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime .  735 

Fair  as  the  dawn  of  the  fairest  day .  466 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see .  453 


991 


Page 


Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree .  457 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France .  298 

False  world,  thou  ly’st;  thou  canstnot  lend...  654 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  for  ever .  15 

Farewell!  but  whenever  you  welcome  the 

hour .  85 

Farewell, — farewell  to  thee,  Araby’s  daughter  !  781 

Farewell,  life  !  my  senses  swim .  637 

Farewell,  rewards  and  fairies .  833 

Farewell,  thou  busy  world,  and  may .  495 

Farewell  to  Lochaber,  and  farewell,  my  Jean.  195 

Far  from  the  world,  0  Lord,  I  flee .  582 

Far  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view .  666 

Father,  I  know  that  all  my  life .  567 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age .  545 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o’  the  sun .  637 

Fhairshon  swore  a  feud .  934 

First  time  he  kiss’d  me,  he  but  only  kiss’d .  135 

Flee  fro  the  pres,  and  duelle  with  sothfast- 

nesse .  688 

Flower  of  the  waste  !  the  heathfowl  shuns .  447 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 

braes .  515 

Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  flies  you .  124 

For  ever  with  the  Lord  ! .  597 

Fountain  of  mercy  !  God  of  Love  ! .  563 

Friend  after  friend  departs  ! .  638 

From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies., .  552 

From  beauteous  Windsor’s  high  and  storied 

halls .  504 

From  gold  to  gray .  675 

From  Greenland's  icy  mountains .  580 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony..* .  726 

From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day .  917 

From  Oberon,  in  fairy-land .  808 

From  out  the  grave  of  one  whose  budding 

years .  740 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen .  510 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies .  794 

From  the  desert  I  come  to  thee .  177 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow .  438 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen....  439 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed .  488 

Gane  were  but  the  winter  cauld .  638 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may .  123 

Genteel  in  personage .  210 

Gently,  Lcrd,  oh,  gently  lead  us .  543 

Get  up,  get  up,  for  shame  !  the  blooming  morn.  428 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body .  214 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet .  578 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before .  154 

“  Give  us  a  song  !”  the  soldiers  cried .  21 6 

Glories,  pleasures,  pomps,  delights,  and  ease.  203 

Glorious  things  of  thee  are  spoken .  598 

God  bless  the  king  ! — I  mean  the  Faith’s  De¬ 
fender .  310 

God  is  love!  Ilis  mercy  brightens .  544 


992 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 


God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an’  still .  891 

God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth...  455 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way .  543 

God  of  the  mighty  deep  !  wherever  now .  887 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king .  299 

God  rest  ye,  merry  gentlemen  ;  let  nothing 

you  dismay .  533 

God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen .  531 

God  save  our  gracious  king  ! .  355 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes .  32 

Go,  lovely  rose  ! .  185 

Good-bye,  good-bye  to  Summer! .  477 

Good-bye,  proud  world  !  I’m  going  home .  657 

Good-morrow  to  thy  sable  beak .  481 

Good-night  to  all  the  world  !  there’s  none .  618 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort .  928 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord .  912 

Go  patter  to  lubbers  and  swabs,  do  ye  see .  698 

Go,  soul,  the  body’s  guest .  655 

Go  to  dark  Gethsemane .  534 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee .  95 

Go,  youth  beloved,  in  distant  glades .  91 

Graceful  may  seem  the  fairy  form .  24 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee .  253 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass .  482 

Grown  to  man’s  stature  !  0  my  little  child  !...  682 

Guide  me,  0  Thou  great  Jehovah! .  573 

Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man .  922 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! .  481 

Hail,  Thou  once-despised  Jesus .  538 

Hail  to  the  Chief,  who  in  triumph  advances..  364 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit .  474 

Hail  to  the  Lord’s  Anointed .  537 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league .  348 

Hamelin  Town’s  in  Brunswick .  851 

Happy  me  !  0  happy  sheep .  562 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care .  .  755 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  1 .  92 

Hark!  ah,  the  nightingale  ! .  472 

Hark !  hark !  my  soul !  angelic  songs  are 

swelling .  GOO 

Hark — hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven’s  gate  sings.  439 

Hark  !  how  all  the  welkin  rings  ! .  532 

Hark,  my  soul !  it  is  the  Lord .  541 

Hark,  the  glad  sound !  the  Saviour  comes .  533 

Has  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded .  742 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mix’d  with  the 

boys? .  80 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star..  518 
Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss 

shay .  932 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell .  30 

Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance.  192 

Hear  my  prayer,  0  heavenly  Father .  564 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells .  765 

Hear  ye,  ladies  that  despise .  169 

He  came  too  late!  neglect  had  tried .  102 


Page 


He  first  deceased;  she  for  a  little  tried .  228 

Ileigh-ho!  daisies  and  buttercups .  20 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain .  625 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights .  656 

Hence  away,  thou  Siren;  leave  me .  153 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy .  733 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys .  735 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling....  639 

Here,  passenger,  beneath  this  shed .  226 

Here  rests,  and  let  no  saucy  knave .  948 

Here’s  a  health  to  ane  I  lo’e  dear .  166 

Here’s  to  thee,  my  Scottish  lassie !  here’s  a 

hearty  health  to  thee  ! .  214 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worme  lend  thee .  127 

Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with 

purple  were  dark .  361 

Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day . .  625 

He  sendeth  sun,  he  sendeth  shower .  544 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek .  180 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his  mind.  230 

He  who  died  at  Azan  sends .  681 

Hie  upon  Hielands .  419 

High  in  the  breathless  hall  the  minstrel 

sate .  223 

His  golden  locks  time  hath  to  silver  turn’d....  751 

His  steed  was  old,  his  armor  worn .  404 

Ho!  city  of  the  gay! .  268 

Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  Almighty .  546 

Home  of  the  Percy’s  high-born  race .  513 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead .  56 

Ho,  pretty  page  with  the  dimpled  chin .  87 

“Horatius  Flaccus,  B.  C.  8” .  921 

“Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea  ! .  67 

How  are  Thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord  ! .  558 

How  blest  has  my  time  been,  what  joys’have 

I  known .  2 

How  calmly  sinks  the  parting  sun  ! .  441 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my 

childhood .  74 

“  How  does  the  water .  508 

How  do  I  love  thee  ?  let  me  count  the  ways...  135 

How  fresh,  0  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean .  579 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught .  661 

How  hard,  when  those  who  do  not  wish .  951 

How  little  recks  it  where  men  die .  680 

How  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and  yet  not 

break ! .  617 

Ho  !  why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake .  715 

How  many  summers,  love .  14 

How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ? .  102 

How  seldom,  friend,  a  good  great  man  inherits.  662 

How  sleep  the  Brave  who  sink  to  rest .  363 

How  soon  hath  time,  the  subtle  thief  of  j’outh.  226 
How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright....  743 

How  sweet  the  Name  of  Jesus  sounds .  541 

How  sweet  thy  modest  light  to  view .  447 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze .  497 

Hush,  my  dear!  Lie  still  and  slumber! .  34 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


993 


Page 


I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray .  916 

I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  be .  191 

I  am  content,  I  do  not  care .  661' 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying..  .  290 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey .  679 

I  am  old  and  blind! .  235 

I  am  !  yet  what  I  am  who  cares,  or  knows?...  618 

Ian  the  !  you  are  call’d  to  cross  the  sea  ! .  213 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee .  103 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers.  444 

I  cannot  eat  but  little  meat .  917 

I  cannot  make  him  dead .  48 

I  care  not  though  it  be .  179 

I  climb’d  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Hell- 

vellyn .  514 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern .  460 

I  do  confess  thou’rt  smooth  and  fair .  148 

I  do  not  ask,  0  Lord,  that  life  may  be .  537 

I  dream’d  that  as  I  wander’d  by  the  way .  459 

I  envy  not,  in  any  moods .  6S9 

If  all  the  World  and  love  were  young .  140 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song .  440 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please .  161 

If,  dumb  too  long,  the  drooping  Muse  hath 

stay’d .  242 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale .  432 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange .  135 

If  I  live  to  grow  old,  as  I  find  I  go  down .  754 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up .  178 

If  life’s  pleasures  cheer  thee .  577 

If  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight .  214 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught .  134 

If  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  or 

chance .  406 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love  .  9 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be .  125 

If  women  could  be  fair,  and  yet  not  fond .  190 

If  you  become  a  nun,  dear .  171 

I  give  immortal  praise .  546 

I  hae  naebody  now,  I  hae  naebody  now .  83 

I  hae  seen  great  anes,  and  sat  in  great  ha’s...  1 

I  have  a  son.  a  little  son,  a  boy  just  five  years 

old .  50 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  compan¬ 
ions .  77 

I  have  ships  that  went  to  sea .  7S9 

I  hear  thee  speak  of  the  better  land .  598 

I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings .  689 

I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be .  467 

I  knew  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curl’d.  763 

I  know  not  that  the  men  of  old .  747 

I  lay  in  sorrow,  deep  distress’d .  6S7 

I  lean’d  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white 

clover .  20 

I  like  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl .  663 

I  look’d  upon  his  brow  ;  no  sign .  292 

I  love,  and  have  some  cause  to  love,  the  earth.  576 

I  loved  him  not ;  and  yet  now  he  is  gone .  141 

63 


Page 


I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly .  171 

I  loved  thee  once;  I’ll  love  no  more .  141 

I  lave  it,  I  love  it;  and  who  shall  dare .  73 

I  love  thy  kingdom,  Lord .  574 

I  love  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this .  77 

I  made  a  posy,  while  the  day  ran  by .  756 

I  mind  me  of  a  pleasant  time .  93 

I’m  in  love  with  you,  Baby  Louise! . .  29 

I’m  old,  my  dears,  and  shrivell’d  with  age,  and 

work,  and  grief. .  894 

I  mourn  no  more  my  vanish’d  years .  613 

I’m  sitting  alone  by  the  fire .  207 

I’m  sittin’  on  the  stile,  Mary .  86 

I’m  wearin’  awa’,  Jean .  636 

In  all  the  land,  range  up,  range  down .  203 

In  ancient  times,  as  story  tells .  899 

In  Clementina’s  artless  mien .  214 

In  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to  fly...  502 

I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away .  134 

In  form  and  feature,  face  and  limb .  906 

In  good  King  Charles’s  golden  days .  914 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly .  201 

In  Koln,  a  town  of  monks  and  bones .  928 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes.  455 

In  melancholic  fancy .  884 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor-boy  hay  ...  696 

In  such  a  night,  when  every  louder  wind .  434 

In  summer,  on  the  headlands . .  883 

In  the  down-hill  of  life,  when  I  find  I’m  de¬ 
clining .  674 

In  the  fair  land  o’erwatch’d  by  Ischia’s  moun¬ 
tains  .  277 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys .  871 

In  their  ragged  regimentals . . .  331 

In  the  merrie  moneth  of  Maye .  145 

In  the  ranks  of  the  Austrian  you  found  him..  364 

In  the  silent  midnight  watches .  575 

In  token  that  thou  shalt  not  fear .  563 

Into  the  Devil  Tavern .  309 

In  vain  men  tell  us  time  can  alter... .  741 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan .  848 

In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies .  244 

I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart .  171 

I  remember,  I  remember .  73 

I  reside  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is 

Truthful  James .  944 

I  saw  him  last  on  this  terrace  proud .  342 

I  saw  him  once  before . 755 

I  saw  the  young  bride  in  her  beauty  and 

pride .  5S9 

I  saw  two  clouds  at  morning .  220 

I  say  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat .  662 

Is  it  come?  they  said  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile.  748 

I  sleep  and  rest,  my  heart  makes  moan .  21 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he .  372 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty .  704 

Is  there,  where  the  winds  are  singing .  52 

Is  this  a  fast — to  keep .  587 


094 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 

It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear .  532 

I  'Link  it  was  spring — but  not  certain  I  am..  952 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free .  441 

It  is  an  ancient  mariner .  855 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crown’d  may  feel  the 

heart’s  decaying .  246 

It  is  not  beauty  I  demand .  139 

It  is  the  miller’s  daughter .  155 

It’s  h  ame,  and  it’s  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be.  357 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray .  117 

It  was  a  summer  evening .  677 

It  was  a  time  of  sadness,  and  my  heart .  590 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago .  410 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! .  529 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow .  138 

I’ve  a  letter  from  thy  sire .  25 

I’ve  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking _  306 

I’ve  wander’d  east,  I’ve  wander’d  west .  118 

I’ve  wander’d  to  the  village,  Tom,  I’ve  sat 

beneath  the  tree  .  .  78 

I  wander’d  by  the  brookside .  169 

I  wander’d  lonely  as  a  cloud .  452 

I  was  a  young  fair  tree .  458 

I  was  thy  Neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  Pile  ! ..  505 

I  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead  ! .  253 

I  weigh  not  fortune's  frown  or  smile .  660 

I  will  not  let  you  say  a  woman’s  part .  188 

I  will  not  say  that  thou  wast  true .  213 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies .  402 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies .  403 

I  worship  thee,  sweet  Will  of  God  ! .  566 

I  would  have  gone;  God  bade  me  stay .  591 

I  would  I  were  an  excellent  divine .  552 

I  would  not  live  alway — live  alway  below  !....  593 

Jenny  kiss’d  me  when  we  met  .  186 

Jesu,  lover  of  my  soul .  540 

Jesu,  my  strength,  my  hope .  579 

Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken .  539 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John .  8 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his 

dying  day .  279 

John  Bull  for  pastime  took  a  prance .  948 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen .  929 

Joy  to  the  world  !  the  Lord  is  come .  549 

Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea .  5CS 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us .  263 

Just  where  the  Treasury’s  marble  front .  8SC 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  king .  310 

•  Ken  ye  aught  of  brave  Lochiel? .  325 

King  Almanzor  of  Granada,  he  hath  bid  the 

trumpets  sound .  408 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king,  and  loved  a 

royal  sport .  411 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Yere .  210 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed .  657 


Page 


Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium .  283 

Late  at  e’en,  drinking  the  wine .  381 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse .  212 

Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  th’  encircling  gloom.  569 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall .  630 

Let  me  move  slowly  through  the  street .  647 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds .  ...  218 

Let  Observation,  with  extensive  view .  649 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go .  498 

Life!  I  know  not  what  thou  art .  613 

Like  as  the  culver,  on  the  bared  bough .  190 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see .  626 

Like  as  the  waves  make  toward  the  pebbled 

shore .  753 

Like  the  violet,  which  alone .  179 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere .  123 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star .  688 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear .  329 

Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen .  368 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone .  47 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-<?loak’d 

clown .  707 

“Live  while  you  live  !”  the  epicure  would  say.  574 

Lochiel,  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day .  323 

Lo  !  He  comes  with  clouds  descending .  611 

Lo !  here  a  little  volume,  but  great  book .  586 

Lone  upon  a  mountain,  the  pine  trees  wailing 

round  him .  172 

Long  did  I  toil,  and  knew  no  earthly  rest .  569 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes .  30 

Look  out,  bright  eyes,  and  bless  the  air! .  1S4 

Lord,  dismiss  us  with  thy  blessing .  612 

Lord,  it  belongs  not  to  my  care .  566 

Lord  John  stood  in  his  stable-door...  .  412 

Lord  Lovel  he  stood  at  his  castle-gate .  198 

Lord,  shall  thy  children  come  to  Thee? .  5S2 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell .  5^9 

Lord,  with  glowing  heart  I’d  praise  Thee .  548 

Loud  is  the  summer’s  busy  song .  432 

Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee  .  98 

Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes .  98 

Love  is  the  blossom  where  there  blows .  98 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind  ! .  659 

Love  not,  love  not!  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  !..  187 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace .  139 

Love  still  hath  something  of  the  sea .  99 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one! .  35 

Lo  !  where  the  rosy-bosom’d  Hours. .  427 

“Lullaby,  0,  lullaby!’’ . 903 


Magnificent  thy  fate  ! . 

Maiden  !  with  the  meek  brown  eyes.... 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part . 

Maid  of  my  love,  sweet  Genevieve . 

“  Make  way  for  liberty  !” — he  cried . 

Malbrouck,  the  prince  of  commanders. 

Many  a  long,  long  year  ago . 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale 


350 

66 

145 

155 

297 

948 

927 

358 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


995 


Page 


Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain .  616 

Mary  !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings .  245 

Matron  !  the  children  of  whose  love .  682 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer’s  day .  167 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie .  199 

May!  queen  of  blossoms .  428 

May  the  Babylonish  curse .  919 

M'Kinnon’s  tall  mast  salutes  the  day .  878 

Men  of  England  !  who  inherit .  356 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood .  838 

Merry  Margaret .  225 

Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here .  633 

Methought  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay.  739 

Midnight  past !  Not  a  sound  of  aught .  199 

’Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may 

roam .  I 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! .  452 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour..  240 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill .  6 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming 

of  the  Lord .  354 

Miss  Flora  M’Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square....  708 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear . . .  504 

Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn .  327 

Much  have  I  travell’d  in  the  realms  of  gold...  739 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die .  1S5 

My  beautiful!  my  beautiful!  that  staniest 

meekly  by .  492 

My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May .  940 

My  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there .  707 

My  country,  ’tis  of  thee .  354 

My  curse  upon  thy  venom’d  stang . .  953 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  pass’d .  737 

My  days  pass  pleasantly  away .  751 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray .  193 

My  earrings!  my  earrings!  they’ve  dropp’d 

into  the  well .  183 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you..  72 

My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee .  538 

My  God  and  Father,  while  I  stray .  566 

My  God,  now  I  from  sleep  awake .  557 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains.  478 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold .  444 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here .  358 

My  letters !  all  dead  paper,  .  .  .  mute  and 

white  ! .  135 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose .  616 

My  life,  which  was  so  straight  and  plain  .  617 

My  little  love,  do  you  remember .  85 

M  v  Lord  Tomnoddy  got  up  one  day .  941 

My  lov’d,  my  honor’d,  much-respected  friend.  3 

My  love  and  I  for  kisses  play’d .  156 

My  love  he  built  me  a  bonny  bower .  417 

My  lute,  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  didst 

grow .  734 

My  luve  is  like  a  red,  red  rose .  157 

My  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is .  737 


Page 


My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild .  37 

My  pipe  is  lit,  my  grog  is  mix’d .  902 

My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares .  688 

My  sheep  I  neglected,  I  broke  my  sheep- 

hook  . 200 

My  soul  to-day .  465 

Mysterious  night !  when  our  first  parent  knew.  441 

My  time,  0  ye  Muses,  was  happily  spent .  173 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his...  127 

Nae  shoon  to  hide  her  tiny  taes .  41 

Naked  on  parent's  knees,  a  new-born  child 50 

Near  a  small  village  in  the  West .  911 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee .  564 

“  Needy  knife-grinder,  whither  are  you  going  ?  935 

Never  any  more .  211 

News  of  battle  ! — news  of  battle  ! .  302 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest .  687 

Nobles  and  heralds,  by  your  leave .  241 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead .  219 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea .  378 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note .  252 

Not  as  all  other  women  are .  208 

Nothing  but  leaves;  the  Spirit  grieves .  578 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments .  752 

Not  ours  the  vows  of  such  as  plight .  101 

Now  gentle  sleep  hath  closed  up  those  eyes...  156 
Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom 

all  glories  are  ! .  307 

Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  deare .  53 

Now  poor  Tom  Dunstan’s  cold .  702 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day’s  harbinger.  427 
Now  there’s  peace  on  the  shore,  now  there’s 

calm  on  the  sea .  357 

Now  the  third  and  fatal  conflict  for  the  Per¬ 
sian  throne  was  done .  291 


O  blithe  new-comer  !  I  have  heard . . 

O  day  most  calm,  most  bright! . 

Och  !  the  Coronation  !  what  celebration 
O  Death  !  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody  !. 

O'er  a  low  couch  the  setting  sun . 

O  faint,  delicious,  spring-time  violet!... 

0  fair  and  stately  maid,  whose  eyes . 

O  fairest  of  the  rural  maids  ! . 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart . 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time  . 

Of  all  the  ships  upon  the  blue . 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are . 

Of  a’  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw..  . 

Of  Leinster,  famed  for  maidens  fair . 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North . 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark . 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  (4 ray . 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night . 

O  God  of  Bethel,  by  whose  hand . 

0  God  !  whose  thunder  shakes  the  sky  . 
Oh  !  a  dainty  plant  is  the  ivy  green . 


480 

560 

956 

247 

621 

453 

217 

779 

120 

371 

954 

622 

126 

197 

341 

686 

56 

77 

587 

565 

456 


996 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 


9  happy  soul  that  lives  on  high .  575 

0  happy  Thames  that  didst  my  Stella  bear!..  191 
Oh,  breathe  not  his  name  !  let  it  sleep  in  the 

shade .  .  252 

Oh,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair .  176 

Oh,  England  is  a  pleasant  place  for  them 

that’s  rich  and  high .  419 

Oh,  ever  skill’d  to  wear  the  form  we  love’! .  663 

Oh,  for  a  closer  walk  with  God .  564 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! .  899 

Oh,  hadst  thou  never  shared  my  fate .  9 

Oh,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own.  194 

Oh,  happy  is  the  man  who  hears .  575 

Oh,  how  kindly  hast  Thou  led  me .  570 

Oh,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous 

seem .  753 

Oh  !  it  is  great  for  our  country  to  die  where 

the  ranks  are  contending .  365 

Oh,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God .  572 

Oh,  it  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease .  446 

Oh  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay! .  403 

“Oh,  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home .  417 

Oh,  my  love's  like  the  steadfast  sun .  18 

Oh,  never  talk  again  to  me .  146 

Oh  no,  no, — let  me  lie .  677 

Oh  !  once  the  harp  of  Innisfail .  395 

Oh  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley .  145 

Oh,  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines .  102 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early 

light .  353 

Oh,  say  what  is  that  thing  call’d  Light .  67 

Oh,  sing  unto  my  roundelay! .  147 

Oh  !  snatch’d  away  in  beauty’s  bloom .  743 

Oh,  St.  Patrick  was  a  gentleman .  924 

Oh  !  take  away  my  wig  and  gown .  921 

Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story...  157 
Oh  that  those  lips  had  language  !  Life  has 

pass’d .  15 

Oh,  the  gallant  fisher's  life! .  468 

Oh  !  the  pleasant  days  of  old,  which  so  often 

people  praise! .  747 

Oh  !  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow .  720 

Oh,  the  sweet  contentment .  496 

Oh,  timety  happy,  timely  wise .  553 

Oh  waly  waly  up  the  bank .  103 

Oh,  weel  may  the  boatie  row .  701 

Oh  welcome,  bat  and  owlet  gray .  481 

Oh  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms ! .  865 

Oh,  what  will  a’  the  lads  do .  161 

Oh  wha  will  shoe  my  fair  foot .  394 

Oh,  wherefore  come  ye  forth  in  triumph  from 

the  north .  311 

Oh,  why  left  I  my  hame? .  362 

Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud?  627 

Oh,  will  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news? .  955 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good .  689 

Oh,  young  Lochimvar  is  come  out  of  the  West.  136 
0  Jesu,  thou  art  standing .  550 


Page 


Old  girl  that  has  borne  me  far  and  fast .  493 

Old  Grimes  is  dead;  that  good  old  man .  912 

Old  letters  !  wipe  away  the  tear .  88 

Old  wine  to  drink  ! .  749 

O  Lord,  another  day  is  flown .  563 

0  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it’s  you  I  love  the 

best! .  .  122 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  ! .  147 

0  melancholy  bird  !  a  winter’s  day .  472 

0  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? .  163 

O  moon  that  shinest  on  this  heathy  wild .  446 

0  mother  dear,  Jerusalem .  602 

0  Mother  Earth  !  upon  thy  lap .  262 

On  a  day,  alack  the  day  ! .  141 

On  a  hill  there  grows  a  flower .  182 

0  Nanny,  wilt  thou  go  with  me .  161 

Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee....  348 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past . . .  618 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet’s  sands .  676 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pon¬ 
dered,  weak  and  weary .  849 

One  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing . 683 

One  day,  as  I  was  going  by .  904 

On  either  side  the  river  lie .  88S 

One  more  Unfortunate .  719 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought .  587 

One  time  my  soul  was  pierced  as  with  a 

sword .  43 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned .  148 

O  nightingale,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray .  478 

On  Leven’s  banks,  while  free  to  rove .  515 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low .  340 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows .  639 

On  the  eighth  day  of  March  it  was,  some  peo¬ 
ple  say .  943 

On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred 

ninety-two .  319 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake .  521 

On  yonder  hill  a  castle  standes .  385 

0  Paradise  !  O  Paradise  ! .  601 

O  reader  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see .  458 

Orpheus  with  his  lute  made  trees .  732 

O  stream  descending  to  the  sea .  614 

O  Thou,  from  whom  all  goodness  flows .  584 

0  Thou,  the  contrite  sinners’  friend .  539 

O  Time,  who  know’st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay —  686 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried .  331 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud 

had  lower’d .  S3 

Our  God,  our  help  in  ages  past .  549 

Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air .  366 

Our  life  is  twofold  :  sleep  hath  its  own  world..  790 
Our  wean’s  the  most  wondcrfu’  wean  e’er  I 

saw .  42 

Out  and  in  the  river  is  winding .  680 

Out  of  the  church  she  follow'd  them .  188 

Over  hill,  over  dale .  ”94 

Over  the  mountains .  0” 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


997 


Page 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me .  629 

0  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  autumn’s 

being . 436 

0  World  !  0  Life  !  0  Time  ! .  766 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome,  day .  215 

Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods  and  streams.  1S2 
Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us...  691 

Peace  in  the  clover-scented  air .  365 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu .  359 

Piped  the  blackbird  on  the  beechwood  spray..  38 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild .  68 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man .  717 

Pleasant  are  Thy  courts  above .  600 

Poor  lone  Hannah .  698 

Poor  Soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth .  753 

“Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow”..  5S3 

Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise .  648 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire .  563 

Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin.  . .  163 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood .  890 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair .  446 

Quhy  dois  zour  brand  sae  drop  wi’  bluid .  380 

Quivering  fears,  heart-tearing  cares .  467 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou .  779 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow .  767 

Restless  forms  of  living  light .  469 

Ride  on,  ride  on  in  majesty  ! .  534 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky .  690 

Rise,  my  soul,  and  stretch  thy  wings .  570 

“Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa !  lay  the  golden 

cushion  down .  209 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me .  540 

“Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! .  293 

Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going .  614 

Saint  Augustine!  well  hast  thou  said .  679 

Saviour,  when  in  dust  to  Thee .  539 

Saviour,  who  Thy  flock  art  feeding .  540 

Saw  ye  my  wee  thing,  saw  ye  my  ain  thing...  164 

Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again .  134 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet;  Critic,  you  have 

frown’d .  781 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled .  295 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness!  .  435 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him .  221 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love ! .  160 

See  the  course  throng’d  with  gazers,  the 

sports  are  begun .  488 

See  with  what  simplicity .  240 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer’s  day? .  220 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love? .  123 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair .  169 

Shed  no  tear  !  oh,  shed  no  tear ! .  793 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways .  49 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing . .  9 


Page 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young 

hero  sleeps .  275 

She  is  my  only  girl.... .  41 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view .  172 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair .  495 

She’s  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie .  218 

She  sits  in  a  fashionable  parlor .  922 

She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh .  216 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn .  144 

She  walks  in  beauty  like  the  night .  741 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight . . .  10 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot .  81 

Shout  the  glad  tidings,  exultingly  sing .  533 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more .  187 

Silence,  in  truth,  would  speak  my  sorrow  best.  228 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye  ! .  506 

Since  I  did  leave  the  presence  of  my  love .  190 

Since  there’s  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and  part.  170 

Since  Thou  hast  added  now,  O  God  ! .  554 

Sing,  I  pray,  a  little  song .  ...  39 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing  ! .  469 

Sir  Marmaduke  was  a  hearty  knight .  784 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine  ! .  87 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! .  32 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee .  36 

Sleep  on,  baby  on  the  floor .  33 

Slowly  England's  sun  was  setting  o’er  the  hill¬ 
tops  far  away .  404 

Sly  Beelzebub  on  all  occasions . .  959 

So  cruel  prison  how  could  betide,  alas  ! .  222 

So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn .  267 

Softly .  638 

Softly  now  the  light  of  day .  552 

Soldier,  rest!  thy  warfare  o’er .  700 

Some  dreams  we  have  are  nothing  else  but 

dreams .  866 

Some  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear .  658 

Sometimes  a  light  surprises .  573 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street .  76 

Some  years  ago,  ere  time  and  taste .  913 

Songs  of  praise  the  angels  sang .  5S8 

Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone .  504 

Sound  fife,  and  cry  the  slogan .  317 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o’er  Egypt’s  dark  scat.  550 
Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden.  448 
Speak  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  north¬ 
ward  far  away .  345 

Speak  low !  tread  softly  through  these  halls...  738 

“  Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! .  864 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice ;  thou.  442 
Spring,  the  sweet  spring,  is  the  year’s  pleas¬ 
ant  king . 427 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air..  431 

St.  Agnes’  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! .  127 

Stand  !  the  ground’s  your  own,  my  braves! ...  329 

Stand  the  omnipotent  decree  ! .  585 

St.  Anthony  at  church .  915 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee .  447 


098 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 


Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy’s  sake .  46 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! .  664 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest .  740 

Still  young  and  fine,  but  what  is  still  in  view.  443 

Strike  the  bells  wantonly .  764 

Such  was  old  Chaucer :  such  the  placid  mien  .  225 

Sun  of  my  soul,  Thou  Saviour  dear .  555 

Survey  this  shield,  all  bossy  bright .  936 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low  .  31 

Sweet  ai*e  the  charms  of  her  I  love .  154 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savor  of  content.  660 
Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain.  756 

Sweet  baby,  sleep  !  what  ails  my  dear? .  34 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes .  210 

Sweet  bird !  that  sing’st  away  the  early 

hours .  477 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright .  662 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower . :..  65 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well .  517 

Sweet  is  the  rose,  but  grows  upon  a  brere .  780 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies .  618 

Sweet  is  the  voice  that  calls .  434 

Sweetly  breathing,  vernal  air .  431 

Sweet  nurslings  of  the  vernal  skies .  448 

Sweet  poet  of  the  woods — a  long  adieu! .  4S0 

Sweet  Saviour  !  bless  us  ere  we  go .  556 

Sweet  Spring !  thou  turn’st  with  all  thy 

goodly  train .  .  425 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave .  442 

Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away .  184 

Tasteful  illumination  of  the  night .  483 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King .  544 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean.  91 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers .  615 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkinde .  124 

Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred .  838 

Ternissa,  you  are  fled .  196 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day .  610 

That  time  of  year  thou  rnay’st  in  me  behold...  219 

That  way  look,  my  Infant,  lo  ! .  485 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined .  185 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the 

fold .  283 

The  baby  wept .  45 

The  “  Ballyshannon  ”  foundered  off  the  coast 

of  Cariboo  .  925 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out .  839 

The  bonnie,  bonnie  bairn,  who  sits  poking  in 

the  ase .  37 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck .  345 

The  breaking  waves  dash’d  high .  308 

The  castle-clock  had  toll’d  midnight .  312 

The  child  leans  on  its  parent’s  breast . .  573 

The  chimes,  the  chimes  of  Motherland .  503 

The  crackling  embers  on  the  hearth  are  dead.  775 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day .  630 

The  day  is  cold  and  dark  and  dreary .  775 


Page 


The  day  is  done  and  the  darkness .  774 

The  day  of  tumult,  strife,  defeat,  was  o’er....  273 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall .  379 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to 

blink .  487 

The  doubt  which  we  misdeem,  fair  love,  is 

vain .  101 

The  dule’s  i’  this  bonnet  o’  mine .  166 

The  dusky  night  rides  down  the  sky .  493 

Thee  finds  me  in  the  garden,  Hannah, — come 

in!  ’Tis  kind  of  thee .  22 

“Thee,  Mary,  with  this  ring  I  wed” .  10 

The  Emperor  Nap  he  would  set  off. .  949 

The  farmer  sat  in  his  easy-chair .  6 

The  farmer’s  wife  sat  at  the  door .  699 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear .  238 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river .  97 

The  fourteenth  of  July  had  come .  332 

The  gallant  youth  who  may  have  gain’d .  511 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state .  623 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise .  583 

The  groves  of  Blarney  they  look  so  charming.  516 

The  hag  is  astride . 875 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara’s  halls .  362 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed .  186 

The  hosts  of  Don  Rodrigo  were  scatter’d  in 

dismay .  290 

The  house  is  dark  and  dreary .  785 

The  isles  of  Greece!  the  isles  of  Greece! .  360 

The  Jester  shook  his  hood  and  bells,  and 

leap’d  upon  a  chair .  916 

The  king  can  drink  the  best  of  wine .  705 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town .  367 

The  kings  who  ruled  mankind  with  haughty 

sway .  S92 

The  king  with  all  his  kingly  train .  328 

The  Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley 

Moor .  387 

The  lady  lay  in  her  bed .  714 

The  laird  o’  Cockpen  lie’s  proud  and  he’s  great.  892 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest .  472 

The  lass  of  Patie’s  mill .  155 

The  little  gate  was  reach’d  at  last .  217 

The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again .  778 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare .  561 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of 

the  j'ear .  456 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn .  440 

The  mighty  sun  had  just  gone  down .  268 

The  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down .  295 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime .  723 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes .  180 

The  night  is  come;  like  to  the  day .  556 

The  night  is  dark,  and  the  winter  winds .  12 

The  night  was  made  for  cooling  shade .  465 

The  noble  king  of  Brentford .  906 

The  old  mayor  climb'd  the  belfry-tower .  415 

The  Ordeal’s  fatal  trumpet  sounded .  145 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


999 


Page 


The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill .  82 

The  play  is  done,  the  curtain  drops .  673 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead .  482 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses .  764 

There  be  none  of  Beauty’s  daughters .  157 

There  be  those  who  sow  beside .  617 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin.  359 

There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep . . .  641 

There  is  a  dwelling-place  above .  599 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face .  185 

There  is  a  happy  land . . .  599 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight .  599 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watch’d  and  tended.  646 
There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so 

sweet .  517 

There  lived,  as  Fame  reports,  in  days  of  yore.  945 

There’s  a  good  time  coming,  boys .  750 

There’s  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly 

round  trot .  722 

There’s  music  in  the  morning  air .  561 

There’s  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover..  19 
There’s  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that 

it  takes  away .  656 

There  was  a  jovial  beggar .  918 

There  was  a  lady  lived  at  Leith .  896 

There  was  a  may,  and  a  weel-fared  may .  393 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and 

stream .  644 

There  was  once  a  gentle  time .  156 

There  were  ninety  and  nine  that  safely  lay...  581 

There  were  three  ravens  sat  on  a  tree .  411 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  City .  909 

There  were  two  sisters  sat  in  a  hour .  418 

The  rich  man’s  son  inherits  land .  705 

The  roses  grew  so  thickly .  456 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these.  423 

The  sea  !  the  sea  !  the  open  sea  ! .  462 

These  to  His  memory — since  he  held  them 

dear .  280 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast .  785 

The  shivering  column  of  the  moonlight  lies...  518 

“The  sky  is  clouded,  the  rocks  are  bare . .  785 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming . .  437 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 

brings .  425 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high . . .  545 

The  Spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound .  392 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle-walls .  502 

The  stars  above  will  make  thee  known  .  225 

Thu  stately  Homes  of  England .  1 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet .  409 

The  Summer,  the  divinest  Summer  burns .  433 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o’er  the  lofty  Ben- 

iomond . 163 

Tho  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear .  201 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France .  358 

The  tempest  has  darken’d  tho  face  of  the  skies  462 
The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain .  446 


Pagb 


The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my 

brain .  520 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found .  619 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past .  245 

The  wanton  troopers,  riding  by .  501 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is 

wailing .  436 

The  wife  sat  thoughtfully  turning  over . .  12 

The  wisest  of  the  wise .  751 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall...  787 
The  world  goes  up  and  the  world  goes  down..  780 

The  world  is  very  evil .  604 

The  World’s  a  bubble,  and  the  Life  of  Man...  613 

The  wretch,  condemn’d  with  life  to  part .  785 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light .  597 

They  come !  the  merry  summer  months  of 

beauty,  song,  and  flowers  .  430 

They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side .  28 

“  They  made  her  a  grave  too  cold  and  damp..  422 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love .  162 

They  sat  and  comb’d  their  beautiful  hair .  786 

They  say  that  God  lives  very  high .  44 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and  will  do 

none .  754 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine, — it  tells  of 

good  old  times .  90 

This  figure,  that  thou  here  seest  put .  230 


This  is  the  Arsenal.  From  floor  to  ceiling _  521 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn...  523 
This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign  ..  470 


This  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire .  233 

This  night  is  my  departing  night .  056 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie...  233 

This  was  the  ruler  of  the  land .  289 

This  winter’s  weather  itt  waxeth  cold .  901 

Those  evening  bells!  those  evening  bells! .  764 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  ;  but  we  will  not 

deplore  thee . . .  594 

Thou  art,  O  God  !  the  life  and  light .  551 

Thou  blossom,  bright  witli  autumn  dew .  455 

Thou  chronicle  of  crimes!  I  read  no  more....  352 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech .  782 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf! .  903 

Thou  hast  made  me,  and  shall  Thy  work 

decay?..- .  565 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie .  157 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray .  137 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea .  471 

Thou  still  unravish’d  bride  of  quietness  ! .  746 

Thou,  to  whom  the  world  unknown .  776 

Thou  unrelenting  Past! .  91 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the  west...  699 

Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born .  240 

Threescore  o’  nobles  rade  up  the  king’s  ha’...  406 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower .  49 

Thrice,  at  the  huts  of  Fontcnoy,  the  English 

column  fail’d .  321 

Thrice  happy  he,  who  by  some  shady  grove...  658 


1000 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 

Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream .  384 

Thy  cheek  is  o’  the  rose’s  hue .  202 

Thy  goodness,  Lord,  our  souls  confess .  562 

Thy  summer  voice,  Musketaquit .  764 

Thy  voice  is  heard  thro’  rolling  drums . .  743 

Tiger!  tiger!  burning  bright .  494 

Timely  blossom,  infant  fair .  35 


Time  wasteth  years,  and  months,  and  hours...  172 
Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry  ...  219 
’Tis  midnight’s  holy  hour,  and  silence  now....  95 


’Tis  Morn  : — the  sea-breeze  seems  to  bring .  14 

’Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  merry  lark .  472 

’Tis  sweet  to  view,  from  half-past  five  to  six..  938 

’Tis  the  last  rose  of  Summer .  456 

’Tis  the  middle  of  the  night  by  the  castle- 

clock  .  841 

’Tis  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer’s  night....  810 

’Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved .  88 

’Tis  twenty  years,  and  something  more .  79 

To  battle  !  to  battle  ! .  310 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear .  21 

To  draw  no  envy  (Shakespeare)  on  thy  name.  228 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb .  637 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds .  624 

Toiling  in  the  naked  fields .  702 

To  live  in  hell,  and  heaven  to  behold .  212 

To  make  this  condiment,  your  poet  begs .  959 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old .  752 

Too  late  I  stay’d, — forgive  the  crime.! .  779 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent .  499 

To  praise  thy  life,  or  waile  thy  worthie  death.  227 

To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain .  182 

To  the  chase  goes  Rodrigo,  with  hound  and 

with  hawk .  292 

To  the  lords  of  convention  ’twas  Claverhouse 

who  spoke .  316 

T’other  day,  as  I  was  twining .  103 

To  these,  whom  death  again  did  wed .  635 

To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet .  220 

To  thy  lover .  126 

To  Thy  temple  I  repair .  561 

Touch  us  gently,  Time! .  751 

To  wake  the  soul  by  tender  strokes  of  art .  242 

Tread  softly, — bow  the  head .  721 

Triumphal  arch  that  fill’st  the  sky .  444 

Trust  not,  sweet  soul,  thosecurled  wavesof  gold  741 

“  Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale .  159 

Turn  I  my  looks  unto  the  skies .  156 

’Twas  a  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago .  927 

Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won .  724 

’Twas  at  the  silent  solemn  hour .  175 

’Twas  in  the  prime  of  summer-time .  375 

’Twas  morn,  and  beauteous  on  the  mountain’s 

brow .  518 

’Twas  morn — but  not  the  ray  which  falls  the 

summer  boughs  among .  264 

’Twas  on  a  Monday  morning .  325 

’Twas  on  the  shores  that  round  our  coast .  910 


Page 


’Twas  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all 

through  the  house .  67 

’Twas  when  the  seas  were  roaring .  125 

’Twas  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the  birk  tree 

was  fa’in .  202 

Twelve  years  ago  I  made  a  mock .  79 

“  Two  hands  upon  the  breast .  620 

Tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin .  217 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut  tree .  693 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window .  53 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse .  233 

Under  the  greenwood  tree .  457 

Under  yonder  beech  tree  standing  on  the 

green  sward .  142 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn .  350 

Up  from  the  south,  at  break  of  day .  351 

Up  !  quit  thy  bower;  late  wears  the  hour .  499 

Up  the  airy  mountain .  794 

Up  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne .  433 

Up  to  the  hills  I  lift  mine  eyes .  583 

Up  with  me  !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! .  473 

Vain  world,  what  is  in  thee? .  592 

Versailles! — Up  the  chestnut  alley .  327 

Verse,  a  breeze  ’mid  blossoms  straying .  94 

Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more .  623 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame .  596 

Wanton  droll,  whose  harmless  play .  484 

Was  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell .  628 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night .  523 

Way  down  upon  de  Swannee  llibbcr .  18 

We  are  all  here .  1 7 

We  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep .  615 

We  are  the  sweet  Flowers .  449 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  1 .  717 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest .  626 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower .  454 

Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan .  786 

Weep  with  me,  all  you  that  read .  232 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow’rin’,  tim’rous  beastie .  483 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town .  41 

We  hail  this  morn .  250 

Welcome,  welcome,  do  I  sing .  125 

We  meet  ’neath  the  sounding  rafter .  787 

We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night .  85 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain .  99 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte .  895 

We  see  not,  know  not;  all  our  way .  568 

We  sing  the  praise  of  Him  who  died .  535 

We  the  fairies,  blithe  and  antic .  794 

We  watch’d  her  breathing  through  the  night..  625 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin .  38 

We  were  not  many — we  who  stood .  348 

We  wreathed  about  our  darling’s  head .  49 

What  ails  this  heart  o’  mine? .  199 

What  an  image  of  peace  and  rest .  522 

What  are  these  in  bright  array .  598 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


1001 


Page 

What  beck’ning  ghost,  along  the  moonlight 


shade . .  635 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail  ? .  480 

What  constitutes  a  state? .  363 

What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes  springs.  795 
What  hid’st  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and 

cells .  463 

What  I  shall  leave  thee,  none  can  tell .  233 

What  is  the  meaning  of  the  song .  146 

What  need  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honor’d 

bones .  230 

What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours..  101 
What’s  hallow’d  ground  ?  Has  earth  a  clod..  633 

What  state  of  life  can  be  so  blest .  213 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan .  723 

When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through 

the  broad  earth’s  aching  breast .  343 

When  age  hath  made  me  what  I  am  not  now.  755 
When  a’  ither  bairnies  are  hush’d  to  their  harae.  46 

When  all  is  done  and  said .  658 

When  all  Thy  mercies,  0  ray  God .  547 

When  as  in  faire  Jerusalem  .  374 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven’s  command .  355 

Whence  comes  my  love?  O,  heart,  disclose...  124 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street .  873 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay .  625 

Whene’er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view .  935 

When  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy . .  165 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height .  353 

When  gathering  clouds  around  I  view .  569 

When  God  at  first  made  Man .  662 

When  he  whispers,  “0  Miss  Bailey .  954 

When  hope  lies  dead  within  the  heart .  685 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall .  438 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent .  234 

When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time.  752 
When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men’s  eyes.  219 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time .  220 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved .  550 

When  I  survey  the  bright .  775 

When  I  survey  the  wondrous  cross .  547 

When  I  upon  thy  bosom  lean .  7 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly .  687 

When  Love,  with  unconfined  wings .  124 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die .  741 

When  marshall’d  on  the  nightly  plain .  577 

When  May  is  in  his  prime,  and  youthful 

Spring .  428 

When  midnight  o’er  the  moonless  skies .  94 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young .  730 

When  o’er  the  mountain  steeps .  433 

When  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knell’d .  638 

When  our  heads  are  bow’d  with  woe .  582 

When  silent  time  wi’  lightly  foot .  93 

When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies .  218 

When  that  the  fields  put  on  their  gay  attire...  477 
When  the  fields  were  white  with  harvest,  and 

the  laborers  were  few .  684 


Page 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter’s 


traces . 426 

When  the  hours  of  day  are  number’d .  773 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended .  62 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when  the 

kye’s  come  hame .  137 


When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought.  753 
Wh  en  troubled  in  spirit,  when  weary  of  life...  489 
When  we  for  age  could  neither  read  nor  write.  688 


When  we  two  parted .  86 

When  winter’s  cold  tempests  and  snows  are  no 

more .  475 

Where  are  the  swallows  fled? .  684 

Where  are  you  going,  iny  pretty  maid? .  898 

Whereas  on  certain  boughs  and  sprays .  951 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? .  31 

Where  dost  thou  careless  lie .  225 

Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O’Kellyn?..  626 
Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would 

go? .  466 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest .  176 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  1 .  794 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride .  549 

Wherever  I  wander,  up  and  about .  7 

Which  I  wish  to  remark .  933 

Which  shall  it  be?  Which  shall  it  be? .  45 

While  sauntering  through  the  crowded  street.  783 
While  shepherds  watch'd  their  flocks  by  night.  529 

Whilst  as  fickle  Fortune  smiled .  778 

Whilst  in  this  cold  and  blustering  clime .  467 

Whilst  Thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power .  572 

Whither, ’midst  falling  dew .  471 

Whoe’er  she  be .  121 

Who  finds  a  woman  good  and  wise .  24 

Who  is  Sylvia?  what  is  she .  217 

Who’ll  press  for  gold  this  crowded  street .  675 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge?  Who  shall  rail.  690 

“  ‘  Who’s  dead  ?’  Ye  want  to  know .  704 

Why,  Damon,  with  the  forward  day .  637 

“  Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man .  875 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes?  Can  tears...  452 

Why  has  not  man  a  collar  and  a  log  ? .  923 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? .  10  4 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  for  ever  sighing .  766 

“Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie  ? .  134 

Wild  rose  of  Alloway  !  my  thanks  .  249 

With  a  glancing  eye  and  curving  mane .  493 

With  deep  affection .  516 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn .  716 

With  how  sad  steps,  0  Moon,  thou  climb’st 

the  skies  ! . 118 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush.  476 

Within  his  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees .  640 

Within  the  midnight  of  her  hair .  700 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see .  453 

With  one  consent  let  all  the  earth .  545 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn .  439 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree  ! .  75 


1002 


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INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 


Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king .  420 

Worship,  honor,  glory,  blessing .  601 

Wouldst  thou  heare  what  man  can  say .  233 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around .  120 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o’  bonnie  Doon .  170 

Ye  clouds  !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause.  333 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers . . .  504 

Ye  gentlemen  of  England .  701 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell .  588 

Ye  little  birds,  that  sit  and  sing .  162 

Ye  Mariners  of  England. .  356 

Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma!  begin  the  song .  527 

Ye  say  they  all  have  passed  away .  520 

Yes  !  from  mine  eyes  the  tears  unbidden  start.  356 
Ye  shepherds  so  cheerful  and  gay .  205 


Page 


“  l"es,”  I  answered  you  last  night .  138 

Y"et  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more...  235 
lou  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man 

cried .  674 

Y"ou  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring,  ring  out  your 

changes . 19 

You  know  we  French  storm’d  Ratisbon .  341 

YTou  lay  a  wreath  on  murder’d  Lincoln's  bier.  283 

lTou  may  give  over  plough,  boys .  62ft 

Y'ou  meaner  beauties  of  the  night .  185 

Y"ou  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me 

early,  mother  dear .  69 

lToung  Ben  he  was  a  nice  young  man .  897 

YToung  Rorj’  O’More  courted  Kathleen  bawn.  165 
Your  horse  is  faint,  my  King — my  Lord!  your 

gallant  horse  is  sick .  296 


« 


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-PIp,  RjjS 


